"I
believe the second half of the twentieth century will be known as
the Age of Nixon. Why was he the most durable public figure of our
time? Not because he gave the most eloquent speeches, but because
he provided the most effective leadership. Not because he won every
battle, but because he always embodied the deepest feelings of the
people he led."
-Robert
Dole
"Nixon's entire political career--and in fact his whole life--is
a gloomy monument to the notion that not even pure schizophrenia
or malignant psychosis can prevent a demented loser from rising
to the top of the heap in this strange society we have built for
ourselves in the name of "democracy" and "free enterprise." For
most of his life, the mainspring of Richard Nixon's energy and ambition
seems to have been a deep and unrecognized need to overcome, at
all costs, the sense of having been born guilty--not for
crimes or transgressions already committed, but for those
he somehow sensed he was fated to commit as he grappled
his way to the summit .... Nixon really was "one of us"--not in
Conrad's sense of that term, or my own, but as an almost perfect
expression of "the American way of life" that I'd been so harshly
immersed in for the past eight or nine months of traveling constantly
around the country .... Jesus! How much more of this cheapJack bullshit
can we be expected to take from that stupid little gunsel? Who gives
a fuck if he's lonely and depressed out there in San Clemente? If
there were any such thing as true justice in this world, his rancid
carcass would be somewhere down around Easter Island right now,
in the belly of a hammerhead shark".
-Hunter
S. Thompson
"Always
give your best, never get discouraged, never be petty. Always remember:
Others may hate you, but those who hate you don't win--unless you
hate them. And then, you destroy yourself."
-Richard
Nixon
* * *
After
moving into the White House, Nixon instituted another important
innovation that has also become routine: the permanent campaign.
Of course, most presidents had generally desired to serve more than
one term and hence necessarily gave some thought to the
possible electoral consequences of their policies. But with Nixon
the next election became not one factor among others but the central
organizing principle of the executive branch. After more than a
quarter of a century of experience with campaign organizations,
Nixon recognized that the White House could be the mightiest campaign
organization of all; and he meant to use it as such from day one,
in ways legal and illegal. (One might argue, however, that Nixon
kept his law-and-order pledges of 1968 in the sense that few, or
maybe none, of the crimes of the Nixon White House were committed
by anyone of African descent.) A second term became the overriding
goal of the first term, and Nixon sought it in every possible way:
by raising unprecedented amounts of money for his campaign fund;
by violating his own neoclassical economic principles to stimulate
the economy and to produce what at least looked like prosperity
during the 1972 election season; by announcing (through Henry Kissinger)
the imminent end of the Vietnam War just before the 1972 vote; most
famously, of course, by instituting an intricate series of crimes
and dirty tricks against the Democrats, especially Senator Edmund
Muskie, whom conventional wisdom held through most of Nixon's first
term to be his strongest potential opponent; and, above all,
by structuring nearly every decision, great or small, on the basis
of public relations. It was no accident that H. R. Haldeman, the
chief of staff of Nixon's White House and his most trusted adviser,
had his professional background not in law or scholarship or government
or the military but in advertising.
Curiously enough, Nixon himself often
seemed to signal the political basis of his policy decisions--though
by way of negation, that is, by elaborate denials of his
electoral calculations. In announcing the invasion of Cambodia in
1970, for example, he spoke at odd--and, one might have thought,
unseemly--length about the effect this military operation might
have on his own career. He claimed that the invasion could result
in his being a one-term president: just as two decades earlier he
had sometimes prefaced his attacks on Helen Douglas by saying he
knew that talking about Communism was not the popular thing to do.
It was all as if Nixon's political yearnings were so strong, his
desire to make contact with the electorate so intense, that he had
to talk about them, even if in inverted and absurd ways. Furthermore,
it seems highly probable that, as 1972 approached, Nixon's lust
for one last big win must have been especially keen. He had not,
after all, enjoyed a landslide that was unambiguously his own since
the victory over Douglas in 1950. The landslides of 1952 and 1956
obviously belonged more to Eisenhower than to him; 1960 was a loss,
though a close and even unfair one; 1962 was a loss indeed; the
results of 1966 were gratifying, but he himself had not been on
any ballot that year; and in 1968 the Wallace candidacy had deprived
him of the overwhelming victory he might otherwise have won. But
1972 would be different, and his strategy could not have been more
successful--though helped along, it must be said, by much bumbling
amateurism within the Democratic campaign of Senator George McGovern.
Nixon took over 60 per cent of the popular vote, winning the biggest
numerical landslide and the second-biggest percentage landslide
in history. He carried every state but Massachusetts, and became
the first Republican nominee to win a majority of such traditionally
Democratic groups as blue-collar workers, Roman Catholics, and members
of labor-union households. His triumph was complete.
It was a spectacularly personal
triumph, and quite deliberately so. As we have seen, one constant
factor in Nixon's career had been his identity as a party man, as
the ultimate Republican partisan. But in 1972 he pretty much abandoned
his party. Perhaps he reckoned that, as this was his final race,
he would not be needing the GOP again. Perhaps he could not bear
to have his own victory in any way diluted. Whatever the reasons,
he took nonpartisanship and personality cult much further than Eisenhower
had ever done. He marginalized and even humiliated the regular party
machinery of the Republican National Committee, while concentrating
resources in his own Committee to Re-elect the President (which
Senator Robert Dole, the chairman of the RNC, promptly dubbed CREEP
in retaliation). When faced with the choice of helping a Republican
candidate in a tight race or just rolling up a bigger margin for
Nixon in a state he was certain to carry anyhow, the Nixon campaign
again and again chose the latter. This policy turned out to be rather
unwise during the depths of Watergate--not only because the Democrats
had retained secure control of both houses of Congress, but also
because many Republicans in those bodies began to doubt that they
owed Nixon any greater loyalty than he had recently displayed toward
them. But, in the short run, Nixon achieved exactly what he intended.
The foregoing summary of Nixon's electoral
career, though necessarily brief, has proved, I trust, what many
people still find difficult and uncongenial to grasp--that Richard
Nixon, despite what might have appeared to be fatal disadvantages,
was one of the most successful and popular electoral politicians
of our history. When Senator Dole, speaking at Nixon's funeral,
described the second half of the twentieth century as the Age of
Nixon, he seems to have been thinking mainly of geopolitical trends,
and doubtless he exaggerated, as funeral orators often do.
But if one were to seek a term to describe our domestic politics
from the end of the Second World War until the middle 1970s, one
might indeed choose Dole's felicitous phrase. Astonishing as it
will sound to many, Nixon was the most durable hero of our politics
between the era of Roosevelt and that of Reagan.
There is a further important point
to be made here. The depth of attachment that Nixon established
between himself and the American electorate can be gauged not only
in his many successes but in his ultimate failure as well. Nixon,
as everyone knows, left the political scene in disgrace. The movement
against him in Congress was no narrow partisan vendetta like the
impeachments of Clinton or Andrew Johnson, but an overwhelming and
fully bipartisan tidal wave: had he not resigned before the final
votes were taken, he would have been impeached by the House with
only three dissenting votes, and removed from office by the Senate
with probably no more than ten votes for acquittal. And yet,
even as this ultimate political catastrophe approached--as the likelihood
of his having used the powers of his office to commit serious felonies
against the nation's constitutional order rose from high probability
to near-mathematical certainty--as the nation's political and journalistic
establishment turned decisively against him--as much, even, of his
own White House staff decided that there was no way Nixon could
or should survive politically--still he inspired widespread loyalty
and love in the country. Contemporary polling data are difficult
to interpret with precision, but they suggest that even at his most
unpopular point he retained the allegiance of something between
a quarter and a third of the nation. For ordinary political purposes,
this is, of course, a disastrously low approval rating for a president
(though comparable to the lowest ebb of Truman's popularity). Yet,
in absolute numbers, it still represents a huge minority of Americans,
tens upon tens of millions of them. It also highlights a gulf, at
the end, between popular and elite opinions of Nixon, whose standing
with the people was thus roughly thirty times as high as
with the House of Representatives.
Furthermore, there is reason to believe--though
the point is hard to document--that a great deal of Nixon's support
was just as intense as any hatred for him on the other side. Very
little of this love for Nixon came from people who were in a position
to make their views generally known; and those few who were, often
struck an almost comically weird note. There was the Indiana representative
who, as he watched all but two of his colleagues decide for impeachment,
declared that he would stand with Nixon "even if he and I have to
be taken out of this building [the U.S. Capitol] and shot" (not
an unappealing image for many on the anti-Nixon side). There was
the Massachusetts rabbi who began agitating full-time for "fairness"
to the president, because, as he told Nixon, "In my heart, Mr. President,
you have grown tall like the cedars of Lebanon." But such public
silliness was just froth at the top of a deep, constant sea of intense
pro-Nixon feelings. As newspaper after newspaper editorialized that
Nixon should go, a fair percentage of letters to the editor pleaded
even more strongly that he must stay. In taverns across the nation,
there was never a lack of amateur pundits who pounded their fists
on the bar and declared their support for the president. At no time
was there less than a huge slice of the American middle class who
identified Nixon's deepest aspirations with their own and who felt
with certainty that Nixon's opponents were just the sort of people
who most despised them. Whatever else one may say of the hard-core
Nixon following, they were certainly not fair-weather friends (unlike
Nixon's more influential one-time supporters in politics and journalism).
On the contrary, the disgraced and persecuted Nixon of 1974 may,
in their eyes, have been an even more lovely figure than the triumphant
landslide winner of 1972.
Adapting the words of Nixon's favorite
predecessor in the White House, one might say that he was deeply
in tune with most of the people most of the time and with some of
the people all of the time. Long before Watergate, the journalist
Tom Wicker quoted Joseph Conrad's Marlow on Lord Jim to proclaim
that Nixon was "one of us." This insight has been generally ridiculed
and misunderstood, and was at one point somewhat repudiated by Wicker
himself. But it was profoundly right. The record proves that Nixon
was one of us. But how, exactly, was he one of us? If we can answer
that question, we will learn a good deal about Richard Nixon but
even more, perhaps, about ourselves--perhaps more, indeed, than
we really want to know. For we may discover a sense in which, for
America, every age is the Age of Nixon.
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