The Baltimore Sun from Baltimore, Maryland • 59

THE SUN, Sunday, October 17, 1976 Passages to The days of Giants definition of "self -centered" that is prevalent only among very sophisticated think- ers. To the average man it means "selfish," that is to say, exclusively concerned with one's own safety and well being. To the extent that that is the definition of the term it is monstrously misapplied, at least to Roosevelt On Lash's own showing he knew that he was probably throwing his life away when he ran for a third term, and was virtually certain of it when he accepted a fourth. He was self-centered in the sense that he believed no other man in public life could persuade the American 1 people, psychologically fractured more minutely than Churchill ever guessed, to r. take what he saw as the only road to es-, cape falling under a tyranny probably worse, because even more brainless, than those that afflicted Nazi Germany and militaristic Japan.

He thought, and he had reason to think, that if he in possession of an immensely greater fund of true information than any other man in the country, had barely been able to hold the nation back from the road to suicide, for him to give first consideration to saving his own life would have been the moral equivalent of desertion under fire. So he stayed, and died. The fact is that Mr. Lasb with his unduplicated access to a store of unquestionably authentic information, owes it to himself as well as to his readers, to carry the narrative on at least to Roosevelt's death and to Church-. ill's defeat at the polls.

If some pages make bitter reading for any patriotic American, who poured tine- ture of aloes into his political cup? Not Lash and not Roosevelt. Don't look into the book to see him. Look into the mirror. GERALD W.JOHNSON phy In form, Is In fact history because it deals only with such incidents in the subject's life and such traits of his character as bad a traceable influence on the course of events, or throw light on why he did what he did, and the extent to which it accomplished his purpose. This explanation is admittedly based on the Great Man theory of history, but both men accepted, that theory and acted on it, and by so doing achieved enough of their ends to achieve a conspicuous and secure niche in history.

Another Interesting feature of the book is its structural pattern which owes little to Gibbon and less to Grote; the architecture of Lash's work is right out of Plutarch's "Parallel Lives," first a cryptic narrative of the events in the man's life that plainly influenced his thinking and action, finally a comparison of the reactions of the two men to similar stresses and an estimate of the effect of each on the history of the times. But it is truncated. It has already run to 492 pages when it reaches the events of December 7, 1941, on which date the two public careers coalesced in the gigantic alliance that laid prostrate the totalitarian powers and left the world divided between communism and democracy, represented most conspicuously but, by no means faithfully, by Russia and the United States. Lash is prodigiously Impressed by his two heroes but unsentimental about either of them, sometimes disconcertingly so. Somewhere in his summation of the characters of the two men he throws out casually the remarks that two more completely self-centered men have never lived.

This is true only if one accepts a mmmmmmmmmmmmt villi il fl if We Jt, 1V. The Principal Entrance of Gwalior (photographer unknown) India ism, someone called it, exploitation, robbery by conquest and, worse, by tax collection. How can these artifacts of this most ghastly age be so One answer is that we can recognize in the image of Meecham as we can in many of its brothers-the archetype of a cliche. This, really, is the original source material for a certain kind of pop hero, found most innocently in boy's adventure novels, and in increasing complexity in grown-up adventure novels, trashy movies, gothic romances, the like: dashing, young aristocratic officer rascal, rapscallion, rogue, adventurer, swashbuckler. That of course ignores the reality: By one set of terms, analytical, Meecham is merely representative of a certain kind of agent of empire that did most of the dirty work in spreading and defending the faith.

It can be pointed out, earnestly, quite tediously and to little use, that he's a ubiquitous figure in the history of British imperialism. They called them eccentric, enormously self-reliant young fellows who felt pent up by the pieties of Victorian domesticity, and thus "went out" to the outDOsts of dominion and a freedom to be found nowhere else. The cosmetic apotheosis of this pattern was expressed in the form of T. E. Lawrence (of Arabia), but Lawrence was merely thr final model.

The pattern was manifest in other, earlier Victorian careers, most notably the African explorers Speke and Burton, in the soldier General Charles George "Chinese" Gordon, in the East African ornithologist and espionage agent, Richard Meiner-tzhagen: Eminent imperialists all. But by another set of terms, Lieutenant Meecham stands for something quite different and the past he seems to spring from is not historical, strictly speaking. It is, I believe, mythological -a child's past, and that explains its familiarity. The photographers who trekked through imperial India were not journalists: they weren't interested in a documentary reality, in capturing the gritty essence of "how it was." They were drawn to see and record things to certain requirements. Their duty was to render the ugly business of empire in its most romantic, most, yes, glorious, terms.

They weren't propagandists, exactly, lying purposely for political ends; they were merely innocent of the larger forces that manipulated them, victims of convention. The camera, notes Ainslie Embree in his afterword, "projected upon India an understanding of what the British saw, thought and felt about the land and civilization of which they were the rulers." Thus the Images, Lieutenant Meecham's Roosevelt and Churchill: The Partnership That Saved the West. By Joseph P. Lash. 528 pages.

Norton. $12.95. Franklin Delano Roosevelt has been dead 31 years, Winston Spencer Chruchill 11, which means that sufficient time has elapsed to make possible a plausible, perhaps even a true appraisal of each of them. A library, and not a small one, about each of them is already in print The books range from the excellent to the infamous; some of them biography, some memoirs, some annuals, some monographs. Some are idolatrous, some scurrilous, some blundering efforts to get at the truth, some all too successful efforts to propagate and perpetuate lies.

What all but a handful are not is history. Not all, but the chief part of the blame lies at the door of the scribes. It is a matter of extension; the height of a molehill is less than a fingerlength, but even to see the true contours of Everest the observer must stand many miles away. These were big men how big we are only beginning to appreciate at the distance of a generation in time. Lash's book, a double-barreled biogra A fast, Speedboat.

By Renata Adler. 178 pages. Random House. $7.95. Thirty-five-year-old Renata Adler has lived a life many people fantasize about.

Born abroad, she later attended Bryn Mawr College, Harvard University and the Sorbonne, She has known the famous and the infamous, traveled all over the world, and criticized films for the 'New York Times. She has received Fulbright and Guggenheim fellowships and the prized 0. Henry award for fiction. Her articles have appeared in most of the best Thrillers and salvage The Glory Boys. By Gerald Seymour.

313 pages. Random House. $7.95. Raise the Titanic. By Clive Cussler.

314 pages. Viking. $8.95. Indiviudally, each of these thrillers is worth noting briefly without going into a big-dear Book Page production number, prancing graphics, six-column head; taken together, each helpfully pointing up the other's flaws and fine points, they offer a far more interesting phenomenon. This is because they are going in opposite directions: one begins hugely and gets smaller and smaller, focusing finally on two men and one Walther PPK on an airport runway; the other, like a bubble of Double-Bubble, gets bigger and bigger from its tiny, humble beginnings until flecks of pink crud all over everything.

"The Glory Boys," by Gerald Seymour, who wrote last year's moderately engaging "Harry's Game," is a hunters-hunting-and-being-hunted fray, heavy on pungent reality, sordid details, acronyms and equipment designations, PLO and IRA decide to run an operation together, to hit an Israeli nuclear scientist in the U.K. (with and MI6 break cover on the plan, and mount a counter-mission (with, as I said, PPK's; they also employ UZI's, FLN's and even, in the beginning, an MAT-49). The Israeli scientist, meanwhile, with all these heavy-hardware-toting professionals circling around him, is S.C.A.R.E.D. Seymour has read his Le Carre and his Ambler (as well as Colonel Smith's "Small Arms of the and his evocation of the secret world is in their image, but without, unfortunately, their virtuosity; he's not as subtle as they are, nor as psychologically acute; his work turns on scenes of magnum violence, movie-style shoot-outs, ugly men's room murders. But let's not be too cruel: this is a pretty good book.

He's an ex-reporter and he really knows his bolts and nuts, the technology of modern terrorism. "The Glory Boys" is spun out on a huge canvas but it draws you in closer and closer, tighter and tighter, climaxing in a moment of almost intimate savagery. The story moves quickly and authentically; finally, you feel as though you're getting ink on your hands, the way you do from the newspaper. Books in demand The best sellers, nationally, ac-. cording to Publishers Weekly, are: Fiction 1.

"Sleeping Murder," by Agatha Christie. 2. "Trinity," by Leon Uris. 3. "Dolores," by Jacqueline Su-sann.

4. "0rdinary People," by Judith Guest. 5. "Slapstick. or Lonesome No More," by Kurt Vonnegut.

Nonfiction 1. "Passages," by Gail Sheehy. 2. "The Right and the Power," by Leon Jaworski. 3.

"Your Erroneous Zones," by Dr. Wayne D. Dyer. 4. "Roots," by Alex Haley.

5. "A Year of Beauty and Health," Beverly and Vidal Sassoon. bumpy, Terrorism Lt. H.C. Meecham, Assistant Surgeon Anderson and Sikh cavalrymen at Lucknow, March, fine first magazines published in this country, from The New Yorker to Harpefs Bazaar.

In addition, she is the author of two non-fiction works. And if that isn't enough (and it is enough), Adler has now authored a first-rate autobiographical novel. "Speedboat" combines the esthetics of the literature professor with the experiences of a newspaper reporter. Which is to say, the most excellent prose is narrated by a columnist who has. seen everything and knows a lot about politics, academe, and the high life.

The book is formed of short meditative, nostalgic, expository or The one wholly unexpected aspect to "The Glory Boys" is its "villain." I put that last word in quotes, because of course he's not. Seymour has actually or perhaps inadvertently, carried on by the momentum of his craft to this unique situationmade an attempt to understand Fa-my, the young Palestinian assassin: In fact Famy, in his imperfect way, is the most sympathetic character in the book, certainly the most complex; easily the most innocent, and finally the most tragic. The bad thing about "The Glory this ruined "Harry's Game" as well is it's ending, an exercise in the chic irony of despair. In fact, if irony were custard, you could make a pie out of the last 10 pages of "The Glory Boys." An extra-critical dimension commends "Raise the Titanic" to our attention: The real power in the American book industry, to the extent that anything is a "power" in that madhouse where you can make a million bucks pushing 70-year-old Sears catalogues (remember? it wasn't so long ago) and go bust on William Hjortsberg (who? he's believe me) is Publishers Weekly, the Xerox-owned trade magazine that is the Variety of publishing. PW's clout comes mainly from the fact that it is read and trusted not by bookbuyers but by booksellers, that it makes its recommendations on commercial, not arty "esthetic," grounds and, consequently, on the basis of these recommendations, books are ordered, crucial shelf and display space is scheduled for them and voila, a bestseller.

That's not how it always works there's no accounting for taste-but it will be real interesting to see what happens this time, because PW raved, I mean, drooled, I mean foamed over "Raise the Titanic." Interesting, as I say, because "Raise the Titanic" (Dare Yes, why not, what the hell?) should have been left on the bottom. Put more eloquently, it stinks. It's wretchedly written, absurdly plotted, peopled with characters who spout comic book lingo: Says the heroine to the Russian agent: "Your kind is the biggest diabolical farce played on mankind since we climbed down from the trees." Even though that doesn't make much sense, it hurts his feelings: "This has gone far enough," he snaps. But she presses on: Can't get used to the idea of a liberated gal from the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave laughing at your sorry tactics?" (Agghhhh! Slop me before I quote some more!) Briefly, a group of scientists make a breakthrough that will make America invulnerable to ICBM attack. Unfortunately, the new system demands a quantity of a rare element called "Byzanium," the only known quantity of which turns out to be in the hold of R.M.S.

Titanic, which, as everybody knows, is resting under 12,000 feet of North Atlantic. So you've got underwater stuff as they try and raise the old lady, intrigue with Reds trying to cop the loot, natural violence in the form of a hurricane named Amanda, linguistic violence from the heroine (named Dana) from whom we've already heard quite enough, and a hero named "Dirk Pitt" from whom we will not hear, although let me tell you that he appears from a mist and, 314 soggy pages later, departs in one too, Just like God. Except he's smarter. I'm not trying to come on too strong here: it's pointless to condemn "Raise the Titanic" because it isn't literature. On3 Saul Bellow is enough and now and then you want a fast slippery ride.

But "Raise the Titanic" isn't even a fast, slippery ride. It's all wet and the oozy weeds about it twist. ROBERT APTAPTON novel racy anecdotes written in a mock-reportage style. With its paragraph-long musings, observations, and bon mots, "Speedboat" reads like a writer's journal. Properly speaking, "Speedboat" is not a novel at all, for it lacks plot, character development, or even sustained action.

Each paragraph begins the book afresh, is a novel in miniature. But this is not to say this prose mon tage lacks form. What makes "Speedboat" a unified work is the relation between these paragraphs and the consistency of the speaking voice. But because tne relation between these paragraphs is sometimes only tenous (as, of course, in a writer's journal), the individual paragraph is truly the fundamental unit. Whether they are humorous, ironic, or ferocious, whether they poke the ribs, "end on a dime," as she says, or a dagger-thrust, they always elicit some strong response.

These vignettes are of a complexity and richness and ultimate unity which put one in mind of individually glazed beads on a string. The mode of each paragraph is to describe the absurd, or shocking, or pitiful situation of an extraordinary character. They are quite an entertaining group: a polo-playing Argentine psychiatrist who lived in a London commune; a hostess who habitually steals the suede garments of her guests; Dr. Schmidt-Nessel, who believes in the therapeutic effects of dew; a woman who has an epic quarrel with her imaginary lover, and a retired Israeli army general who tries to duplicate the original menagerie on the Arc. Each paragraph is such a complex, tightly-written unit, and things happen at such a breathless pace, you will want to read "Speedboat" slowly.

The sheer energy of it may be conveyed through the central event which provides the book's title. An over-zealous corporate wife and her husband are visiting the boss on his island retreat. Anxious to please the boss, the corporate wife begs for a ride on his sleek new speedboat. He takes her out reluctantly. She tries to impress him by amiably leaning into every turbulent bump.

But the speedboat bucks so hard on the waves the wife breaks her back and has to be flown to a mainland hospital. Now the motion of the boat slamming into each crest and bucking over it precisely describes the motion and pace of this novel. Each paragraph is a crestlet which the author energetically meets and overcomes. She reaches the shore with exuberance and style. Indeed, "Speedboat" itself is a sleek little craft, a contemporary improvisation on Herman Melville's analogy between a seaworthy boat and a well-crafted book.

Reading "Speedboat" is like sitting down at that conventional desk you just bought, and discovering secret drawers with Sixteenth Century etchings, outrageous letters by famous statesmen, and a jeweled Chinese dagger. Hosannas, it's one of those books you wish you'd written. SALLY ELION Dr. Elton teaches writing at the Community College of Baltimore, Harbor Campus. notes Maryland journalist Two local historians have edited and published a narrative by William Wilkins Glenn, a colorful Baltimore journalist, writer, poet and Southern sympathizer during the Civil War.

"Between North and South: A Maryland Journalist Views the Civil War," (Fairleigh Dickinson University Press) a narrative by Glenn from 1861 to 1869, was edited with notes and glossary by Bayly Ellen Marks and Mark Norton Schatz. Ms. Marks is an assistant professor of history at Catonsville Community College. Mr. Schatz, who has worked for several years as an archivist at the National Ar-, chives in Washington, is also a freelance writer whose specialty is journalism during the Civil War.

Glenn was an active figure during the war, owner-editor of the Baltimore Daily Exchange, which offered a pro-Southern, anti-administration view of the conflict. At one point his inflammatory editorials got him imprisoned in Fort McHenry. He also was an active subversive, smuggling people into the South and, once, had to flee to England for safety. History 1858 (by F.A. Beato) for example, have a storybook Seem magic, seem iu uuiiic um ut timu- ren's literature rather than the Nineteenth Century.

Visual traditions There are a variety of visual traditions invoked in the photos. The most obvious is out of "Arabian the pictures inevitably seize upon every now-jaded but then-fresh "Oriental" (in the Nineteenth Century meaning of the word, denoting what is now the Near East) icon of the Islamic and Hindu cultures: all that Mussel-man architecture, the funny-shaped doors, the abstract geographic motifs of decor, the infinity of chambers and warrens and passages, the nautch-girls with rings on their fingers and bells on their toes, the Hindoo swamis and fakirs, the teeming temples. Then too, there's the medieval look, as 1007 chnt nf tha DcrhvchirA 111 CI WUIIUCIIUI iUiM iJllWV wtjuni.v Regiment, First Brigade, formed up outside its fort, immediately before launching a punitive expedition agains the Afghan tribesmen of the Khyber Pass. It must have been a bloody awful campaign, in the mountains, in the snow, at close quarters, fought with bayonets and rifle butts. But in the photo, rank on rank of men stand straight in their khakis and puttees, the officers with sabres unlimbered and held in chivalric salute against the shoulder, in the background, almost luminous, looms the fort, a construction of tiers and turrets and keeps against a sur-realistically flat horizon: The image is wildly artificial, hopelessly untrue, yet, because it somehow touches the core of shared experience, calling up connotations of knights and castles and mythical battles fought in the tales of childhood, it still compells.

And finally, the pastoral. All over India, the British and the British photographers found reflections of the English landscape. They must have been, despite their practicality, their mastery of the skills of war and commerce, a sentimental people: they were stunned by trees and ponds, gently rolling hills. How fierce, hot, wet India could be made so lush, so much a demi-Eden, is a remarkable testament to the ingenuity of the photographers. The pictures in "The Last Empire" are drawn from an exhibit mounted this summer at The Asia House Gallery, in New York; Aperture, the publisher, is a small house specializing in fine books of photography, and the quality of the printing and reproduction (in sepia, by the way) in the volume is splendid.

STEPHEN HUNTER The Last Empire: Photography in British India, 1855-1911. With texts by Clark Worswick and Ainslie Embree. 149 pages. Aperture. $19.95.

He's quite pleased with himself, is Lieutenant Meecham, with his pith helmet tilted rakishly across his forehead, his hand resting on the hilt of his heavy cavalry sabre and an Addams Bulldog .43 tucked John-Wesley-Hardin style into his sash (though of course the lieutenant has never heard of John Wesley Hardin). He's a young man at war, clearly in love with being alive in the middle of so much death, in love with having a little responsibility, in love with the heft and clank of his fine equipment, and in love with his loyal natives of the Sikh Horse Regiment, who lounge about him. The Sikhs look like merry, deadly pirates: tall, well-formed, lavishly-bearded, cruel-looking gents, festooned exotically in turbans and tunics, laden with blades and multi-barreled pistols. All in all, a portrait of a tough-looking group, this British kid officer and his colorful cut-throats, but then they had to be, for times were tough, it being the Great Indian Rebellion of 1857 and all that. The photograph -for that is what it is, and not the illustration off the cover of a paperback historical novel-was taken in 1858, actually, at Lucknow, after the relief, by Felice A.

Beato, an unremembered but obviously highly motivated Victorian photographer who had toted his pounds of equipment along with Sir Colin Campbell's 95th Highlanders on their slash across rebel-held Northern India to liberate the be-seiged city. It's one of the nearly 200 images from British India in the Nineteenth Century, most of them unseen for at least 50 years, which comprise this remarkable book. They are curious pictures, curious first of all in their wild exoticism, their romanticism, but also, paradoxically, in their familiarity. They resonate, they echo, they seem Images from our. own past.

Not nice Yet how can this be? These pictures are from two other countrys pasts-England's and India's-and the events, the life-styles, the cultures they document are vastly foreign. Furthermore, what we do know of the era is not nice: modern history teaches us that the Nineteenth Century, especially that part of it card-catalogued under the heading Imperialism, British (in Inr'ia), was a squalid enterprise, the bleak consummation of a cynical policy of institutionalized brigandage: bayonet capital.