prognosis was debated during the aforementionednconference. We await thenconsequences of those important deliberations.nHenry Fonda, R.I.P.nThe death of Henry Fonda marks thenend of an era, the closing of a cinematicnperiod of ideological imagery which left anmomentous cultural legacy. Among itsnother symbolizations, the studio systemn—so derided by liberals as a product ofnthe greedy lowbrow Hollywood mogulsn—endowed the American culture withnan enduring and abundant portraiture ofna liberal as hero. Those were times innwhich the liberal attitude—whether thatnof a Western or heartland populist or anNew England nonconformist—had anringing accuracy and legitimacy. Thosenwere symbolizations that were duly criticalnof the excesses of individualism, ornreligiosity, and the obtuseness of ignorance,nbut they were suffused with patriotismnand firmly grounded in the bestnAmerican tradition of social pluralismnand humanitarian concerns—integritynbattling injustice was then the liberalnprinciple. Conservative directors likenJohn Ford gave some unforgettable arristicndimensions to those concerns, andnHenry Fonda was their premier and mostnaeative personification. We, despite occasionalndifferences with this or anothernexemplification, had little quarrel withntheir ethical substance. Then liberalismndegenerated from a philosophy suffusednwith love for America and her tenets intona dogmatic culmral orthodoxy dedicatednto denigrating America, to falsifyingnAmerican history, to branding as fascistsnand bigots those with different ideals.nThat latter-day liberalism engendered anprocess of alienation of which Mr.nFonda’s own family may be a good example.nA few years ago Henry Fonda wasnhonored at a special celebration by thenAmerican Film Instimte at the KennedynCenter in Washington, D.C. In one portionnof the program a choir from the U. S.nNaval Academy sang a song: when theynfinished a cadet stepped out front, salutednFonda, and said: “Thank you, Mr.nRoberts …” The cadet was black. Fonda’sncheeks were wet with tears. This moment,nperhaps, encapsulated his career,nhis artistic achievement, his beliefs andnhis liberalism altogether. We mourn himnas an exemplary and emblematicnAmerican.nRalph Moody, R.I.P.nRalph Moody’s name probably won’tnbe found in any companions or guides tonAmerican literature, yet this writer, whonrecently passed away at age 84, is probablynmore influential in a subtle waynthan many authors about whom nothingnmore than the fact that they were requirednreading long ago in a school text isnremembered. Mr. Moody’s books—Thenlittle Britches, Man of the Family, ThenFields of Home, among them—are thentype read when growing up, specifically,nin the preteen years. They address thenOntology and EthicsnIn Parade—one of American journalism’snshallowest puddles of prefabricatednopinion—Mr. Carroll O’Connor, an intenselynleftist actor who, alone in thenhistory of performing arts, was outsmartednby his own creation, envisionsnthe commencement address which henwould deliver to graduating collegians.nHis warning: Don’t believe “them” ifnthey tell you “the future is in yournhands.”n”Them,” of course, stands for America—unjust,nstifling, corporate, and all.nBiit Mr. O’Connor, the sage, fails to informnthe suspenseful graduates wherenelse in the world more of the future is innJOIKNAMSMnnnyouthful mind on a one-on-one level,nwithout embarrassment, not condescendingly.nFor the most part, the novelsndeal with Mr. Moody’s life growing up onnfarms and ranches. They tell of timesnwhen money was tight, animals died,nminor illnesses became critical—whennthe family and its extended group ofnclose friends had to draw togethernthrough tmst and faith to transcend theirnproblems. They are books illustratednwith little drawings showing wagons,ncowboys, and the general store. In othernwords, they are the type of books atnwhich so-called progressive publishersnand librarians sneer, demanding to knownwhere the heroin addicts and prostitutesnare. Their relevance, of course, is like thatnof the Hollywood Westerns of then1920’s, which show that things like hardnwork, thrift, love—especially love, as opposednto today’s knowledge of sexualndeviations and mechanical pleasures—nare important. Ralph Moody’s booksnhelped—and hopefully help—create anvaluable frame for young minds. Fewncould demand more of their lives. Dnthe hands of individuals. Russia.” Cuba?nFrance, perhaps? And why do the youngnfrom those countries try so desperately tonleave there and live here? To be deprivednof their handful of the future?nA couple of pages further another maven,na radical “publicist” named DotsonnRader, interviews Mayor Ed Kochnabout crime. Koch doubts that poverty isnthe prime cause of crime. Mr. Rader cannotnbelieve his ears; astonished, he asks:n”If not poverty, why do people commitncrimes? …”nHe has never learned that there arengood and bad people. That lack ofnknowledge is a major key to “making it”nin Manhattan—all the way to the top. Dni51nOctober 1983n