"The Jesuit education gives you a certain verbal ability. When we were high school sophomores, the debates were often impromptu. You had 30 seconds to look over a topic and speak on it." A former seminarian who has known California Gov. Jerry Brown since high school is speaking. "We are very glib," he says with a chuckle. Jerry Brown, the champion teen-age debater, "always had a little introduction in mind ."
JERRY BROWN'S "little introduction" -- as well as a vital opportunity for rhetorical wizardry -- was gone with the wind when President Carter pulled out of the Iowa debates, originally scheduled for tomorrow night.
Each presidential candidate has had his frustrations running a muted campaign against a president coping with Iran and our hostages, but no one stood to gain more in the debates and had less to lose than Brown -- often invisible on the nightly news in his third-man-out presidential quest.
Brown fought hard to be included in a Teddy-Jimmy-Jerry show that was to be nationally televised. It was the ex-champion debater's chance to out-glib Carter and Kennedy, a succinct David and Goliath challenge to help dispel the feeling that Brown's candidacy is a joke.
Brown fumed that Carter was "ducking the debate" and running a "Nixon-style campaign" by hiding in the White House -- especially after debate sponsors offered to move it from Des Moines to D.C.
Once again, it was raining on Brown's parade; raining on the aspirations of the last man to beat Carter in a striking five out of six primaries in 1976. In California, Brown beat Carter by 1.3 million votes -- the largest victory margin in the history of presidential primaries. Then, he was the golden promise of the west, untarnished by time and familiarty; viewed as the wave of the future, not as an opportunistic flip-flopper on Prop 13 or a conservative gadfly calling for a constitutional convention to balance the budget.
This time, things are frustratingly different. His opening blast last September in New Hampshire -- where he was trailed for the first and last time by the national media pack -- was eclipsed by Kennedy's hints that he would be running.
Then Brown's initial strategy -- to hound Carter through New England like a feisty terrier yapping at his heels, challenging him on the issues -- faded as Carter battled the ayatollah from the White House.
In his three-month campaign, Brown seems to have honed his Brownspeak -- a sometimes confusing and convoluted brand of political blather -- into more effective imagery: phrases that can catchily fit into 30 second spots on TV or save a weary reporter from terminal boredom.
Attacking nuclear energy: "A technology whose lethal products last 100,000 years is not the way to boil water." Championing holistic medicine, he unfolds an intriguing, if vague, national health policy. Brown calls for breaking up the "medical-industrial complex" with more consumer participation in our health policy. We should strive for a preventive approach -- "wellness away of life -- rather than sickness as an obsession. More people live off cancer than die of it."
Yes, a forum for words was the perfect place for Jerry Brown. But no matter. Brown insists he will be around after the snows and polls of Iowa and New Hampshire are history.
"I like to be the challenger. I like to be on the attack."
He looks like an eager eaglet. Dark hair slicked to the back of his slim head, the thin, pointed nose, the brown eyes that search and miss little. His body, monk-thin from dieting and jogging, is immaculately outfitted. The look is far more pinched and parsimonious than laid-back Californian. He sometimes wears dark three-piece suits to give him, at 41, the appearance of maturity, like that of a banker you can trust. When he wears a navy blue blazer, he's buttoned up as tight as any John Cheever over-achiever.
His mouth in repose turns down. His smile is sparing. Leave charisma to others. There is something almost admirable about Brown's rank rudeness in the political world of knee-jerk pleasantries. He makes no attempt to appear interested or, for that matter, to even listen to others on a platform. When Brown claps, it is a perfunctory, abstract clap.
Only when he approaches the podium does Brown seem enthralled at what he is about to hear.
The Interview. It is not going well. Not at all.
A slight digression here about The Interview. All reporters harbor this thought, born in part out of conceit, in part out of desperation, that they will uncover something the last one didn't when interviewing famous people. Some glimmer, some vulnerability, some angst, some revelation, some something to lay before their readers. Jerry Brown wants to give away nothing.
He scrunches in the airplane seat. There are no warm-up pleasantries. The look is cool, questioning, like a stern confessor.
The seminary, that whole training, is one key to Jerry Brown, many say.
"When one of the novices did something that was forbidden, which could mean anything from an expletive during a basebasll game to failure to avert one's eyes from another person's eyes, 'You'd tell the novice master, and then that night at dinner you would kneel down in front of the entire community and ask for forgiveness.'. . .
"Once or twice a month the novices would bind themselves from arm to leg with a chain for an hour at a time. They would also take a rope and beat themselves on the rear end. . ."
"There is also a negative side to a Jesuit education, which can give someone a sense of infallibility," according to James Straukamp, a former priest who taught Brown at St. Ignatius High School. "Your will and mind are in control all the time, and therefore there's a danger in being too heady and not having enough heart . . ." --Robert Pack's "Jerry Brown, The Philosopher/Prince"
Jerry Brown seems to be the only person around who is not fascinated by his seminary training of 3-1/2 years. He is sick to death of the subject.
But isn't it an almost schizophrenic thing, to go from a life of silence and vows and averting your eyes to politics, where it's practically a mortal sin not to talk and vows are seldom kept and eye contact, no matter how phony, is a practiced art?
Brown snaps: "I wouldn't use that clinical term."
Reporter: "I'm not using it (schizophrenic) literally . . ."
Brown, interrupting: "Well, why would you use that? It is a life of service, just as politics is. Jesuits have been advisers to leaders throughout history."
Reporter: "What did that life do to shape you?"
Brown: A slight sneer. He practices the ploy of answering with a question. "We don't know what shapes us. Do you know what shapes you?"
Yes, the reporter could think of some things.
"It was a significant part of my life," he says. Period.
Brown is asked whether he could define himself. Again the sneer. "What do you want? A couple of paragraphs? No, I don't know that I could do that. 'Who am I?'" he says in stinging tones. "what does that mean? I don't know that I can relate to that question." Then: "I'm governor of California. My biography is relatively straightforward.
What motivates him in this uphill battle?
Brown: "Don't you think most people would enjoy it? Running for president?"
Brown: "If they were governors of large states? I think they would." Then, speaking very plainly with measured patience, he says, "Most governors from large states eventually run for office. Dewey did. Roosevelt. Rockefeller."
Was this part of the grand plan, as former aides have written, when he ran for governor?
Brown: "I don't have any 'grand plans'."
What were his dreams of glory as a child?
Brown: "I don't know. I live pretty much in the present."
He relaxes by reading. What books? "I don't give out my booklist."
"The Jesuit ideal," Brown has said, "is that you should prefer neither a long life, neither riches nor poverty, neither health nor illness; it's all a matter of indifference."
Brown's indifference extends, in the opinion of many observers, beyond the Jesuit ideal. It is an indifference to the niceties of human contact. But if he thinks he is offering an antidote to folksy charisma, some polls show his personality can be counterproductive. Pollster Peter Hart asks people to rate politicians on a "feeling thermometer" scale of one to 10. The warmer your feelings, the higher the temperature. Ted Kennedy hits the high eights (with plenty of ones as well as 10's). Jerry Brown hovers constantly a shade under a lukewarm five. Indifference begets indifference.
But anomalies abound in Brown, the indifferent New Politician. He can, in fact, be as thin-skinned as Lyndon Johnson was. How he is perceived seems to be very important to him. Catching a reporter reading an unfavorable national magazine article on one campaign bus, Brown was far from indifferent. "Don't read that," he commands. "It's all inaccurate! Has quotes that are all inaccurate." And on and on. He frequently gets angry at his father, the garrulous, former California governor for venturing opinions on his son.
Brown doesn't like it one bit when it is mentioned that he is viewed as cold, aloof, condescending and that this is written often and why? If it were true, would it really matter anyway as a character trait in a leader, in a president?
"I think you're starting from a wrong premise. I think that's a cliche," he says, clipping off the sentence.
What of the polls that say that the mystique is gone, that he is viewed as just another politician. "It's a little hard to be in politics 10 years and not be, viewed as a politician," Brown says witheringly.
But wasn't the advantage, being viewed as a fresh face? "The only reason a metaphor like that is cogent is the quality of an idea."
Did he really say, "everything is symbols, everything in life, all it is a head trip"?
"Most quotes are simply inaccurate." The governor moves quickly into Brownspeak, with its strong echoes of collegiate bull session rhetoric.
Brown: "I think that events have a symbolic and allegorical significance, as well as a literal significance. Things mean many things, so to that extent, events symbolize . . . in fact, the characteristic of a human being is the handling of communications, which is the handling of symbols. That's what you're doing right now, translating sound into patterns. That's symbols. Now you can go beyond that and talk of metaphors and translate an event into a larger pattern or a larger picture. In that sense, things symbolize things."
Brown grabs a passing California journalist. "This reporter thinks I'm cold. Am I cold?" The TV reporter, taken aback says "why no." Brown looks triumphant. "See?" Then, he finally snaps with impatience. "I know that's where you're starting from, but I don't think you're right."
Brown enjoys sparring with the boys on the bus, the veteran political reporters. They talk the impersonal talk Brown likes; strategy in primaries, the intricacies of the political game. They banter on issues and like his keen mind. He throws out Brownspeak then pulls back for sometimes visionary thought. The ripple effect of political journalism is happening now. Kennedy is fading in the polls. It is fashionable to write that Brown offers new and different ideas. To disagree is to risk a condescending view from the cognoscenti.
He wins admiration from the boys on the bus when he quips that a press conference had "risen to the level of an insert." But late at night, Brown turns churlish when a TV reporter tells him a Brown-thought is unclear and asks him to explain himself. "You want slogans?" shoots back Brown. "I'll give you slogans: 'No Nukes.' 'No Deficit Spending.' Is that what you want?"
But mostly he talks favorably of veteran political reporters. "These people are professionals." Then: "They're not sitting around psychologizing."
"I told Pat I'd help him raise money in Ohio in 1976 for Jerry because he asked me to -- but not because of Jerry. I told Pat, 'I just don't like the way he treats you.' My father was an immigrant but I was never embarrassed to be with him. Jerry never introduces his dad, ignores him. Pat told me, 'he's really a nice boy. He hurts me at times but he takes after his mother's side of the family.' Kids reject politics often when their father's in it. My son did -- but Jerry treats his father that way and then turns around and trades on his name. He wouldn't have become secretary of state of California on his own. I don't know what the average person feels about the way Jerry treats people but with me, having been in politics, something like that just doesn't go down good." -- Former Governor of Ohio Mike DiSalle.
The Family. Much has been made of the fact that Pat Brown, the gregarious and warm governor of California, spawned a cool and aloof governor of California, spawned a cool and aloof governor of California.
Acquaintances say they aren't close, some longtime acquaintances even go so far as to say "Jerry hates his father." Some surmise that he saw his father lose after he gave Caryl Chessman, on death row, a reprieve -- which Jerry urged while in the seminary. Jerry saw his father booed in public, saw the cronies and the back-slapping and moved the other way. Jerry is his mother's son -- cooler, intellectual.
Bernice Brown is a handsome woman with steel gray hair and bright blue eyes who moves out of her swimming pool, offers the Fresca and keeps up a steady stream of pleasant conversation.
Raising four children was not easy with a politician husband. "Pat wasn't home very much and it put an awful burden on me. When kids get to be teenagers, that's when they're the real problem. It's the decisions you have to make."
Kathy Brown Rice, Jerry's younger sister and a member of the Los Angeles school board who is both warmth and intelligent, sees 1980 as some avenging Greek drama if Jerry could win the nomination and square off against Reagan -- who beat their father.
Mrs. Brown laughs. "Pat says he lost the election because I wouldn't look adoringly at him, like Nancy did Reagan," she says, with a perfectly false mock political-wife smile.
Ted Kennedy in the race intrigues her, and she slips her thoughts into the conversation adroitly. "I'm more concerned about Kennedy running. I think there's another nut out there that'll decide to make it number three," then lowering her voice, "and he has terrible personal problems which are well known. His son with cancer, all those children he's a surrogate for."
Her son is a victim of a "press image" she says. "They unconsciously compare Jerry to Pat and he seems aloof because Pat is so gregarious. They are completely different." How a politician is privately, does that have any bearing on how he will be as president?
"It depends on what particular quality . . ." She leaps quickly into, "did you read in the paper, the Kopechne girl's father? He said 'Kennedy will lose, because of Chappaquiddick.'" Mrs. Brown accurattely predicted a few weeks before Kennedy's formal announcement that "he has no way to go but down -- because he's so high up there now. But when he becomes a candidate. . . ."
She thinks the best quality of her son is that "He is not afraid to pioneer new things. And he's a master on television. He out-Buckleyed Buckley. Jerry topped him on everything." Mrs. Brown has honed one little, oft-repeated story about Jerry to the point that she automatically starts with "He was for full disclosure from the age of five." He had just learned to write his name and they had recemented a sidewalk, she recounts. "All the kids had written hearts and flowers. Not Jerry. He wrote J-E-R-R-Y. So who had to pay the bill? I did."
The den of their airy, high-ceilinged home high on a hill overlooking Los Angeles is filled with pictures of Pat Brown -- with John F. Kennedy, LBJ, Humphrey, a few with Jerry. Mrs. Brown looks at the pictures and once again the talk is directed at Kennedy. She lays out the thought that is part of the pitch of her son's campaign: While only five years older than her son, Ted Kennedy is just an older face from a different generation: "The first time I met him I was terribly impressed.
erribly impressed. But as you know, he is not as young as his brothers were. Like all of us, we get older. Fatter." She chuckles. "There is something about youth."
The wood panelled office holds a ton of pictures from the political past, gold awards, Pat Brown's face on a dollar bill encased in plastic -- and Pat Brown. "Come on in honey," he says, a good-natured man with a slight paunch and a roll-with-the punches personality.
No cool Me Decade detachment here. "I really and truly love human beings. Kissing a baby is an accepted thing for a politican to do, but i like kids. I see people walking down the street and I wonder, 'now what are their problems?" Jerry is less . . ." Brown starts again. "He's interested in the totality -- the farm laborers as a group, say, more than Cesar Chavez.
"I think I caused Jerry to retreat. My father, I loved and respected very much. An Irishman, very self-reliant. Loved to read poetry. Laughed at his own jokes. After the poetry he'd say, 'Don't you think that was great?' and it would be rather simple poetry. None of the sophisticated English I thought I knew something about." Brown pauses. "And so I would kinda retreat from my father. And I think that's what Jerry does too. I've been so outgoing." He stops and smiles. "Sometimes I don't like what I do myself. Jerry doesn't know what I'm going to say. He doesn't want to talk. I'd worry about me if I were him too."
Pat Brown cannot resist and off he goes with a chuckle. "I told one reporter a story that drove Jerry crazy. Jerry hated it. Then he blithely launches into it again.
There was this good-looking stewardess and in a burst of pleasantries Brown says he'd like to introduce her to his son. The stewardess comes back to where Brown's father is sitting on the plane and gives him her phone number. "'I'll give it to Jerry,' I say. She says, 'no -- if you're ever around Redondo Beach call me up'." A big laugh. "Jerry didn't like it."
Then pat Brown is talking lovingly of his wife, who graduated from high school at 14. "I chased her -- kept after her in good times and bad."
He thinks that his son's relationship with Tom Hayden and Jane Fonda hursts him, coming out for a constitutional convention to balance the budget was dead wrong, and empathizes with Kennedy on national health insurance. Of the presidency, he says, "I think Jerry can get people to follow along. That's about all a president can do. Nobody knows what's the right thing to do.
While many observers see Brown as a man with interesting ideas, his California record is viewed as inconsistent. Action is marred by a butterfly mind that does not linger long enough to administer his ideas. A devastating testimony to his lack of administrative ability was the acknowledgement by even his closest supporters that in the 96 out of 100 days he was absent while campaigning, the state functioned as well if not better without him.
The major question is what does Brown have to offer and what has he done as governor of California.
He has added a different dimension to the traditional mix of politices -- a man who is a fiscal conservative, but a cultural liberal. Therefore, he is for cutting social programs for the poor or elderly to balance the budget -- but has made striking appointments as governor -- from one thousand women appointees to hundreds of Hispanics and at least one avowed gay judge. A tax credit for businesses that hire welfare recipients -- a pet idea -- has been enacted. He has been strong on farm labor laws. He is against nuclear energy; and would be a big government spender on the exploring outer space.
Inconsistencies are there from year to year or week to week. In 1978 Brown told a federal Energy Department hearing that price controls were not working and "the president ought to seriously consider junking the whole program." Today, however, his radio ad blitz of New Hampshire attacks Carter and Kennedy for their actions to decontrol oil prices (Kennedy is not for decontrol of oil, however, he voted against a resolution to stop decontrol of home heating oil). In his commercial, Brown is now "the man the big oil companies fear the most."
Brown says this is no flip-flop; that in 1978 he was only referring to decontrolling California crude.
"Small is beautiful," is now large is beautiful in some instances. Brown now talks about expanding capitol investment; a California critic says caustically that Brown has learned as governor that big factories create more jobs than little factories.
"Brown's strategy is to get a hook into different constituencies. He figures out what is the hook for each group; what's exciting enough to get you on TV but not to lose votes. He's good at obscuring. In comparison to Kennedy, who's stuck his neck out on issues, Jerry avoids that," says Bob Sheer of the Los Angeles Times and a longtime Brown watcher.
"He's with Tom Hayden and his anti-multi-corporations and yet he's big with Arco. He's just another traditional politician. If Jerry Brown would drink he'd be just another screwed-up Irish politician."
Recently Brown denied that his calling for a constitutional convention to balance the budget was a major mistake. "A balanced budget's important -- or the democratic party's not going to win in 1980." To another reporter he said he doesn't really expect a constitutional convention to be called. The idea of it he sees "as a metaphor."
"Everyone tries to decipher Brown and none will succeed," predicts California Justice Bill Newsom. "I'm not sure who he is and I've known him all my life. Warm would not be one of the words to describe him -- but I don't think he wants in the slightest to be known as a loveable or likeable politician.
"He always had a certain contempt, he saw as a weakness . . . He really thinks to be a nice guy screws things up. The people he likes the least in politics are the nicest guys. Moscone [George Mascone, former mayor of San Francisco] he liked privately but had contempt for his politices. Jerry has a Francisco he liked privately but had contempt for his politics. Jerry has a lively sense of humor but he is entirely business-like about politices. He's deadly serious about it. He's very spartan. Nothing makes him more uncomfortable at dinner than if I order a helluva good wine.
"What does he stand for that I like? His refusal to pander, and his toughness. Jerry's very bright, but it's hard to carry on a dialogue. He could make Duns Scotus sound clear! And yet, I swear he senses changes drifts."
Yet another friend and an appointee says "he's really creative but he's more interesting in learning about the world than doing something about it. Doing something concrete? As a leader? He may be able to but I don't see a sign of it yet. When you get into a dialogue its somewhat at a cliche level. Ask what he would do and he says he'll deal with it when the time comes.
"He has to learn to hone himself down to a policy level."
Alan Emkin, legislative coordinator of the Legal Aid Foundation of Los Angeles, says Brown's "relationship with the poor is nowhere. This administration fought tooth and nail to limit cost of living increases for welfare recipients. In national speeches, Brown takes credit (for a bill to increase aid) but he was forced to go for it by the speaker and other Democrats.
On the other hand, Lucy Casado of the El Adobe restaurant, Borwn's favorite Hollywood eatery extolls "his caring for humanity. He's a beautiful person."
Jerry's 37-year-old sister, Kathy Brown Rice, says "He's always been the one who brought the new best seller or new idea or place to eat or gimmick or gadget or new important book into my life. He has the capacity to build a bridge into the next century." Her brother is "maybe less attractice on a one-to-one basis. What do we want, someone like 'Father Knows Best?' Leaders are often difficult people -- they have a larger relationship with the nation, a vision."
"I would agree with Kathy if it was there -- but where's the vision? I would like to see all those leadership qualities," says a friend from Brown's past. "Everything I mean everything is contrived. Is that new? Of course not. Talk about manipulation and the press -- look at JFK, all the Kennedys. But Jerry tries to have his cake and eat it too. Wants to pretend there's a difference. Busing in those kids with the Brown signs in New Hampshire. That's old politics. He spends half his time running down to the wire ticker. On the night of the election he had someone trying to find out where Age Quod Agis -- his "Do What You're Doing" slogan -- came from. He's got the big sign Age Quod Agis at the Civic Center. It's all part of the hype. Read between the lines when you look at Jerry. Other's have full lives. He's all alone.
"I don't see him as the leader. Maybe some day -- when he grows up."
Brown knows all the angles. ("That's the way we communicate today -- airplanes and television.") Roll down the car windows so the photographers won't catch the glare. Pours beer into a paper cup on a press bus for a non-alcoholic photo. Refuses to look silly having pictures taken while jogging. When talking of a San Francisco issue in the state house, he faces the bank of San Francisco station cameras; switches to the L.A. camera crew when speaking of southern California. Races out of meetings with presidents early so he can hog the moment and cadge all the air space.
It is not, after all, so different from seminary dreams says one from those days. "Hey, we thought we were the cream of the crop. Marriage is a lesser state. This is perfection." That was 1957. "It was a mind blowing experience that doesn't exist any more. The church hadn't blown yet, priests weren't popping like flies. We lived in our own world. We didn't know about the Hungarian revolution, about the Suez Crises, about Elvis .
"But we were not in training to become monks. We were going to hit the pulpit. The ascent to the pulpit is exactly like the ascent to the platform. We were interested in power ".
Just how Brown can gain national power is a large question. His rhetoric and ideas often intrigue audiences but it remains to be seen whether Brown can stir the passions: whether he can fire up the envelope stuffers, say, of Iowa or New Hampshire -- those masses of well organized true believers vital to primary elections. Whether, in the final analysis, enough voters will trust him.
Today, aides to all the political candidates sit around, carving up the country in their mind. One of them is Tom Quinn, Brown's campaign manager -- affable, smart, tough. He has an almost constant smile that never quite reaches the eyes.
One night Quinn talked about how a Brown administration would handle congressmen tied to special interests, such as oil. "Squeeze 'em," says Quinn, smiling. "Squeeze 'em hard. Come at them through the regulatory agencies. EPA has life or death authority on how much profit the oil companies make." He smiles as he says, "Every refinery in this country could be shut down."
For several weeks Quinn looked at D-Day as the Illinois primary. Brown "had to come in second in New Hampshire and Massachusetts and force Carter into third place. If not, we will not be one of two in a two person race." Today, with the Iranian crises, Carter strong in the polls and Kennedy stumbling, Quinn has changed the equation. "I see Carter with more staying power than Kennedy."
Since Iran, "any thoughts of an early knock-out blow are unreal," says Quinn. Others say Brown's candidacy is unreal and point to his difficulty raising funds, his lack of organization. Quinn only smiles and says they are the only ones who can afford a "low budget" campaign, that they have lots of volunteer strength.
Quinn gives the New England states to Kennedy, the South to Carter and then "if Kennedy should lose Illinois . . . in this game, when your fortune turns, the money runs out."
And so Brown traverses the campuses and gets some no nuke support in New England and, despite the long odds, "remains flexible."
It is curious to see this controlled politican and think that his friend and sometime traveling mate is Linda Rondstadt, who moans of grand passion and lost love to her devoted followers. She and other rock stars have raised money for Brown through concerts. On campuses, people will shout from the audiences, "How's Linda?" in friendly curiosity. Sometimes Brown, with just a hint of a smile, replies, "Fine."
Pollsters say Brown has an appeal to the younger, apathetic, non-voting crowd most politicians can't reach.
It is an interesting point. Brown is for new life styles; he'll champion gay rights and go to a fund raiser for them and you can't see any other presidential candidate being that easy on this subject, even though gays have become a powerful political bloc. He seems genuinely unthreatened with the thought of a woman vice-president -- although his inner circle is mostly white, male, well off. Close friends say he is his most relaxed at Rondstadt's.
"And yet," says one California woman reporter who has covered him, "he is really uncomfortable, for example, being interviewed by women. He has trouble relating to them."
Some of his adversaries, including Joseph Alioto, ran innuendo smeers about bachelor Brown in the past, but such gossip has died down.
Brown will tell some acquaintances that he would like to be married some day, would like to become a father.
Most surprising, for all his eager ambition and presidential pursuit, more than one acquaintance can see Brown dropping out of politics altogether.
He himself shrugs and says, "I can see me doing lots of things." As usual, he won't name them, except to say that he could see himself in some activist role, whether teaching or in business or government.
"I can see him going off to his ranch," says his mother.
"It's strange to say to people who don't know him, but Jerry is a person who is at peace with himself," says one long-time acquaintance.
Leave the political rat race for a contemplative life?
Well, Brown is, after all, a man who once said that the "beauty of a contemplative life is that it frees you from the burden of having to succeed in the world."
But for this moment, at least, he is using all the old tactics to sell what he hopes people will buy as a "new vision."
Now, finally, Brown is at ease.
Now he is happy, sitting in an airplane flying cross country. The subject has switched off Brown the person. Brown says he would never apologize for his canoe analogy; to keep it on course, you paddle first to the left and then to the right. First of all, as Brown says about most of his utterances, the press overly simplified the message.
"If you're standing in a canoe, you have to shift you weight, in order to maintain your equilibrium. The point is that any system depends on an interaction among its parts. Someone standing in a canoe can't be viewed in isolation to the relationship between the canoe and the movement between the interacting parts. The notion is that systems are more understood in cybernetic terms than in more static or linear terms . . . Patterns that connect is really what politics of the next 10 years is all about. The patterns of the fifties and sixties -- the cold war hang over, the neo-Keynesian economics, the consumption, the management and agregate demand will not be adequate for the realities of the eighties . . ."