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    An Election of Patriots a true novel in their own words
    An Election of Patriots a true novel in their own words
    An Election of Patriots a true novel in their own words
    Ebook179 pages1 hour

    An Election of Patriots a true novel in their own words

    By Andre Jute

    4/5

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    About this ebook

    It didn’t just happen that soundbite television came to trivialize policy.

    Someone willed it. A very surprising someone.

    With the best possible intentions. For the best possible reasons. In all sincerity.

    To save the Republic. To elect the best possible President.

    A crime of influence. Perpetrated by real people.

    Who paid a real price.

    This is their true story. In their own words.

    • "AN ELECTION OF PATRIOTS a true novel in their own words", "A CRIME OF INFLUENCE a screenplay" and "PIVOT a 90-minute play for radio" are all included in the omnibus volume "THE TIME-LIFE CONSPIRACY" at a saving over buying the three volumes separately.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAndre Jute
    Release dateDec 2, 2012
    ISBN9781908369130
    An Election of Patriots a true novel in their own words
    Author

    Andre Jute

    André Jute is a novelist and, through his non-fiction books, a teacher of creative writing, graphic design and engineering. There are about three hundred editions of his books in English and a dozen other languages.He was educated in Australia, South Africa and the United States. He has been an intelligence officer, racing driver, advertising executive, management consultant, performing arts critic and professional gambler. His hobbies include old Bentleys, classical music (on which for fifteen years he wrote a syndicated weekly column), cycling, hill walking, cooking and wine. He designs and builds his own tube (valve) audio amplifiers.He is married to Rosalind Pain-Hayman and they have a son. They live on a hill over a salmon river in County Cork, Eire.

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    • 4/5
      An interesting story about the infant days of television. What was striking to me was how The managing editor of Time magazine, Harry Luce, utilized television bites to get Eisenhower the Republican party nomination for the 1950 elections. I found there were a few too many characters in this novella so I did tend to lose perspective. It is a worthy read to experience the near capitulation of the Republican party and how television was used to put them back in power after 52 years of Democratic party dominance. It is about politics as it actually unfolded in 1949 so it does tend to drag a bit.
    • 4/5
      I will have to say that this was a very good historical fiction that did take me by surprise. It was very believable plot that takes a very interesting look at the landscape of poetics back in the 1950’s

    Book preview

    An Election of Patriots a true novel in their own words - Andre Jute

    It didn’t just happen that soundbite television came to trivialize policy.

    Someone willed it. A very surprising someone.

    With the best possible intentions. For the best possible reasons. In all sincerity.

    To save the Republic. To elect the best possible President.

    A crime of influence. Perpetrated by real people.

    Who paid a real price.

    This is their true story. In their own words.

    Contents

    Cover • Jacket copy

    An Election of Patriots • title page

    An Election of Patriots • just start reading!

    Afterword

    Extras

    About the author

    Books • Reviews

    Contacts • Photo

    More books from CoolMain Press

    An Election of Patriots

    a true novel in their own words

    by André Jute

    *

    CoolMain Press

    Copyright © 2012 André Jute

    The author has asserted his moral right

    First published by

    CoolMain Press 2012

    http://www.coolmainpress.com

    at Smashwords

    Editors: Diane Fisher, Lynne Comery

    All rights reserved.

    No part of this publication may be reproduced by any means without the written permission of the publisher.

    This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

    On the early morning street in front of the Rockefeller Center sheets of newsprint harry the chill wind. Only people make New York even marginally bearable and now, before the office workers arrive, the city is naked and hard-edged. Yesterday’s detritus offers no relief.

    Inside the building the night-watchman comes to the glass doors and without opening them peers out towards the growing light at the end of the concrete and glass canyon. Down the street a cleaning truck sprays water on its whirling brushes sweeping the gutter as it approaches slowly along the curb. The driver curses when he is forced to swerve around the television team setting up in front of the Rockefeller Center. They are bundled up against the Fall chill as much as against the early morning. Their equipment is clumsy, painfully heavy and awkward. They have their own trailer-generator to provide power for the big cameras on mobile tripods and the heavy lights on stands they man-handle into position. The year is 1951 and one of the Woody station wagons in which they came is parked half into the street so that the hooked-up generator-trailer can be handy to the cameras and lights. Cables snake everywhere.

    At last they finish and light cigarettes. They lounge in the manner of men used to waiting but not like soldiers, not resignedly; there is a certain arrogance even in their relaxation. They are television. They do not have to observe the rules and courtesies by which lesser people abide.

    Harry Luce shaves with an electric razor, glancing often at his watch, face up on the basin beside him, chain neatly folded. Harry Luce is a man in his early fifties, his figure and bearing good but not overtly athletic. He wears a crimson woolen dressing gown over his suit pants, white shirt and a tie already knotted and pulled up tight to his collar, but he is still barefoot.

    This bathroom is Harry Luce: austere, cast-iron with white enamel, a glass shelf, spotless white walls, everything squeaky clean.

    In an ashtray next to the watch a cigarette smolders. Harry Luce is a chain-smoker and it has given him a persistent cough which he beats when he speaks the same way he beat his childhood stammer, by pure will-power. On a shoe-shine stand in the corner brushes and tins of polish are neatly squared up; Harry cleans his own shoes, which wait already shined on top of the stand, together with a pair of socks turned inside out ready to put on.

    Harry puts the razor down and switches on the radio on the glass shelf beside him. While the radio crackles to operating temperature, Harry cleans his electric razor over the trash basket with a brush. He clips the razor closed, puts it in its box, closes the box and places it squarely on the shelf just as the first comprehensible sounds come from the radio.

    ‘ — with the seven o’clock news.’

    Harry shakes his watch beside his ear, then puts it into his waistcoat pocket, clips on the chain, and reties his dressing-gown.

    ‘Good morning. Today we start with the presidential hopefuls who aim to put themselves forward for their party’s nomination. With me is America’s best-loved radio voice, Ed Murrow. Ed, is it true that running for the presidency has now become a four-year job?’

    ‘If not four, then at least two years.’

    Harry is impatient. ‘Come on, get to it, Ed.’

    Murrow’s voice is a tool of great range. ‘But as always, the men with a real chance are holding their hand, waiting to be asked, as surely they will be. Senator Kefauver is considered a maverick by the Democratic Party managers and needs to use the radio and the newspapers to go over their heads to the people. He’s trying to turn the primaries into a power base, to lock up his own delegates and so force himself upon the men in smoke-filled rooms.’

    Harry, standing straight before the radio, his whole attention on it, nods his head slowly, judiciously.

    The radio announcer is not satisfied. ‘Will the Democratic machine bring forward their own candidate?’

    ‘Don’t interrupt,’ Harry snaps. ‘Don’t interrupt!’

    ‘They’ll have to,’ Murrow says on the radio. ‘The Democratic Party’s organization men will unite behind Adlai Stevenson.’

    Harry presses his thumb thoughtfully against the glass shelf, then looks at the impression in his flesh, then fingers his chin with the same hand, though not to feel if he is clean-shaven.

    ‘Daley’s man and from Chicago too. What about the Republicans, Ed?’

    ‘Don’t expect any surprises from the GOP. The Republican nominating convention will reward Senator Taft for his magnanimity in 1948 and his manifold other services to the party by giving him the nomination if only he asks for it.’

    Clare Boothe Luce’s bedroom is large and extremely elegant, decorated without reference to expense. A table, laid with breakfast for two, stands at the foot of the four-poster bed. Through an open door her own luxurious bathroom may be seen beyond the linking dressing room. Near the closed doors to the terrace, against the backdrop of Central Park, Coco the pet cockatiel preens himself in his cage.

    Clare Boothe Luce, fully dressed and coiffed, sits at the table, eating a croissant quickly but without making any mess. She is in her forties and very beautiful. She is elegant rather than merely smart, her self-possession enough to make many men feel inferior. ‘Anything on the radio that will require remaking your cover?’

    Harry, still barefoot in his dressing gown over the rest of his clothes, reads the papers while he eats a proper breakfast of porridge, bacon and eggs with grilled tomato, and toast. It is a habit: he shovels in the food without tasting it. He replies through his food, ‘Nothing. But they led with Ed Murrow saying the Democrats will nominate Adlai Stevenson.’

    ‘Stevenson’s a regular party man. He only appears to be as much a maverick as Estes Kefauver.’

    ‘Democratic politics have been about appearances ever since Franklin Roosevelt, damn the man.’ Harry lowers his paper. ‘The Daley machine created Stevenson. His seeming distance from them is an appearance the Democrats will trade on. The party professionals will use Adlai to smash Kefauver. But that’s not the point.’

    ‘No. They can win with Stevenson.’

    Harry is savage. ‘The point is, with Stevenson they will win.’ He pauses to recover himself. ‘Ed then goes on to say the Republican convention will anoint Bob Taft. All he has to do is turn up.’

    ‘You’ve always been for Bob. He’s a good man.’

    ‘But can he win?’

    She looks silently at him, waiting. He opens his mouth, then closes it without speaking. When he raises the paper, she puts her finger gently in the fold. ‘I’m a Republican too, Harry.’

    ‘And you can hardly remember when we were last in power.’ He is immediately contrite. ‘I’m sorry.’ He gestures as if to touch her hand but does not. Even with his wife, Harry Luce is awkward.

    Coco bursts into gravelly song. After a moment Harry and Clare recognize the tune as Stars and Stripes Forever.

    ‘You flatted again,’ Harry says sadly to Coco.

    The bird huffs its feathers, turns its back on them, and shuts up.

    Harry turns back to Clare. ‘Something vital goes out of a democracy when there is no effective opposition. Four more years in the wilderness and nobody will believe we could ever again be a viable opposition. That’ll be the end of the two-party system. Another defeat will

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