Man Of The Year: Lyndon B. Johnson, The Paradox of Power

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But he has frequently failed where another President with superior powers of persuasion might have succeeded. His inability to convince either Congress or the nation of the need for a tax increase is one example. When the Detroit riots erupted last summer, Johnson had a splendid opportunity to rally the nation. Instead, he took a safe, legalistic and patently political approach, delaying the dispatch of federal troops until Michigan's Governor George Romney, a potential rival in 1968, was ready to admit that he had lost control of the situation. Johnson's follow-up actions were no more impressive. "Here we've had a whole summer of riots," said former White House Aide Richard Goodwin, who served under both Kennedy and Johnson, "and what do we get? A study commission and a day of prayer!"

Inspiration Gap. Johnson's "inspiration gap" is to some extent purely verbal. "The most eminent presidents have generally been eloquent presidents," wrote Stanford's Bailey in Presidential Greatness. "They were eloquent with pen, as Jefferson was; or with tongue, as Franklin Roosevelt was; or with both, as Wilson and Lincoln were." Johnson is eloquent with neither. Harry Truman helped overcome a similar deficiency with a roof-raising style on the stump, Dwight Eisenhower with an avuncular manner that inspired confidence and trust. Johnson's official verbiage tends to be dull, and though he can be pungent and forceful in private, his public charisma is just about nil. He doesn't always look entirely "sincere," and he can't always. His effectiveness has been blunted by his all-too-familiar penchant for secrecy, gimmickry and deviousness.

Hills & Valleys. Part of his problem is the rustic image he projects in an age when the U.S. has finally acknowledged its status as a nation of cities. Though Johnson is a man of the 20th century (born in 1908), he nonetheless seems the product of a more distant past. His politics and philosophy were annealed in the inhospitable forges of the Dust Bowl and the Depression. To the generation that spawned underground movies and acid-rock music, he often seems as remote as Betelgeuse. Hippies, college students and Eastern sophisticates are not the only people who look on him as a parvenu from the prairies. Living in grandiose isolation at either end of an axis that stretches from the Pedernales to the Potomac, Johnson is a stranger to the put-downs and hang-ups (terms he would probably not comprehend) of a populace that digs op and pop art, Valleys of Dolls in paperback and microskirts in the front office.