Taking Charge: The Johnson White House Tapes, 1963-1964.

Lyndon Johnson's Presidency is among the more controversial in American history -- in part because of the man himself, in part because of the chaotic period in which he served. But about one aspect of his time in office there is, or ought to be, unanimity: Between November 22, 1963, and his nomination in August, 1964, Johnson performed a tremendous service for the nation, providing firm and resourceful leadership at a time when millions of Americans despaired of their civic order.

Taking Charge covers this period, and the effect of reading it is to recall Johnson with a vividness not captured by any other book with which I am familiar. It is to appreciate once again that this firm, resourceful leader was also a wheeling, dealing operator, and a provincial to boot -- not of Texas alone, but of the province of politics. Almost every conversation picked up by Johnson's White House recording devices (without the knowledge of the other party, for the most part) had as its purpose, on LBJ's side, the attainment of some political end -- not stamp collecting, golf, tennis, poker, religion, sailing, or any of the other hobbies and interests with which presidents have entertained themselves, but politics. His was an utterly focused, almost hermetic world in which most things had value in proportion to their contribution to his political goals -- which, during this period, ranged from passing the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the "War on Poverty" program, to the avoidance of spattering by petty scandals, to the containment of his most feared and despised opponent, Bobby Kennedy.

What comes through these dialogues, superbly edited by Michael Beschloss, is johnson's relentless, unashamed pressure on the various parties who appear on the tapes -- pressure intended to make the person involved feel that if he (there were few she's in that era) failed to help, he would be letting down the nation, or some worthy part of it, or -- at least as important -- the beleaguered Lyndon johnson himself.

Even when the purpose of the talk was to make peace, the pressure could surface. Nine days into Johnson's presidency I attended church with him on Capitol Hill. On the way back to the White House, johnson, who had seemed painfully shaken a week before, was ebullient. He had just persuaded Earl Warren to chair the commission investigating Kennedy's assassination -- by reminding him that he had put on a doughboy's khaki in 1918 to serve his country, and could do no less in this hour of national need. He was pleased by Warren's agreement, because it would give credibility to the investigation; he was exhilarated by having obtained it through an irresistible appeal to Warren's patriotism.

When we reached the White House, he began a series of meetings with persons with whom he had become estranged, and whose help he needed. One was FDR's first special assistant, the Washington lawyer James Rowe. The Rowes and the Johnsons had been intimate friends for many years, until Johnson's constant complaints about scheduling during the 1960 campaign had caused Rowe, his volunteer scheduler, to resign in. a fury I believe they had not spoken since. Johnson asked Rowe's forgiveness, saying, simply, that he had behaved atrociously. The scene, in an Oval Office flooded with brilliant autumn sunlight, was affecting, bringing tears to Jim Rowe's eyes. He insisted that he had been most at fault, failing to appreciate the stress upon johnson. The president squinted at him. "God damn it, Jim, can't you be content to be the first man the thirty-sixth president of the United States has apologized to?" Before Rowe could answer, johnson was asking him how he ought to deal with Joe Rauh, the liberal activist with whom Johnson had been at odds for years, and whom he now needed to reassure about civil rights.

The immediacy of that scene, the relentless attention to what Texans call "bidness" (in this case, making peace in order to pass legislation later), and the sheer fun to be had from hearing johnson operate, are recapitulated in page after page of Taking Charge. Harry Middleton, the director of the johnson Library, should be celebrated for releasing these tapes. Michael Beschloss' wise annotations bring johnson into focus as if he were in the next room -- on the phone, forever insisting, griping, mocking, leading a shaken country toward good and ill.

Harry McPherson, a Washington lawyer, was counsel to Lyndon Johnson from 1965 to 1969.