The 163 Miles
On a night sometime in the late 1960s—the precise date lost to the blur of headlights and highway reflectors—a reporter named Robert Caro drove a hundred and sixty-three miles south from Albany to his home in Roslyn, Long Island, and by the time he pulled into his driveway he had concluded that everything he had ever written was, in his own unsparing assessment, "basically baloney." The drive had followed one of those corridors of institutional power that would become Caro's great subject: state government, committee rooms, the offices of a governor who had reversed himself on a bridge project because one man—a man who had never been elected to anything—had walked in and changed his mind. The man was Robert Moses. The governor was Nelson Rockefeller. And the revelation that detonated somewhere around mile eighty was not about engineering or urban planning but about democracy itself. "Underlying everything that you do on politics," Caro would recall thinking, "is the belief that we live in a democracy. And in a democracy power comes from being elected, from our votes at a ballot box." Here was a man who had held power for forty-four years, who had shaped six hundred and twenty-seven miles of parkways and expressways, who had built every modern bridge in New York City, who had moved hundreds of thousands of people out of their homes—and nobody, not Caro, not his editors, not the political scientists at Columbia or the reporters on the City Hall beat, could explain where the power came from. The question hung there in the dark car like the smell of burning. It has not gone away in half a century.
That drive gave Caro a subject—not Moses, exactly, but the invisible architecture of power—and the subject consumed his life. He is now eighty-nine years old. He has published five books, approximately six thousand pages across two biographies, and he is not finished. The fifth and final volume of The Years of Lyndon Johnson, covering Vietnam, Medicare, the Voting Rights Act, and the dissolution of the Great Society, remains in progress on the same model of Smith Corona Electra 210 typewriter that is no longer manufactured. He has eleven backup machines, cannibalized for parts. His office near Central Park contains a typewriter, legal pads, file cabinets, and a bulletin board spanning the entire wall behind his desk, pinned with the typewritten outline of a book that will cover some of the most consequential years in American history. When NPR brought a crew of three to his office, Caro told them, with evident delight, "You are the most people I've ever had in here."
He has spent more time on fewer subjects than perhaps any writer in the history of American letters. Two men. Two questions. The first question was about urban political power: where it comes from when it does not come from elections. The second was about national political power: what happens when a man of bottomless ambition and legislative genius seizes the machinery of the presidency. The answers required seven years for Moses and, so far, nearly fifty for Johnson. The books that resulted—
The Power Broker and the four published volumes of
The Years of Lyndon Johnson—are widely regarded as the finest political biographies written in the English language since the Second World War, and possibly before it. They have won two Pulitzer Prizes, two National Book Awards, three National Book Critics Circle Awards, the National Humanities Medal, and the Francis Parkman Prize, given to the book that "best exemplifies the union of the historian and the artist." Barack Obama, who read
The Power Broker at twenty-two, called it the most influential book he had ever read.
But the statistic that matters most is not prizes or sales. It is this: nearly every person Caro interviewed for The Power Broker and the early Johnson volumes is now dead. The testimonies they gave him—about Moses's ruthlessness, about Johnson's stolen 1948 Senate election, about the women of the Texas Hill Country washing laundry by hand before electrification—exist nowhere else. The archive, acquired by the New-York Historical Society in 2019, runs to more than a hundred and twenty boxes, an estimated hundred linear feet of notebooks, transcripts, annotated clippings, and original manuscript pages. A minuscule fraction of what he gathered made it into the books. The rest is a shadow library of twentieth-century American life, preserved because one man could not stop asking questions.
By the Numbers
The Caro Record
5Published books (a sixth in progress)
~6,000Pages across two biographies
2Pulitzer Prizes for Biography
7Years writing The Power Broker
~50Years (and counting) on The Years of Lyndon Johnson
120+Boxes of archival material at the New-York Historical Society
$5,000Advance for The Power Broker
The Son of a Copier
The salient fact of Caro's boyhood is not literary ambition but loss. His mother died when he was eleven, after a long illness from breast cancer that had begun when he was five. "In those days, if you got breast cancer and it came back, there wasn't really very much they could do for you," he told NPR, and the understatement contained an entire childhood of hospital corridors and hushed adult conversations. His father, an immigrant from Poland, had taught himself to read and write English by copying out whole columns from the New York Times—a fact that lands with the force of parable, the immigrant who learned language by transcription producing a son who would become the most meticulous transcriber of American political reality.
Caro grew up on the West Side of Manhattan, attended PS 93, then the Horace Mann School, and from a young age read with the indiscriminate voracity of a child for whom books were refuge. He consumed Edward Gibbon's The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire while still in grade school—or at least began it, which in the case of Gibbon amounts to a commitment more serious than most marriages. At Princeton, where he enrolled in 1953, he became managing editor of the Daily Princetonian and wrote short stories for the Princeton Tiger and the Nassau Literary Review. The stories are minor—about a jaded trumpet player, a blowhard trial lawyer, a nightclub chanteuse facing obsolescence—but they reveal a sensibility already drawn to people trapped by circumstance, straining against the limits of their own characters.
The creative-writing professor at Princeton was R. P. Blackmur, a critic then famous and now largely forgotten, whose one surviving contribution to the culture may be the sentence he delivered to Caro after the young man handed in his final short story. Blackmur said something complimentary about the story, and then, as Caro was getting up to leave: "But you know, Mr. Caro, you will never achieve what you want to achieve unless you learn to stop thinking with your fingers." The remark burned. It burns still. It became the foundational principle of Caro's working life—the decision to slow down, to resist the velocity of one's own fluency, to write first drafts in longhand and then transfer them to a typewriter instead of a computer because a typewriter is slower.
The Education of a Political Reporter
After Princeton, Caro went to work for the New Brunswick Daily Home News, a paper so thoroughly entangled with the Middlesex County Democratic machine that its chief political reporter was given a leave of absence each election season to write speeches for the Democratic organization. Caro, hired while the political reporter was recovering from a minor heart attack, was chosen as a substitute precisely because he was expected to be inept. His salary was fifty-two dollars and fifty cents a week.
The machine's boss was a tough old political operator who took an unexplained shine to the young reporter and brought him everywhere—to fundraisers, ward meetings, the back rooms where deals were made over wads of fifty- and hundred-dollar bills. Caro found the money agreeable. And then came Election Day. The boss asked if he wanted to "ride the polls." They drove from precinct to precinct in a big limousine, a police captain at the wheel. At each stop, a police officer delivered a report. Then they pulled up to one polling place and there was a paddy wagon, and police were herding well-dressed young African-American demonstrators into it, not roughly but with nightsticks moving them along, and Caro could not stand it. He did not say a word. Neither did the boss. The next time the car stopped at a light, Caro opened the door and got out.
He went home and told Ina—Ina Joan Slotkin, whom he had married in 1957 and who would become the indispensable collaborator of his career, a medievalist by training who would sell their house without telling him so he could finish The Power Broker—that he had to find a newspaper that "fights for things." He made a list of crusading papers. Newsday, the Long Island daily, was on it. He got the job.
At Newsday, Caro found his education. The paper's managing editor was Alan Hathway, an old-time newspaperman from the 1920s, broad-shouldered, bald except for a monklike tonsure, who wore brown shirts with white ties and black shirts with yellow ties and had a deep prejudice against graduates of prestigious universities. He had never hired one. Caro was hired as a joke on him while he was on vacation. For weeks, Hathway refused to acknowledge Caro's existence. When the young reporter said "Hello, Mr. Hathway" in the city room, Hathway walked past as if he were furniture. But eventually Caro's reporting won him over. And Hathway gave him the only piece of methodological advice that mattered: "Just never assume a damn thing. Turn every page."
Turn every page. It became Caro's religion. The words would later appear as a kind of refrain across decades of interviews about his process, and they contained within them an entire theory of knowledge: that truth is not given but found, and found only by the kind of exhaustive, monotonous, page-by-page immersion that most people—most journalists, most historians—are too impatient to endure.
The Bridge to Moses
The genesis of The Power Broker is a specific story about a specific bridge that was never built—or rather, that was stopped and then unstoppable. Robert Moses wanted to build a bridge across Long Island Sound between Rye, in Westchester County, and Oyster Bay on Long Island. Newsday assigned Caro to look into it. He discovered it was, in his words, "just the world's worst idea," because the traffic it would generate would require twelve additional lanes on the Long Island Expressway. He wrote the story. The bridge was dead. He went on to other things.
Two weeks later, a friend in Albany called. "Bob, I think you'd better come back up here." Moses had visited. The governor and his counsel and his speaker now thought the bridge was the world's best idea. The state was going to pay for it.
This was the moment—the moment on the drive home, the hundred and sixty-three miles—when Caro understood that the conventional model of democratic power, the model he had been taught at Princeton and had assumed as a reporter, was insufficient to explain what he was seeing. Moses held no elective office. He had lost the one time he ran, for governor against Herbert Lehman in 1934, by more than eight hundred thousand votes. Yet he wielded more power than any mayor or governor, and he had wielded it for nearly half a century.
Caro decided he would write a book. He knew only one editor in the book world and received what he later called "the world's smallest advance"—five thousand dollars, of which twenty-five hundred was paid up front. He left Newsday. He applied for and received a Nieman Fellowship at Harvard to study urban planning. And then he descended into seven years of research so consuming that it nearly destroyed him financially, physically, and, by some accounts, psychologically.
Moses's public-relations men told him, at a lunch that was more warning than welcome, that "Commissioner Moses will never talk to you, his family will never talk to you, his friends will never talk to you," and that anyone who ever wanted a contract from the city or state would never talk to him either. The message was clear: you will waste your life.
I drew a series of concentric circles on a piece of paper. And in the center I put a dot. The dot was Robert Moses, and the innermost circle was his family. And then, the next one, his friends. So I said, well, maybe he can stop everyone in the first few circles from talking to me, but he won't be able to remember all the people that he's dealt with in the outer circles. I'll start with them.
This was not merely a research strategy. It was a theory of how power operates—through proximity, through dependency, through the concentric rings of obligation that radiate outward from a center of force. And it worked. The outer circles talked. Then the middle circles. After two years, so did Moses himself, though the reason for his capitulation remains unclear. His chief deputy, Sidney Shapiro, later told Caro that Moses had realized "that finally someone had come along who was going to do the biography whether he wanted it or not." Moses sat for a series of interviews in which, Caro said, "he would tell me these stories about thinking of the West Side Highway and Riverside Drive. And you'd sit there just in rapture—and you saw, this was a guy who had these great dreams." In his interview notebooks, visible in the archive at the New-York Historical Society, Caro wrote himself a message in capital letters: "SHUT UP!" He had learned, he said, "the importance of silence. People have a need to fill up silence."
The Idealist Who Learned Power
The Moses that emerges from Caro's research—and from the extraordinary New Yorker serialization that ran in four parts beginning in July 1974—is not a villain but something more disturbing: an idealist who discovered that idealism without power is impotent, and who then discovered that power, once acquired, has its own appetites.
Moses was born on December 18, 1888, in New Haven, into a well-to-do German Jewish family. At Yale, he was known as a passionate dreamer, sitting up late writing romantic poetry about Beauty and Truth and the Mona Lisa. At Oxford, he was the first American elected captain of the Dark Blue water-polo team. He returned to New York with a Ph.D. in political science from Columbia and went to work for the Bureau of Municipal Research, a good-government organization. Frances Perkins—later FDR's Secretary of Labor but then a young reformer who occasionally walked the city with Moses—said that "everything he saw made him think of some way that it could be better," that "he was always burning up with ideas, just burning up with them."
He devised a civil-service system of mathematical purity and fought for it before audiences of Tammany men who owed their jobs to ward bosses. Night after night, clutching a bulging briefcase, introduced as "Dr. Moses" in honor of his Ph.D., he stood before hails of abuse. He was a tall, slim figure in white—a Brooks Brothers tropical suit—among the burly, cigar-smoking politicians in their black derbies. "Once you saw him on those nights, you could never forget him," a fellow reformer recalled. "The more they booed him, the more self-confident, even arrogant, he seemed."
And then Tammany crushed him. In November 1918, less than a month from his thirtieth birthday, his civil-service forms being used for scratch paper, the Central Park shelters and the great highway unbuilt, Robert Moses, Phi Beta Kappa at Yale, honors man at Oxford, was standing in a line in the Cleveland City Hall waiting to apply for a minor municipal job. He didn't get it.
What happened next—the alliance with Al Smith, the twilight walks through the Lower East Side, the discovery of the Brooklyn water-supply properties from a Long Island Rail Road train window, the vision of Jones Beach conjured on a deserted sandspit—constitutes one of the great narrative arcs in American nonfiction. Caro traces Moses's transformation from idealist to operator with the patience of a geologist reading strata. The key figure is Belle Moskowitz, Smith's fixer, the watchmaker's daughter from Eastern Europe who had been a reformer for twenty-two years but who, unlike other reformers, got things done. When Moses submitted a plan that included "elimination of unnecessary personnel," Moskowitz struck the phrase out. Personnel, she said, were voters. You didn't antagonize voters. Moses cursed under his breath. But he learned.
"Before long," Caro writes, "his conversation began to include the phrases of practical politics as well as those of scientific-management textbooks." The idealist who had believed that truth and logic would prevail began to understand that truth and logic were tools, and that tools must be wielded—with force, with guile, with the black art of bill-drafting that could conceal the real content of a law from the very legislators voting on it.
The Book That Nearly Broke Him
The Power Broker was delivered to Knopf as a manuscript of over a million words. A third had to be cut for the book to be physically bound as a single volume—the publisher literally could not manufacture a book that large. Robert Gottlieb, Caro's editor, slashed through entire paragraphs with huge marks visible in the archive. Among the casualties was a chapter called "One Mile (Afterward)," about the loneliness of people displaced by the Cross-Bronx Expressway, which Caro had written after seeing Fiddler on the Roof and hearing the song "Anatevka": "Soon I'll be a stranger in a strange new place, / Searching for an old familiar face."
The financial toll was severe. When the advance ran out, Ina Caro—without telling her husband—sold their house on Long Island. They moved to a rented apartment in the Bronx, where they scraped by for years. "For seven years, I heard people say—I heard my first publisher say—no one is going to read a book on Robert Moses," Caro recalled. "It will be a very small printing. And I believed that."
The book won the Pulitzer Prize in 1975. It is now in its seventy-fourth printing. The Modern Library named it one of the hundred greatest nonfiction books of the twentieth century.
But the moment that most reveals Caro's method—the moment he himself identifies as the book's turning point—involved not Moses but a farmer named Jimmy Roth. Caro had found the original maps for the Northern State Parkway and noticed that the road, originally a straight line through the estates of the robber barons, suddenly dipped south in two places. A letter in Franklin Roosevelt's papers explained why: the Legislature, controlled by the barons, had cut off Moses's funds, and the financier Otto Kahn had offered ten thousand dollars for surveys on the condition that the route bypass his golf course. Moses took the money. The parkway moved south—through twenty-three small farms whose owners had no comparable leverage.
Caro tracked down Jimmy Roth, who had been a boy when Moses's representative arrived. The family had spent years clearing a farm so rocky and overgrown that no one else wanted it. One day, a man showed up and told them the state was condemning the middle portion—the only arable portion. Jimmy's father pleaded: move the road four hundred feet south and the farm could survive. The man refused. "My father's life was ruined by this," Jimmy told Caro.
So, you're doing this book, you're writing about the guy who has power. You haven't even thought about writing in detail about the people who have no power, and what power does to them.
From that moment, Caro understood that his book had to tell two stories simultaneously: the story of the man who wielded the sword and the story of the people on whom it fell. The book's famous last line—" 'Why weren't they grateful?' "—is Moses's bewildered question about a public that had turned against him, and it carries the weight of a thousand Jimmy Roths.
Moving to the Hill Country
Soon after The Power Broker's publication, Caro turned to his second subject. On March 25, 1975, Knopf announced that he would write a three-volume biography of Lyndon Baines Johnson, with installments expected every two years beginning in 1977. The first volume appeared in 1982. There are now four published volumes. The fifth is in progress. Caro is eighty-nine.
The choice of Johnson was not biographical curiosity but structural logic. Moses had illuminated urban political power—the invisible mechanisms by which an unelected official could reshape a city. Johnson would illuminate national political power—the mechanisms by which a man of limitless ambition could seize the machinery of the United States Senate and, later, the presidency itself. "No Leader in history ever controlled, dominated, the Senate as he did," Caro would write in
Master of the Senate. "I felt if I could show how he did that, I would be showing the essence, the heart, of national political power."
But to show Johnson, Caro had to show the world that made him. And so he and Ina moved to the Texas Hill Country.
They lived there for three years. Not visiting, not commuting—living. Caro immersed himself in the culture of a place so isolated, so desperately poor, that the women aged beyond recognition by thirty from the labor of washing clothes without electricity, hauling water from wells, building fires to boil it, scrubbing with lye that burned their hands raw. When Johnson, as a young congressman, twisted arms in Washington to bring rural electrification to the Hill Country, the women called it "bringing the light." They meant it literally.
Caro needed to see this for himself—not as a historical abstraction but as a physical reality. "Biography should not just be a collection of facts," he wrote. "It's of real importance to enable the reader to see in his mind the places in which the book's facts are located. If a reader can visualize them for himself, then he may be able to understand things without the writer having to explain them."
The opening chapters of
The Path to Power contain almost no Lyndon Johnson. Instead, there is the Hill Country itself—the beauty of the land and the cruelty beneath the beauty, the settlers who arrived full of hope and were broken by soil that would not yield, by distances that could not be crossed, by a loneliness so profound that Caro uses a German word for it, because no English word is sufficient. By the time Johnson appears, the reader already understands what he was running from.
The Art of the Interview
Caro's interviewing method is, by his own description, simple. It is also nearly impossible to replicate, because it requires a quality that cannot be taught: the willingness to ask the same question so many times that the interviewee becomes angry, and then to ask it again.
The central technique is a phrase: "What would I see?" He asks it of every source, in every interview, about every scene. The question sounds naïve. It is not. It forces the source past the rehearsed anecdote, past the summary, past the interpretation, and into the sensory reality of the moment.
Joe Califano, Johnson's chief domestic adviser, was describing a crisis in the Oval Office. Johnson was walking around. What was he doing? Califano didn't understand the question. Caro kept asking. "Well, you know, there was something. It was like he couldn't wait to see the next line of the news. So he'd bend down and he'd take the ticker tape in both hands as if he was trying to pull it out of the machine faster."
That image—Johnson pulling the news out of the machine with both hands—is worth more than any adjective about his hunger for information. It is character revealed through gesture, and it could only emerge from the kind of repetitive, patient, sometimes infuriating questioning that Caro practices.
The technique's most dramatic application came with Sam Houston Johnson, Lyndon's younger brother, a braggart and a drinker whose initial interviews produced only the polished, exaggerated anecdotes that appeared in every previous Johnson biography. Caro conceived a strategy. He arranged to bring Sam Houston into the reconstructed Johnson boyhood home—the actual rooms, recreated by the National Park Service down to the plank table and the two benches—after the tourists were gone for the day. He sat Sam Houston in his childhood seat. He sat behind him, out of sight. And then he said: "Tell me about these terrible arguments that your father used to have with Lyndon at the table."
At first, nothing. Then, slowly, the shouting came back. " 'Lyndon, you're a failure. You'll always be a failure.' " " 'What are you, you're a bus inspector!' " And then Caro said: "Now, Sam Houston, I want you to tell me again those wonderful stories that you told me before." A long pause. "I can't." "Why not?" "Because they never happened."
The real story poured out—of a ruthless young man whose driving ambition was fueled by terror of becoming his father—and when Caro went back to other sources with this new narrative, they confirmed it. "Yes, that's what happened," they said, and gave him more.
The Typewriter and the Bulletin Board
Caro's working method is a kind of deliberate anachronism, a refusal of every efficiency that the modern world offers. He writes first drafts in longhand on legal pads. He transfers them to a Smith Corona Electra 210 typewriter, a machine no longer manufactured. He revises not only in galleys but in page proofs, a practice his publisher finds exasperating and nearly unprecedented. He has no research assistants. He has no computer. When he needs to look something up, he goes to the library.
The office near Central Park contains his typewriter, his legal pads, his file cabinets, and the bulletin board. The bulletin board is the secret architecture of his books—the typewritten outline that maps the structure of whatever he is writing, pinned in sequence across the wall. When interviewers visit, he asks them politely not to read it.
Before he begins writing a book, Caro composes two or three paragraphs that explain what the book is about—not the plot, not the subject, but the idea. These paragraphs become his "North Star," the fixed point against which every scene, every anecdote, every digression is measured. If a piece of brilliant material does not serve the idea expressed in those paragraphs, it does not go in. This explains both the extraordinary coherence of his books and the anguish of his cutting: he has acknowledged losing chapters that caused him physical pain to excise.
He also types out his interview notes before going to bed on the day of the interview, "so you remember the expressions"—not just the words but the way they were said, the pauses, the moments of evasion, the body language that disappears by morning.
And he outlines obsessively. In the Paris Review interview, he described his outlining process for Master of the Senate: the book required not only the story of Johnson's twelve years in the Senate but a hundred-page history of the Senate itself, explaining why the institution had become an obstacle to civil rights legislation and how Johnson, through a combination of genius and ruthlessness, broke it to his will. The outline for this section alone filled pages.
You will never achieve what you want to achieve unless you learn to stop thinking with your fingers.
Power Reveals
There is a sentence Caro returns to in nearly every interview, a sentence that functions as the thesis of his life's work: "Power doesn't always corrupt. What power always does is reveal." The formulation inverts Lord Acton and replaces moral certainty with something more unsettling—a kind of epistemological claim about what power makes visible. When a person no longer has to conceal their intentions, you see what they wanted to do all along.
Moses began as an idealist. His dreams were of parks for the poor, of beauty replacing squalor, of a civil service purged of patronage. But when he acquired the power to realize those dreams—through the State Council of Parks, the Long Island State Park Commission, the public authorities that became a fourth branch of government—the dreams metastasized. He began building not for the people but for power itself, and the parks became instruments of racial and economic exclusion, and the expressways tore through neighborhoods whose residents had no political leverage, and the housing projects were bleak and contemptuous, and the subways were starved to feed the highways.
Johnson is a more complicated case. His cruelty was legendary—humiliating aides, bullying subordinates, lying with the fluency of a man for whom truth was simply one tactical option among several. He stole the 1948 Senate election by eighty-seven votes, a fact Caro confirmed by tracking down the election judge who directed the fraud, a man who gave Caro a written description of what he had done. Yet Johnson also believed, from his years teaching poor Mexican-American children in South Texas, that government could change lives, and when he acquired the presidency—thrust upon him by an assassin's bullet on November 22, 1963—he used it to pass the Civil Rights Act, the Voting Rights Act, Medicare, Medicaid, Head Start, and seventy different education bills.
Caro does not resolve this contradiction. He refuses to. The refusal is the point. "Has there ever been a more complicated, compelling character, in life or fiction, than Johnson?" David Kamp asked in Vanity Fair, and then answered his own question by noting that to describe Johnson in Harry Potter terms, "you'd have to combine Dumbledore's wisdom and omnipotence with Voldemort's cunning and power-lust, then add in Snape's insecurities, plus a dash—well, more than a dash—of Hagrid's uncouthness; and then you'd still have to drag Shakespeare into it."
Caro's achievement is to hold the contradiction open across thousands of pages, to resist the biographer's temptation to judge, and instead to let the accretion of evidence—the granular, documented, obsessively verified evidence—do the work that a lesser writer would delegate to adjectives.
The Powerless
The signature innovation of Caro's work is not his prose, though his prose is extraordinary. It is his insistence that a book about power must be equally about powerlessness—that the sword means nothing unless you also describe the wound.
In The Power Broker, the most devastating chapter is "One Mile," about the residents of East Tremont in the Bronx, a tight-knit working-class neighborhood that Moses destroyed to build the Cross-Bronx Expressway. Caro interviewed the residents years after they had been dispersed. The word "lonely" kept reappearing in his notes. These were people who had lived in the same buildings for decades, whose children played together, whose grandmothers shared recipes, whose lives were defined by the web of relationships that a neighborhood sustains. Moses scattered them. When Caro went back to find them, they were strangers in strange places, searching for old familiar faces.
Moses, asked about the opposition in East Tremont, called it "a political thing that stirred up the animals there." This sentence, visible in Caro's handwritten interview notes at the New-York Historical Society, says more about the relationship between power and empathy than any theoretical framework could.
In the Johnson volumes, the equivalent passages concern the women of the Hill Country before electrification—washing laundry over open fires, their hands bleeding from lye—and the African-Americans denied the right to vote in the Jim Crow South. Caro interviewed them, too, and their testimonies about what it cost to try to register, about the beatings and the humiliations and the economic reprisals, are among the most wrenching passages in his work. These are the passages that justify the decades, that explain why the books take so long. "I wanted to use their lives to show how political power worked," Caro has said. "Not the textbook variety—the textbook things we learn in high school and college—but how power really works, the raw, naked reality of political power."
The Last Volume
In his office on the Upper West Side, surrounded by wooden boxes of typewritten pages covered with strike-throughs and marginal notes, Robert Caro is writing about July 1965. Lyndon Johnson is creating Medicare. The Voting Rights Act has just passed. The Great Society is at its zenith. And simultaneously, in secret, Johnson is planning the escalation that will send hundreds of thousands of American troops to Vietnam.
"It's almost unbelievable," Caro told the New York Review of Books. "You can see these great ambitions, which Johnson is on the way to realizing, get swallowed up by Vietnam. You can follow it almost minute by minute."
The fifth volume will also cover the relationship between Johnson and Robert Kennedy—"a real hatred," Caro has said, deploying a word he normally avoids because it sounds too loaded, but here insisting it is not too strong. "A surprising amount of what Johnson did was in reaction to what he thought Bobby Kennedy would do."
When the volume will be finished, Caro will not say. He is eighty-nine. He has been working on it since 2012. Visitors to his office report the outline on the bulletin board, spanning the entire wall—Vietnam, Medicare, 1968—and the quiet of a room where a man has sat alone for decades, typing.
"People ask me why my books take so long," Caro has said. "I'm very fast. When I was at
Newsday, I was on the rewrite desk—I was the fastest rewrite guy." Then comes the pause, the revision of self-mythology. "There is no truth, no objective truth, no single truth," he wrote in
Working. "There are facts, objective facts, discernible and verifiable. And the more facts you accumulate, the closer you come to whatever truth there is. And finding facts—through reading documents or through interviewing and re-interviewing—can't be rushed; it takes time. Truth takes time."
The Smith Corona Electra 210 sits on the L-shaped desk. The wooden boxes are full. The outline covers the wall. In the archive downtown, behind glass, a notebook from the Moses interviews lies open, the two words in capitals: SHUT UP. And somewhere in the city that Moses built and Caro anatomized, a young man sits on a bench in Central Park, face buried in a huge white-covered book, reading about the man who built the bench and the park and the road that brought him there—reading about power, which is to say, reading about everything.
