Universities: Anxiety Behind the Facade

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Rockefeller's Office of Inter-American Affairs. He earned a commission as a naval aviator, served four years on antisubmarine patrol but never sighted a sub. While in service he married Mary Louise Phillips, a Vassar art major he had met at a postfootball party at Yale. She quit in her senior year to marry him; they now have five children.* Eager for a career in public affairs, he entered Harvard Law School in 1945, because "law schools seem to attract an extraordinary number of the people who have the highest potential of each generation." He made the Harvard Law Review, graduated magna cum laude.

Brewster spent a year working with the Marshall Plan in Paris, returned to start a twelve-year teaching career, first at M.I.T., then at Harvard Law School. As a teacher, he "worked harder than I ever have before or since," he recalls. "Because of the caliber of the students, you find yourself spending most of your time on the ropes."

Brewster had been promoted to full professor at Harvard and was serving on top faculty committees when his longtime friend, Whit Griswold, by then president of Yale, asked him to become his provost. Although he had no Ph.D. and no administrative experience, he quickly accepted. His acceptance was dictated partly by his admiration for Griswold and his affection for Yale. It was also, he recalls, "a decision you make at 40 to find out what you're good at." Brewster turned out to be so good at the job that the Yale Corporation promoted him to the presidency when Griswold died in 1963.

Appointed President? There are many Brewster friends who figure that he wants to prove he is good at other things than running Yale—most likely at politics. Brewster admits that unlike most Yale presidents, he does not want to keep the post until retirement age. "To stay ten years—give or take half of that—would be bad for the institution and bad for me," he says. He does not discuss his political aims, but few expect him to aim lower than a Senate seat. In mocking reference to both his ambitions and his stylish mode of dress —mod-striped shirts handmade in Hong Kong, J. Press suits, occasionally even a black opera cape—Yale wits have dubbed him "Kingwad Tweed," claim that he wants to be "the first man appointed President of the U.S." Brewster describes himself as "a would-be Republican—but I can't find enough good ones to vote for." He voted for Eisenhower in 1952, favored Kennedy in 1960 and Johnson in 1964.

Whatever Brewster's next career choice, his advice to incoming Yale freshmen last fall will undoubtedly be his own guide as well. "The fullness or emptiness of life will be measured by the extent to which a man feels that he has an impact on the lives of others. To be a man is to matter to someone outside yourself, or to some calling or cause bigger than yourself." At the moment, that cause for Brewster is still Yale—and he has mattered much in bringing Yale into a more relevant concern with contemporary issues.

Fresh Talent, Fresh Ideas. Even fond admirers of Griswold are now willing to concede that Yale during the postwar years did not always live up to its reputation, tended to tolerate aristocratic old-timers at the expense of first-rate professional scholarship. Convinced that Yale is

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