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The Right Stuff Paperback – October 30, 2001
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The men had it. Yeager. Conrad. Grissom. Glenn. Heroes ... the first Americans in space ... battling the Russians for control of the heavens ... putting their lives on the line.
The women had it. While Mr. Wonderful was aloft, it tore your heart out that the Hero's Wife, down on the ground, had to perform with the whole world watching ... the TV Press Conference: "What's in your heart? Do you feel with him while he's in orbit?"
The Right Stuff. It's the quality beyond bravery, beyond courage. It's men like Chuck Yeager, the greatest test pilot of all and the fastest man on earth. Pete Conrad, who almost laughed himself out of the running. Gus Grissom, who almost lost it when his capsule sank. John Glenn, the only space traveler whose apple-pie image wasn't a lie.
- Print length352 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherBantam
- Publication dateOctober 30, 2001
- Dimensions6.03 x 0.99 x 9 inches
- ISBN-100553381350
- ISBN-13978-0553381351
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Editorial Reviews
Review
— People
“It is Tom Wolfe at his very best ... technically accurate, learned, cheeky, risky, touching, tough, compassionate, nostalgic, worshipful, jingoistic — The Right Stuff is superb.”
— The New York Times Book Review
“Breathtaking ... epic ... There are images and ideas in The Right Stuff that glisten like a rocket screaming to the heavens.”
— Los Angeles Times
“Romantic and thrilling ... One of the most romantic and thrilling books ever written about men who put themselves in peril.”
— The Boston Globe
“It’s magic ... the best book I have read in the last ten years.”
— Chicago Tribune
Also by Tom Wolfe:
The Bonfire of the Vanities
The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test
From Bauhaus to Our House
The Kandy-Kolored Tangerine-Flake Streamline Baby
The Painted Word
The Right Stuff
Mauve Gloves & Madmen
Clutter & Vine
In Our Time
The Pumphouse Gang
Radical Chic & Mau-Mauing the Flak Catchers
Available wherever Bantam Books are sold
From the Inside Flap
The men had it. Yeager. Conrad. Grissom. Glenn. Heroes ... the first Americans in space ... battling the Russians for control of the heavens ... putting their lives on the line.
The women had it. While Mr. Wonderful was aloft, it tore your heart out that the Hero's Wife, down on the ground, had to perform with the whole world watching ... the TV Press Conference: "What's in your heart? Do you feel with him while he's in orbit?"
The Right Stuff. It's the quality beyond bravery, beyond courage. It's men like Chuck Yeager, the greatest test pilot of all and the fastest man on earth. Pete Conrad, who almost laughed himself out of the running. Gus Grissom, who almost lost it when his capsule sank. John Glenn, the only space traveler whose apple-pie image wasn't a lie.
From the Back Cover
— People
“It is Tom Wolfe at his very best ... technically accurate, learned, cheeky, risky, touching, tough, compassionate, nostalgic, worshipful, jingoistic — The Right Stuff is superb.”
— The New York Times Book Review
“Breathtaking ... epic ... There are images and ideas in The Right Stuff that glisten like a rocket screaming to the heavens.”
— Los Angeles Times
“Romantic and thrilling ... One of the most romantic and thrilling books ever written about men who put themselves in peril.”
— The Boston Globe
“It’s magic ... the best book I have read in the last ten years.”
— Chicago Tribune
Also by Tom Wolfe:
The Bonfire of the Vanities
The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test
From Bauhaus to Our House
The Kandy-Kolored Tangerine-Flake Streamline Baby
The Painted Word
The Right Stuff
Mauve Gloves & Madmen
Clutter & Vine
In Our Time
The Pumphouse Gang
Radical Chic & Mau-Mauing the Flak Catchers
Available wherever Bantam Books are sold
About the Author
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Within five minutes, or ten minutes, no more than that, three of the others had called her on the telephone to ask her if she had heard that something had happened out there.
“Jane, this is Alice. Listen, I just got a call from Betty, and she said she heard something’s happened out there. Have you heard anything?” That was the way they phrased it, call after call. She picked up the telephone and began relaying this same message to some of the others.
“Connie, this is Jane Conrad. Alice just called me, and she says something’s happened...”
Something was part of the official Wife Lingo for tiptoeing blindfolded around the subject. Being barely twenty-one years old and new around here, Jane Conrad knew very little about this particular subject, since nobody ever talked about it. But the day was young! And what a setting she had for her imminent enlightenment! And what a picture she herself presented! Jane was tall and slender and had rich brown hair and high cheekbones and wide brown eyes. She looked a little like the actress Jean Simmons. Her father was a rancher in southwestern Texas. She had gone East to college, to Bryn Mawr, and had met her husband, Pete, at a debutante’s party at the Gulph Mills Club in Philadelphia, when he was a senior at Princeton. Pete was a short, wiry, blond boy who joked around a lot. At any moment his face was likely to break into a wild grin revealing the gap between his front teeth. The Hickory Kid sort, he was; a Hickory Kid on the deb circuit, however. He had an air of energy, self-confidence, ambition, joie de vivre. Jane and Pete were married two days after he graduated from Princeton. Last year Jane gave birth to their first child, Peter. And today, here in Florida, in Jacksonville, in the peaceful year 1955, the sun shines through the pines outside, and the very air takes on the sparkle of the ocean. The ocean and a great mica-white beach are less than a mile away. Anyone driving by will see Jane’s little house gleaming like a dream house in the pines. It is a brick house, but Jane and Pete painted the bricks white, so that it gleams in the sun against a great green screen of pine trees with a thousand little places where the sun peeks through. They painted the shutters black, which makes the white walls look even more brilliant. The house has only eleven hundred square feet of floor space, but Jane and Pete designed it themselves and that more than makes up for the size. A friend of theirs was the builder and gave them every possible break, so that it cost only eleven thousand dollars. Outside, the sun shines, and inside, the fever rises by the minute as five, ten, fifteen, and, finally, nearly all twenty of the wives join the circuit, trying to find out what has happened, which, in fact, means: to whose husband.
After thirty minutes on such a circuit — this is not an unusual morning around here — a wife begins to feel that the telephone is no longer located on a table or on the kitchen wall. It is exploding in her solar plexus. Yet it would be far worse right now to hear the front doorbell. The protocol is strict on that point, although written down nowhere. No woman is supposed to deliver the final news, and certainly not on the telephone. The matter mustn’t be bungled! — that’s the idea. No, a man should bring the news when the time comes, a man with some official or moral authority, a clergyman or a comrade of the newly deceased. Furthermore, he should bring the bad news in person. He should turn up at the front door and ring the bell and be standing there like a pillar of coolness and competence, bearing the bad news on ice, like a fish. Therefore, all the telephone calls from the wives were the frantic and portentous beating of the wings of the death angels, as it were. When the final news came, there would be a ring at the front door — a wife in this situation finds herself staring at the front door as if she no longer owns it or controls it — and outside the door would be a man ... come to inform her that unfortunately something has happened out there, and her husband’s body now lies incinerated in the swamps or the pines or the palmetto grass, “burned beyond recognition,” which anyone who had been around an air base for very long (fortunately Jane had not) realized was quite an artful euphemism to describe a human body that now looked like an enormous fowl that has burned up in a stove, burned a blackish brown all over, greasy and blistered, fried, in a word, with not only the entire face and all the hair and the ears burned off, not to mention all the clothing, but also the hands and feet, with what remains of the arms and legs bent at the knees and elbows and burned into absolutely rigid angles, burned a greasy blackish brown like the bursting body itself, so that this husband, father, officer, gentleman, this ornamentum of some mother’s eye, His Majesty the Baby of just twenty-odd years back, has been reduced to a charred hulk with wings and shanks sticking out of it.
My own husband — how could this be what they were talking about? Jane had heard the young men, Pete among them, talk about other young men who had “bought it” or “augered in” or “crunched,” but it had never been anyone they knew, no one in the squadron. And in any event, the way they talked about it, with such breezy, slangy terminology, was the same way they talked about sports. It was as if they were saying, “He was thrown out stealing second base.” And that was all! Not one word, not in print, not in conversation — not in this amputated language! — about an incinerated corpse from which a young man’s spirit has vanished in an instant, from which all smiles, gestures, moods, worries, laughter, wiles, shrugs, tenderness, and loving looks — you, my love! — have disappeared like a sigh, while the terror consumes a cottage in the woods, and a young woman, sizzling with the fever, awaits her confirmation as the new widow of the day.
The next series of calls greatly increased the possibility that it was Pete to whom something had happened. There were only twenty men in the squadron, and soon nine or ten had been accounted for ... by the fluttering reports of the death angels. Knowing that the word was out that an accident had occurred, husbands who could get to a telephone were calling home to say it didn’t happen to me. This news, of course, was immediately fed to the fever. Jane’s telephone would ring once more, and one of the wives would be saying:
“Nancy just got a call from Jack. He’s at the squadron and he says something’s happened, but he doesn’t know what. He said he saw Frank D — take off about ten minutes ago with Greg in back, so they’re all right. What have you heard?”
But Jane has heard nothing except that other husbands, and not hers, are safe and accounted for. And thus, on a sunny day in Florida, outside of the Jacksonville Naval Air Station, in a little white cottage, a veritable dream house, another beautiful young woman was about to be apprised of the quid pro quo of her husband’s line of work, of the trade-off, as one might say, the subparagraphs of a contract written in no visible form. Just as surely as if she had the entire roster in front of her, Jane now realized that only two men in the squadron were unaccounted for. One was a pilot named Bud Jennings; the other was Pete. She picked up the telephone and did something that was much frowned on in a time of emergency. She called the squadron office. The duty officer answered.
“I want to speak to Lieutenant Conrad,” said Jane. “This is Mrs. Conrad.”
“I’m sorry,” the duty officer said — and then his voice cracked. “I’m sorry ... I...” He couldn’t find the words! He was about to cry! “I’m — that’s — I mean ... he can’t come to the phone!”
He can’t come to the phone!
“It’s very important!” said Jane.
“I’m sorry — it’s impossible — ” The duty officer could hardly get the words out because he was so busy gulping back sobs. Sobs! “He can’t come to the phone.”
“Why not? Where is he?”
“I’m sorry — ” More sighs, wheezes, snuffling gasps. “I can’t tell you that. I — I have to hang up now!”
And the duty officer’s voice disappeared in a great surf of emotion and he hung up.
The duty officer! The very sound of her voice was more than he could take!
The world froze, congealed, in that moment. Jane could no longer calculate the interval before the front doorbell would ring and some competent long-faced figure would appear, some Friend of Widows and Orphans, who would inform her, officially, that Pete was dead.
Even out in the middle of the swamp, in this rot-bog of pine trunks, scum slicks, dead dodder vines, and mosquito eggs, even out in this great overripe sump, the smell of “burned beyond recognition” obliterated everything else. When airplane fuel exploded, it created a heat so intense that everything but the hardest metals not only burned — everything of rubber, plastic, celluloid, wood, leather, cloth, flesh, gristle, calcium, horn, hair, blood, and protoplasm — it not only burned, it gave up the ghost in the form of every stricken putrid gas known to chemistry. One could smell the horror. It came in through the nostrils and burned the rhinal cavities raw and penetrated the liver and permeated the bowels like a black gas until there was nothing in the universe, inside or out, except the stench of the char. As the helicopter came down between the pine trees and settled onto the bogs, the smell hit P...
Product details
- Publisher : Bantam (October 30, 2001)
- Language : English
- Paperback : 352 pages
- ISBN-10 : 0553381350
- ISBN-13 : 978-0553381351
- Item Weight : 2.53 pounds
- Dimensions : 6.03 x 0.99 x 9 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #480,564 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #3,585 in Military Leader Biographies
- Customer Reviews:
About the author

Tom Wolfe (1930-2018) was one of the founders of the New Journalism movement and the author of such contemporary classics as The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, The Right Stuff, and Radical Chic & Mau-Mauing the Flak Catchers, as well as the novels The Bonfire of the Vanities, A Man in Full, and I Am Charlotte Simmons. As a reporter, he wrote articles for The Washington Post, the New York Herald Tribune, Esquire, and New York magazine, and is credited with coining the term, “The Me Decade.”
Among his many honors, Tom was awarded the National Book Award, the John Dos Passos Award, the Washington Irving Medal for Literary Excellence, the National Humanities Medal, and the National Book Foundation Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters.
A native of Richmond, Virginia, he earned his B.A. at Washington and Lee University, graduating cum laude, and a Ph.D. in American studies at Yale. He lived in New York City.
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The style and success of Wolfe’s book ensured its adaptation and Hollywood has done so twice, first in Philip Kaufman’s 1983 film and again in the 2020 television series from National Geographic. This Vintage Classics copy is a nice paperback edition with a great pop-art cover and an introduction from Astronaut Scott Kelly that helps to capture of the legacy of “The Right Stuff.” Something appears to have gone wrong during the formatting process, however, as there are several typographical errors throughout the book (extraneous letters jumbled in the middle of words, words divided by a hyphen as if they were meant to be split between two lines, and multiple instances of the number 1 in place of an “l” or an “I”). These occur often enough to be noticeable, but thankfully Wolfe’s narrative is engrossing and makes up for it.
Be advised, Tom Wolfe does not give us a comprehensive account of Project Mercury. The astronauts, their wives, NASA people, Lyndon Johnson, John Kennedy, and a few other characters play roles in the story, and sometimes--particularly regarding the astronauts and their wives--the focus on them is close. But a great amount of material regarding the Mercury missions is omitted or is given only cursory examination. Obviously there is more to the history of America's early space program than the people. Even so, I doubt if the formal history, THIS NEW OCEAN: A HISTORY OF PROJECT MERCURY, includes the information about people that Wolfe includes. I may change my mind after reading THIS NEW OCEAN, but for now I think both books are necessary for a complete picture.
Also be advised, THE RIGHT STUFF is not written in the conventional style of historical narration. Wolfe's style is light and often witty. He uses jargon, colorful figures of speech, and hyperbole. With amazon's "Look Inside" feature, I read the first pages of THIS NEW OCEAN. Its prose is conventional nonfiction, like something found on the front page of a newspaper. Wolfe's prose is like something found in editorial pages or in a breezy novel.
There are no footnotes and no index. In his "Author's Note" at the end, Wolfe provides a brief bibliography.
Many of Wolfe's paragraphs are too long, but this is the only thing I condemn unequivocally as a flaw. For history I do prefer straightforward factual narration, not flippancy, and if I were writing this only to myself, I would consider that flippancy a flaw. Nevertheless, the acclaim this book has received indicates that most other readers are not bothered by Wolfe's style. So you will probably not consider it a flaw.
Though some of Wolfe's details are inaccurate, details are soon forgotten anyway, and for this book I think they are not worth harping about. I give him five stars because of his revealing portrayals of characters. They are accurate enough, I think, and they will be remembered.
P.S. July 30, 2012:
I tried reading THIS NEW OCEAN: A HISTORY OF THE MERCURY PROJECT, which is NASA's official history of the Mercury Project. It was tedious, made more so by its lack of a list of abbreviations and an index. Though John Catchpole's PROJECT MERCURY was written with the same matter-of-fact, term-paper prose, it had a list of abbreviations and an index and was more readable. Though I had to work to get it and though I had to pay a steep price for his book, Catchpole at least gave me the information that Tom Wolfe left out.
Top reviews from other countries
I highly recommend this book, way better than the film.








