When NBC television news anchor Tom Brokaw signed off on Wednesday evening for the final time after delivering the day’s news for nearly 23 years, he showed that he understands a cardinal rule for success in life: If it’s a memorable exit you are hoping to accomplish, make it short and sweet.

“Thanks for all that I have learned from you,” the sometimes charmingly tongue-twisted Brokaw told his audience at the show’s end. “That’s been my richest reward… Whatever the story, I had only one objective: to get it right. I was always mindful that your patience and attention didn’t come with a lifetime warranty.”

He praised his behind-the-scenes staff support, his audience, his news sources and the untold newsmakers he has interviewed – with special emphasis on the World War II veterans he considers The Greatest Generation. It had been a great ride. And now it was over.

“Even in the worst of times it was better than anything I thought I’d ever have in life,” he declared.

Then he was gone, his duties turned over to ambitious anchor-in-waiting Brian Williams, he of the big hair and pretty made-for-prime-time face – a guy who long ago mastered television’s mandatory turned-up-trenchcoat-collar maneuver when reporting from remote outposts. (The master of the turned-up collar in furtherance of looking like a total dope while broadcasting from the eye of a hurricane remains CBS anchor Dan Rather, of course. And he’ll keep the title until he goes out kicking and screaming come next March, still trying to stick it to his fellow Texan, President George W. Bush.)

As I watched Brokaw’s swan song I was reminded of a chapter in the book “Modern Conversation” by Barrington Hall, published in 1930 by Brewer and Warren Inc. Long out of print, it is one of the better flea-market bargains I have negotiated in quite some time.

“Make your exit itself brief,” the author counsels. “We have all been to those suburban parties where goodbyes hover in the air for hours before anyone leaves. Long, hesitant, tentative goodbyes that stretch from the front door, down the sidewalk, all the way out to the family car.

“‘Goodbye,’ they say, ‘We’ll see you soon.’ ‘Yes, indeed.’ ‘Goodbye. A lovely party.’ ‘Goodbye. So glad to have seen you.’ Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye. Sudden death is preferable to these lingering agonies…”

According to Hall, when you take leave of a group of which you have not been the center of attention you must plan your departure carefully, lest it go entirely unnoticed and you blow an excellent opportunity for increasing your prestige.

You must give your exit a dramatic significance typical of your personality; must make yourself stand out in relief against the rest of the mob. “The spotlight must seem to pick you out and hold your figure, leaving the other characters in shadow. No one speaks, and the tinkle of glasses ceases. Somewhere in your audience a pin is heard to crash to the floor as you deliver your curtain line…”

The procedure is elementary, my dear Watson: “If the chatter about you is light and frivolous, your tone should be slow and rather weighty. If it is melancholy, you should be humorous or ironic.” Whether or not that is sound advice would depend upon the group from which you are trying to make good your escape, I should imagine.

I’ve been at gatherings where a guy could get his head handed to him at the door if the lines that he delivers upon departure spring from a viewpoint wildly opposite that of the mood of the clientele. Knowing one’s audience before employing the tactic would seem to be vital.

In any case, the author claims that the shock of the contrast inherent in such a performance will be sufficient to draw attention to you and add drama to your exit as you swoop out into the night on the crest of a wave of adulation.

Brokaw accomplished this on Wednesday night, I think. A goodly portion of the country was undoubtedly waiting for something ponderously profound, perhaps even a bit maudlin, from the major networks’ most popular anchor in his last hurrah. What they got was a pleasant contrast, profound in its simplicity.

He had met the principal requirement of the grand exit: Short and sweet, his parting words had left a vacuum behind him that compelled his viewers’ interest to follow him off the set and into the future as the screen faded to dark. He had, in Hall’s words, “achieved a positive suction like the sinking of the Bremen.” Sadly, an era had passed.

NEWS columnist Kent Ward lives in Winterport. His e-mail address is olddawg@bangordailynews.net