We are talking about journalism this week, about newspapers and warring newsrooms and lost readership and what to do. At bottom, though this gets lost, all the arguments are really about what journalism is. Here is what it is.
It is a dark night on a vast plain. There are wild sounds—the hiss of prehistoric cicadas, the scream of a hyena. A tribe of cavemen sit grunting around a fire.
An antelope turns on a spit. Suddenly another caveman runs in, breathlessly, from the bush. “Something happened," he says.
They all turn. “The tribe two hills over was killed by a pack of dire wolves. Everyone torn to pieces." Clamor, questions.
How do you know? Did you see it? (He did, from a tree.) Are you sure they were wolves? “Yes, with huge heads and muscled torsos." What did it look like? “Bloody." As he reports he is given water and a favored slice of meat. Because he has run far and is hungry, but mostly because he has told them the news, and they are grateful. Humans like news, need it, want it, will usually (not always) reward those who bring it.
We need it to survive, to make decisions, to understand the world. We need it to live. The purpose of journalism is to get the story and tell the story.
Now the cavemen turn to the tribal elder. “What should we do?" “Short term, climb a tree if you see a wolf," she says. “They don’t like fire and noise, so we should keep lit torches and scream.
In the longer term, wolf packs are seen in the west, so we should go east to high ground." That is the authentic sound of commentary, of editorials and columns. Advice, exhortation—they’re part of the news too. People will always want it, question it, disagree.
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