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Reporter Quotes

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Reporter Quotes

“I don’t know how a reporter would ever understand a politician. Your job is supposed to be about finding the truth and enlightening people. Right? A politician’s job is about hiding the truth and fooling people. Right? You want us to be better informed so we get smarter. They think we’re dumb and it’s to their advantage to keep us that way.”

“A writer reports on the universe. When he presents his credentials, the gates of heaven and hell are equally opened to him. He can hear the devil’s defense and god’s accusations. The guards at the king’s heart let him in. The writer can be anything and any one he wants. When he writes he is a god, he creates.”

“Sherman Reilly Duffy of the pre-World War I CHICAGO DAILY JOURNAL once told a cub reporter, 'Socially, a journalist fits in somewhere between a whore and a bartender. But spiritually he stands beside Galileo. He knows the world is round.' Well, socially I fit in just fine between the whore and the bartender. Both are close friends. And I knew the world was round. Yet, as time went by I found myself confronted with the ugly suspicion that the world was, after all, flat and that there were things dark and terrible waiting just over the edge to reach out and snatch life from the unlucky, unwary wanderer.”

“Every child born in Afghanistan is a child who comes into life a victim of war. And every parent too often puts those they love most to sleep with the uncertainty that one or all may not rise to the shards of peeping pink light again.”

“Then there is the callous side, the war-wracked sentiment, the notion that a Band-Aid was ripped from the bullet wound. The fear for what comes next, the longing many Afghans have to leave, the unraveling humanitarian catastrophe, the hunger pains fused with the ache of abandonment.”

“We can pontificate all day about statistics and percentages and death tolls and displacement numbers, easily forgetting that numbers have names and names have faces. Each face has wrinkles that make up a map filled with tragedies to tell.”

“What would you do if rockets barraged your home and you had nowhere to hide? What would you take if you only had ten seconds to fill a plastic bag? Where would you go if every street you turned onto was filled with fighters? Who would you save if all your children were buried beneath the rubble and crying?”

“Children still fly kites from high on the hilltop, shrieking in delight as the nylon floats off toward the sunshine as if it was the most magnificent thrill in the world. All I can think to say, hoping those small boys could hear me, is 'fly on.”

“I think of an Afghan driver I once had, a medical student who spoke whimsically of the homeland he loved so dearly but so badly wanted to leave. 'We Afghans are unlucky people,' the driver had whispered. "But we would be the luckiest people if the wars ever left—look outside at this magical place.”

“The sounds of music have dimmed into a self-censored silence. We pause, we gaze for far too long at the markets from a broken window where Kabul's finest orchestras weeks ago were still learning to play. We linger, remembering what used to be.”

“My view from the window consists of mounds of clay dried to dust. I see delicate girls wrapped in brightly colored hijabs bent over in the fiery heat, carrying heavy bundles on their heads like people in a primeval time and place. Burqa-clad beggars sit with their babies beside bombed-out roads, waiting for those passing by to throw a coin or a bottle of water their way.”

“The only private sector industry where employees work with their lives on stake for the interest of common people is media industry.”

“When he was sixteen (1923), Peter got a job as copy boy on a New York tabloid and entered a saltier, more hard-bitten world. It was a roaring, lush, lousy tabloid. Everybody was drunk all the time. The managing editor hired girl reporters on condition they sleep with him. New staffs moved in and were mowed down like the Light Brigade. Chorus girls, debutantes, and widows suspected of murdering their husbands were perched on desks with their thighs showing to be photographed. An endless parade of cranks, freaks, ministers, actresses, and politicians moved through the big babbling room, day and night. The city editor went crazy one afternoon. So did his successor. And among the typewriters and the paste pots and the thighs, Peter walked with simple delight. A young reporter took a liking to him, found he was homeless, and insisted he share an elegant bachelor apartment uptown. There were constant parties, starting at dawn and ending as the hush of twilight settled over the city. People went to work and went to parties until they got the two pursuits confused and never noticed the difference. Whisky was oxygen, women were furniture, thinking was masochism.”

“Since most of the traditional news publishing industry is hugely dependent on corporate sponsorship (except for a few publishers funded by people), even their news can be manipulated for the benefit of the sponsors or political lobbies. So, in the end, it all comes down to journalistic integrity - it comes down to the ethical grounds of the real conscientious journalists.”

“The profession of journalism is an important one and considered by many to be a mandatory component of a free society. Will you get access to the brightest minds and greatest reporters for free? Perhaps, but if we hope to continue to see their best work, society needs to support them properly. Be a paid subscriber.”

“Mr. Walsh?” a woman’s voice said. “Can I get a comment, Mr. Walsh?” “That’s not about me, is it?” I said. “No, my client. He’s on trial for killing his business partner and dissolving him in quicklime. Which is ridiculous.” “Uh-huh.” “It is. Anyone in my client’s line of work knows that quicklime is a very poor solvent. Chemical hydrolysis is the method of choice these days.”

“Unlike other relationships that have a purpose beyond themselves and are clearly delineated as such (dentist-patient, lawyer-client, teacher-student), the writer-subject relationship seems to depend for its life on a kind of fuzziness and murkiness, if not utter covertness, of purpose. If everybody put his cards on the table, the game would be over. The journalist must do his work in a kind of deliberately induced state of moral anarchy.”

“Like the young Aztec men and women selected for sacrifice, who lived in delightful ease and luxury until the appointed day where their hearts were to be carved from their chests, journalistic subjects know all too well what awaits them when the days of wine and roses — the days of interviews — are over. And still they say yes when a journalist calls, and still they are astonished when they see the flash of the knife.”

“When I take risks now, I do so only when I have to and with every precaution. I used to prospect for news, dropping into places to see what was up. Well, I could go to parts of Libya today and find lots of good stories, but I probably wouldn’t be around to tell them.”