In a world dominated by 24 hour news, thousands of blog posts and messages of the day, it's easy to forget the fact that the written word transcends time. Once you put pen to paper (or finger to keyboard), you add a small piece to the collective knowledge of your community, which more and more includes the entire world. Often, an article, book or speech forgotten for decades or even centuries turns up in research or by random and inspires an entire group that likely never would have come across the original author.
Recently, I had an experience like this, which I share below the fold.
On May 11th, 1964, Richard V. Denenberg gave a speech at the Ithaca Hotel in Ithaca, NY. Because he was the editor of the "Cornell Daily Sun," his speech was transcribed and published in the June 12th edition of that newspaper. Being the newspaper that serves the Cornell community, the "Cornell Daily Sun" can not be said to have a great many readers, but many are loyal and from time to time the journalism is of a high standard. Currently, the June 1964 edition of the "Cornell Daily Sun" is available nowhere on the Internet, nor is any copy of Mr. Denenberg's speech.
Yet, one reader decided to save this copy of the newspaper. Perhaps they are one of those people who saves all newspapers, or maybe something about this edition struck them; I can only speculate. For 44 years they held onto this newspaper, kept it in decent condition, and likely didn't give it a second thought.
A few weeks ago a friend of a friend was walking through the garage sale of this mysterious newspaper saver and found this edition lying around. Because my good friend went to Cornell, this person decided it would be nice to buy the newspaper and give it to them.
So about a week ago, my good friend is given the June 1964 edition of the "Cornell Daily Sun" and put it in his stack of magazines and newspapers. I'm not sure if he had read it at all, but he thought it was a pretty neat gift.
This weekend, while having a nice dinner at this friend's house, I noticed the newspaper sitting on the pile. Having gone to Cornell myself as well, I decided to take a look. What I found was a gem, an article that is more true now than when it was written, and much more important. While it deals exclusively with newspaper journalism, I think the conclusions for the present day media are fairly obvious.
Because I have found no copy of this article on the Internet, nor even a mention of it anywhere, I have transcribed it in its entirety below. I don't know the rules for this exactly, but it at least doesn't feel like it's breaking any laws; please let me know if I'm wrong.
"Cornell Daily Sun" Volume LXXX - No. 152
June 12, 1964 Ithaca, NY
"The Delinquent Conscience"
The following paragraphs are taken from the text of a speech delivered by Editor in Chief Richard V. Denenberg at the Annual SUN Banquet on May 11 at the Ithaca Hotel.
The one thing an editor learns is that certainty is a luxury which can rarely be indulged in. Determined to strike out at evil, thirsting for the kill and the smell of its blood, he finds that there is no evil, only misunderstanding, misinformation. Disarmed by ambiguity, the crusading editor cannot tell his real quarry from the underbrush of persuasive excuses and explanations offered up on every side. At first driven by the inner assurances that he is on the side of right, he is soon told that he simply does not understand the complexity of the situation. He is called ignorant of the facts or -- if the editorial is sufficiently compelling -- self-righteous.
The first real task on the road to becoming an editor is learning to overcome the ambiguity that is the protective covering of everything which really must be fought against. The insidious evils are that much more dangerous because they are disguised, and the duty of the editor, like that of an army, is to seek out and destroy. If the former charge is more difficult than the latter, this merely means that it is incumbent upon him to act not only when the issue is clear cut, but when he is as certain as he can reasonably be that he is right. If he has compromised neither the facts nor his conscience, then he must, damning the cries of "self-righteousness," proceed full speed ahead.
Limits of Impartiality
Of course, this burden of hard thinking and relentless searching is one which not every editor is willing to shoulder. To be sure, there is an easy way out -- to say nothing. This does not mean merely restricting oneself to paeans of Mother's Day and the Fourth of July. The shrewdly delinquent editor can manage to touch upon the most controversial subjects without danger of singing a hair on his own hide. The simplest method is commonly but erroneously known as being "fair," that is, objectively presenting both sides of the issue and then withdrawing to the sidelines in the last sentence without attempting to tell the reader where the preponderance of truth lies.
To whom, might I ask, is this fair? Certainly not to the reader who has presumably come to this unfettered conscience of the community to be told where the truth is. Certainly, that conscience must be impartial but only in the process of ascertaining the truth. Somewhere the impartiality must stop. Once the truth is ascertained, as I have said, within the natural limits of human certitude, it is hardly impartial not to express it and label it as such; it is, in fact, showing favoritism to falsehood.
The news pages are for the presentation of the balanced, that is, morally obscured, picture; the reader must be able to find on the editorial page the guiding light that picks its way through a bewildering darkness of apparently valid arguments. If an editor allows himself to be deterred from serving as the community conscience, whether through laziness or because he is cowed by the charges of "unfairness" that accompany any strong stand, he is abdicating the responsibility which is at the same time the nobility of his position.
I think that the mortal sin of American journalism is one of omission, of under-using rather than abusing freedom of the press. "The Cornell Daily Sun," like hundreds of other newspapers in this country, finds itself in possession of a readership monopoly. Yet despite the solidly entrenched positions in which they find themselves, having nothing to fear from a public which must buy their papers and advertise in them, the great temptation is to which most of these papers succumb, is to say nothing. Why is this so? Why when they are in so favorable a position do newspapers fail to become consciences of the community?
Alien Idea
For one thing, the function of community conscience, in all but its most superficial aspects -- like commenting upon the state of the city sewer system -- seems an alien idea to most American editors because they are brought up to be pragmatists and not to make moral demonstrations -- which is what an editor does every time he sets out to write something he knows will get no immediate results but reader hostility. Even those editors with the best of intentions take the public relations attitude and wait until the public is ready for what they have to say. But usually, by the time the public is ready, by the time it is safe or politic to express these ideas, there is no longer any need for the statement. The crisis passed without the editorial.
The point is that some things must be written which will not persuade anybody, in fact may anger everybody and lose all the sympathy you have earned from them. This is acting according to conscience, but it is also unpragmatic and therefore something which the American newspaper is not prepared to do.
Nothing to Say
But even more damaging than this attitude is the fact that the newspapers really do not have anything to say. For, once the battle for circulation was won, American newspapers changed from fiery, irritating gadflies to commercial service organizations which, in trying to "give the reader what he wants," crowds their pages with comics, cooking recipes, crossword puzzles, and advice to the lovelorn.
When the fundamental idea is to please the reader or amuse him, how can one expect the same publication to perform the function of conscience? The newspaper must say what is so or what ought to be so -- not what the reader wants to hear. The newspaper should educate its readers, not pander to them. It should seek not to be loved but respected for an uncompromising forthrightness.
But in order to do this, the newspaper must stop looking at itself as a business enterprise. Too often on The SUN, I have encountered the attitude that print is a commodity that fills space between ads, and far too often, I have encountered people, who, having not the slightest appreciation of what a newspaper is for, looked upon journalism as a technical exercise in production engineering. The SUN, in other words, is cursed with what it most prides itself upon, its professionalism. But if this is true in college, where money should mean less and idealism more, where, I would ask you, are we going to get the journalists who recognize that a newspaper is a force for the highest principles, not a piece of goods to be sold to satisfy the lowest cravings?