The elemental question that CJR has asked me to address, “What is journalism for?” is 100 times better than the more commonly seen, “Who’s a journalist?” which is nothing but an invitation to class war. So let us dig in.
The ‘awayness’ of things
Try to imagine a world where journalism as an activity, and journalists as an occupational group, do not exist, but news does. For news is older and more basic to civilization than journalism. People have always exchanged news (“What news on the Rialto?” says Shylock in Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice), but they have not always needed specialists in gathering and telling the news—journalists—to help them do it. Once we identify the conditions that make the work necessary, we can begin to answer the question of what journalism “is.”
The key to it is the problem of scale. I’ve had to invent a word to better describe this problem: “awayness.” Not the most elegant term, but it will do. Picture a small New England fishing village with 200 inhabitants. There is news in that village: births, deaths, marriages, feuds, a new church, a ship recently arrived from Europe. But the scale on which people move about is tiny enough that such news can circulate on its own. Eyes and ears, word of mouth, and the town gossip: these are sufficient to inform the inhabitants of what’s going on. People learn the news by walking around.
Enlarge the scale to 10,000 and that system no longer works. Things happening in one section of town are invisible to people living and working in another. There is a good chance they won’t hear of them just by walking around. But still, this is their town. To the degree that they identify with it, they will want to know “what’s going on.” The only way they can know is if someone makes it his or her business to find out and tell them. We think of journalism as responding to a public need to know, but to understand this need we have to start further back in the process: What causes a knowledge of the present to go missing in the first place?
My answer: the rising “awayness” of things. Journalism enters the picture when human settlement, daily economy, and political organization grow beyond the scale of the self-informing populace.
Search for the present
In 1990, the great Mexican poet Octavio Paz delivered a lecture upon winning the Nobel Prize for literature. In it, he recalled the shattering effect that a single photograph had upon him as a child growing up in the 1920s. Paz lived in a house in Mixcoac, on the outskirts of Mexico City, with a library full of picture books and a big garden planted with fig, pine, ash, and pomegranate trees. Together, the library and garden created a happy universe, where faraway lands and heroic battles could be conjured at will. The branches of a fig tree swayed like a pirate’s ship, the patio of a neighbor’s house became the ridge of a distant mountain range. The child had a vivid sense of near and far. But his grasp of these notions was still connected to a world he could see and touch. As Paz put it, “The beyond was here.”
One day, he was shown a photograph of some soldiers returning from World War I that disturbed him greatly. He now knew that somewhere far away, a war had ended. From his picture books he knew something of wars. But he had not known about this war, which was undeniably real, and yet strangely unavailable to him.
The photograph, says Paz, refuted the reality of his childhood world. He felt dislodged from the present, expelled from his garden. The awayness of things had been made real to him, attacking his naïve existence. The experience was repeated again and again, as some item of news demonstrated the reality of this other, more public world. In his daily life there was now a horizon that was beyond his garden, which forced upon him the uncomfortable feeling that he did not inhabit the real present, that he did not live in the real world.