I am back at work after the five weeks of my annual leave. Thank you to all my readers who, in despite of my leave-taking note of Saturday, April 29th, nevertheless emailed to inquire whether I’d been fired, had fallen gravely ill, or been assassinated.
To my colleagues who could not be present, let me add the purport of a talk I gave, to a group of fellow-journalists in Toronto, on returning from the bush, Monday night.
In a long, rambling, extemporaneous memoir, I emphasized the traditional hack virtues of smoking and drinking and general loucheness against the prim political correctness of the current media mainstream. The beauty of the old-time hacks, I averred, was that they did not seek fame, only adventure, in contact with life. They could be as anonymous as mediaeval artists. They did not consider themselves to be intellectuals, and so their heads were free of stinking pride. Yet they had pride in craft, which the current ones seldom have. All our little Woodwards and Bernsteins today want fame, instead. And they want it smoke-free and soberly, they are professional fame-seekers.
Take this, of course, with the charity I always intend.
Nicely put.