yesterday in the pages of The Journal (needless to say, as I talk about it often) has made its appearance a funny commercial. I need, of course, a polite euphemism. It runs a row after another, and suddenly I stop, continued after a moment of paralysis, and not without hesitation or signs of disappointment on my face. I invite myself to calm, not too convincingly suggesting the idea that success is not anything serious. In one way or another step further.
morning that rectangle of blue ink was again waiting for me, where it was expected it to be. I wonder if to masochism or unconsciousness, like a moth drawn to flame I rush to my daily burn. It advertises a spring cruise in the company of more or less big names of the newspaper. At one point, between a name and the other with the utmost nonchalance you the name di Indro Montanelli . Ovviamente, non come petalo della rosa di nomi che prenderanno parte all'iniziativa, ma quasi come a commemorarne il ricordo, forse anche con una punta di nostalgia, non saprei quanto sincera.
Istintivamente, non posso che persuadermi del fatto che dinanzi a me si stia con un pezzo di carta consumando un vilipendio di cadavere o qualcosa a ciò prossimo. A chi sa come sono andati i fatti, l'utilizzo del nome del fondatore di una testata un tempo di ben più alta qualità non può che suonare come una stecca nel coro . Purtroppo, non nel modo in cui Montanelli aveva decided to represent it. For a moment, maybe more, I wondered how a loyal subscriber of The Journal , seeing his name printed before our eyes, could have reacted in my place.
How is it possible for a player to overcome the contradiction highlighted by Montanelli break with the newspaper he founded , how do you know what were the motives and even the exact words of the founder at the time to give reason of his choice?
I understand journalists. Some of them, by affinity of ideas with the family of the publisher, are in the happy position to exercise free thought in perfect harmony with the directives more or less explicit that emanate from a newspaper that, to date, carp, is a standard propaganda party (to paraphrase my words not mine, you know). And I can understand the other of them, who do not have the same luck, but sticking to dispel any doubts over the reality gap between idea and a good agreement for consideration.
Contrary to what one might think , I estimate a good number of the editors of The Journal . I accept the idea that someone simply writes what he writes because it disagrees with himself and with the editorial line. Those of which I have no estimate, professionally speaking, are the zombies . Not in a film, but in the original sense of the legendary family of Haitian sorcerer.
To gain control over the mind and pen of a journalist, you do not need a potion of toxin derived from puffer fish, but just something more immediate availability. Money, or if not that authoritative power that comes from a prestige often distorted relationships of convenience.
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