Every journalist who is not too stupid or too full of himself to notice what is going on knows that what he does is morally indefensible. ... He is a kind of confidence man, preying on people's vanity, ignorance or loneliness, gaining their trust and betraying them without remorse. Like the credulous widow who wakes up one day to find the charming young man and all her savings gone, so the consenting subject of a piece of nonfiction learns—when the article or book appears—his hard lesson. Journalists justify their treachery in various ways according to their temperaments. The more pompous talk about freedom of speech and "the public's right to know"; the least talented talk about Art; the seemliest murmur about earning a living."posted by Trurl at 1:54 PM on June 1, 2011 [1 favorite]
"No, no, no, no, no. "The Journalist and the Murderer" is not an attack on the ethics of journalists. True, the worst-case scenario that Malcolm chose to illustrate her argument teetered on the dubious end of the ethical spectrum; its stark colors were what made her choose it. But her point is "the canker that lies at the heart of the rose," the ethical paradox at the core of all journalism; it doesn't matter whether the ("good enough") reporter in question is McGinniss or Malcolm or one of Fred Friendly's paragons of virtue. The journalist-subject relationship, like the analyst-patient relationship, is fraught with "abnormality, contradictoriness, and strain,..." "I can relate to this, as a amateur journalist (I've published some articles in a free newspaper). I've often felt that when looking for a story, I am stepping out of the "in-it-together" honest relationship of shared experience, and instead taking a role of interpreter, or even definer. Unless its explicitly agreed upon to be a co-authored project, the journalist is the one who's understanding of the subject must take priority in the article or book. The strain may be that the subject is often unsuspecting of this.
A paper he delivered in New Haven in 1981 was the final straw. Early on Freud had attributed the sexual hysteria of a number of his patients to childhood sexual abuse; he later came to believe that this abuse had been imagined, and in abandoning the so-called seduction theory he opened the door to the theory of the Oedipus complex and to the whole new field of psychoanalysis. Masson accused the master of ignoring cases of actual abuse.Malcolm is the daughter of a psychiatrist. She murdered her father (in Masson) while pretending to defend him (as the old-guard "purist" tradition of the Church of Psychoanalysis.) Same pattern with "Aaron Green." Unresolved Oedipal issues for starters and she disqualify herself from writing about shrinks.
But Masson had liberated her, too, by letting her discover the vein of gold in her natural malice. Her next major piece for the New Yorker, a 1986 profile of Ingrid Sischy -- then the editor of Artforum, now the editor of Interview -- is a textbook demonstration of the way a malicious reporter can pulp her subjects simply by describing their apartments. (Sischy is practically the only art-world figure who walks out of it unflattened.) In "The Window Washer," a 1990 memoir of a return trip to her native Prague, Malcolm is brutal in her depiction of a professor and his wife who invite her into their home for not one but two meals. The transgression of hospitality -- the slap in the face of her hosts -- is so disturbing that it threatens to wreck what is overall a touching celebration of the newly liberated city.That's a pretty good description of a bully, and Seligman himself is fairly brutal in his assessment of Malcolm's afterword to The Journalist and the Murderer: "A more stupefying specimen of bullshit would be hard to find -- though there's also something reassuring, even endearing, in this demonstration that Malcolm can be just as neurotic and self-deceiving as the rest of us."
Why is she so hard on these people? I think it has something to do with a blurring of the line between reportage and criticism. She nods approvingly, in a review of "The Unbearable Lightness of Being," at Milan Kundera's observation that "none among us is superhuman enough to escape kitsch completely. No matter how we scorn it, kitsch is an integral part of the human condition." Yet she has remorseless radar for the kitsch in her subjects' lives, and she uses it against them. I shudder sometimes at the awful fantasy of Malcolm visiting my house, which I love and have put a lot of thought into making my own, and telling the world, in a few dismissive phrases, what a shabby and affected place it is.
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posted by Horace Rumpole at 12:56 PM on June 1, 2011