Free Press? Dream on!
White vests in newsrooms are as rare as clean boots in Westerns. And that’s a good thing. After all, calculated venality has always been a journalistic necessity and virtue.
Column: White vests in newsrooms are as rare as clean boots in Westerns. And that’s a good thing. Because calculated venality has always been a journalistic necessity and virtue. A dinner. A little indiscretion. A product sample. Two tickets. Or three days on the Côte d’Azur. What’s your price, Mbwana? In short: With what, from whom, and in what amount do I want to be bribed? It’s worth giving this question some serious thought. After all, journalism is, by its very nature, writing for money. And the most accurate definition of freedom of the press comes from Hunter S. Thompson: «Free food. Free drinks. Free press.»
Back in the good old days, when there were no monopoly newspapers yet, I was an intern at the St. Galler Tagblatt. There, I covered the fourth-rate events: press conferences at the local shopping center, art openings, and lectures. And every time, I ran into colleagues from the competition. They all—men and women alike—looked surprisingly similar: enormous bellies and noses, as red and pore-filled as Mars. With one hand they’d reach for a glass of champagne, with the other for a salmon sandwich—and with a third, they’d underline the passages in the press release that they’d later copy word for word.
That’s all I remember: With two or three press events a day, I was constantly drunk back then. It was also during that time that I came up with the plan to work as a car journalist for one year—just once in my life: An invitation from Mercedes—or God knows who—to a five-day test drive in southern Spain, with candy-colored drinks and long-legged people handing you glossy brochures of the new model to copy down. Vroom! Luckily for me, the only things missing are a) a driver’s license and b) a car section in the WOZ.
So, Mbwana, what would your price be? Don’t tell me, «I don’t have one.» People who can’t be bribed are unfit for this line of work. For one thing, because they won’t have a single informant. Every investigation needs people working behind the scenes: tipsters, experts, sympathizers. And they want exactly the same thing from you as Mercedes or the department store: kind words about themselves. And, if possible, nothing but nasty things about the competition.
Behind almost every exposé you read, there’s someone who ratted someone out. And rarely out of a pure love of truth. So how far should you go? It depends on how much you love information or luxury. Or people. Because corruptibility is also a great virtue—especially among journalists. Only the deaf remain unmoved by charm; only the stubborn prefer their prejudices to surprising ideas; only the heartless refuse to be swayed by the fear and helplessness of the person across from them. And to hell with it: objectivity isn’t just impossible to achieve—it would also be cruel: It would be a grim world if everyone got only what they truly deserve.
So, on the question of whether you can be bought, the answer is a clear, resounding yes. The only thing left to determine is the price: How much? And, above all, the currency: Do you want luxury? Respect? Less hassle? Exclusive information? Confirmation of your own mistakes? New ideas? The feeling of importance when a celebrity smiles at you? Or the icy chill of power when he trembles? What exactly is your price?
It's up to you, Mbwana!
P.S.: When asked about his patriotism, the diplomat Charles de Talleyrand proudly declared: «I would stand and die for France—even for up to a million livres!»
P.S. After the advance copy of his novel *Answered Prayers* was published, the American author and jet-setter Truman Capote was surprised to find that he had lost three-quarters of his friends: «Who the hell did they think they were inviting? A writer.»
> Constantin Seibt is a political and business editor at the weekly newspaper WOZ.
Back in the good old days, when there were no monopoly newspapers yet, I was an intern at the St. Galler Tagblatt. There, I covered the fourth-rate events: press conferences at the local shopping center, art openings, and lectures. And every time, I ran into colleagues from the competition. They all—men and women alike—looked surprisingly similar: enormous bellies and noses, as red and pore-filled as Mars. With one hand they’d reach for a glass of champagne, with the other for a salmon sandwich—and with a third, they’d underline the passages in the press release that they’d later copy word for word.
That’s all I remember: With two or three press events a day, I was constantly drunk back then. It was also during that time that I came up with the plan to work as a car journalist for one year—just once in my life: An invitation from Mercedes—or God knows who—to a five-day test drive in southern Spain, with candy-colored drinks and long-legged people handing you glossy brochures of the new model to copy down. Vroom! Luckily for me, the only things missing are a) a driver’s license and b) a car section in the WOZ.
So, Mbwana, what would your price be? Don’t tell me, «I don’t have one.» People who can’t be bribed are unfit for this line of work. For one thing, because they won’t have a single informant. Every investigation needs people working behind the scenes: tipsters, experts, sympathizers. And they want exactly the same thing from you as Mercedes or the department store: kind words about themselves. And, if possible, nothing but nasty things about the competition.
Behind almost every exposé you read, there’s someone who ratted someone out. And rarely out of a pure love of truth. So how far should you go? It depends on how much you love information or luxury. Or people. Because corruptibility is also a great virtue—especially among journalists. Only the deaf remain unmoved by charm; only the stubborn prefer their prejudices to surprising ideas; only the heartless refuse to be swayed by the fear and helplessness of the person across from them. And to hell with it: objectivity isn’t just impossible to achieve—it would also be cruel: It would be a grim world if everyone got only what they truly deserve.
So, on the question of whether you can be bought, the answer is a clear, resounding yes. The only thing left to determine is the price: How much? And, above all, the currency: Do you want luxury? Respect? Less hassle? Exclusive information? Confirmation of your own mistakes? New ideas? The feeling of importance when a celebrity smiles at you? Or the icy chill of power when he trembles? What exactly is your price?
It's up to you, Mbwana!
P.S.: When asked about his patriotism, the diplomat Charles de Talleyrand proudly declared: «I would stand and die for France—even for up to a million livres!»
P.S. After the advance copy of his novel *Answered Prayers* was published, the American author and jet-setter Truman Capote was surprised to find that he had lost three-quarters of his friends: «Who the hell did they think they were inviting? A writer.»
> Constantin Seibt is a political and business editor at the weekly newspaper WOZ.
