In an end-of-the-year column devoted to “Politics and Prose,” Peter Beinart, editor of The New Republic, asserted that there had been a “new gravity” and “sobriety” to American journalism since September 11. Literary responses had failed, he argued, to process the event, notably in a commemorative issue of The New Yorker in which the writing had been “excessive, even grotesque when applied to mass carnage in downtown New York.”
Beinart declared it was now the era of the essay–“non-reported, non-narrative, political or historical analysis”–and “the sombre profile of a person in power”–stripped of excessive description, wanton psychoanalysis and “edge” but not of dutiful and accurate quotation. “American journalism, after a long while on the sidelines,” he rallied, was “back in the game.”
It was a shaky argument, one some editor of The New Republic (a magazine that confuses an antiliterary style of journalism with an anti-indulgent outlook as a matter of policy) was bound to try to make sometime.
Let’s face it, the new Hunter S. Thompson won’t ever be found in its Puritan liberal pages, though the journalism of a New Yorker writer like Jonathan Franzen just might be, albeit a soberer, straighter version. Franzen himself exhibits too minute a panic in his work, too much of an “edge” (see his novel of last year, The Corrections), is simply too much like a literary forefather such as Joseph Heller (Catch-22 and, more important for Franzen, Something Happened) to make any editor at The New Republic feel he had a grip on the world. And what is The New Republic–or any news and culture magazine–about if it isn’t grip, skeptical firmness, analytical rectitude?
Ever since the 1960s and the advent of New Journalism–subjective and, yes, “literary” in its aspirations, distinguished by figures like Truman Capote, Norman Mailer, Gay Talese, Tom Wolfe, Gail Sheehy, Joan Didion–there has been an ongoing and necessary argument in favor of old-school values like objectivity, plain writing and reporting craft. Beinart’s analysis of the American print media today is just the latest salvo, objectively put of course, saying out with “the New” and in with the old. It’s part of a larger debate about consciousness and language, and how best to represent the state of the nation in both journalism and fiction in ways that reassure Americans their world can be secured, defined, reinforced.
Ironically, the tag New Journalism has been a misnomer from the beginning, implying–all the more alongside the revolutionary context of the 1960s that birthed it–a rejection of past values and a blind dive into the postpsychedelic waters of contemporary reality. It also denies the historical significance of figures like George Orwell, Martha Gellhorn, Joseph Mitchell and Damon Runyon, who created openings in journalistic convention, idiosyncrasies that demonstrate that “New Journalism” had been around for the best part of the century–if a writer had the gift and the license to explore the possibilities. For that matter, is it so far from Walt Whitman’s 1882 diary of the Civil War in Specimen Days, to Michael Herr’s scattershot report on Vietnam, Dispatches?