A collection of "best of show" classic journalism. Weingarten is both a great storyteller and a great boots-on-the-ground reporter. Even though some of these stories follow outdated late-90's subjects (Clinton pops up often), the quality of the writing makes them classic. He has an adroit way of carefully framing, but not belaboring, his thesis. He knows when to back off.
You can read this book to immerse yourself in the stories he tells (who knew Doonesbury could still be interesting), or you can read this book as a masterclass in solid, sturdy writing. Either way it's a win.
Notes
This is the big mystery of life, and any good narrative can be made to grapple with some piece of it, large or small. A writer has to figure out what that piece is before she can begin to report her story. Only then can she know what questions to ask and what things to notice; only then will she see how to test her thesis and how to change it if it is wrong.
That’s what nonfiction storytelling is about. It is not enough for you to observe and report: You must also think. (pg.xiv)
I had asked him to create a definition of “sense of humor.” he took three days. This is what he wrote: “A sense of humor is a measurement of the extent to which you realize that you were trapped in a world almost entirely devoid of reason. Laughter is how you release the anxiety that you feel at this knowledge.“ (pg.167)
Everything we are, Becker argued – our personalities, or attitudes, our very being – is an elaborate lie, a carefully crafted self-delusion constructed to avoid having to face a fact so terrifying it would drive us mad: Not only are we certain to die, but death could come at any moment, followed by an eternity of nothingness. Lower animals, blessedly unaware of their mortality, plod thoughtlessly through their lives on instinct alone.
Lacking their ignorance, Becker says, we compensate by making ourselves stupid. We tranquilize ourselves with the trivial; we make friends, raise families, drink beer, follow the Redskins, find comfort in religions promising eternal life, all of which takes our mind off the potentially paralyzing truth. We deceive ourselves into believing – not literally, but emotionally – that we are immortal. Paranoiacs and depressives are in some ways the sanest among us, according to Becker, because their layer of denial is so fragile it fractures. Most of us, though, are able to retain our sanity so long as our anxiety is held at bay, and our anxiety is held at bay so long as our bold illusion remains manageable.
This is not exactly the anthem of romantic poets or motivational speakers, but no one has ever successfully challenged Becker’s central thesis. On some level, we attempt to smother our elemental fear of death with a grand lie.
That’s where terrorism comes in. Terrorism penetrates that self deception in a way that few things can. (pg.177)
The dread of evil is a much more forcible principle of human actions than the prospect of good… What worries you masters you. — John Locke (pg.195)
Humans, Hickling said, have a fundamental need to create and maintain a narrative for their lives in which the universe is not implacable and heartless, that terrible things do not happen at random, and that catastrophe can be avoided if you are vigilant and responsible.
In hyperthermia cases, he believes, the parents are demonized for much the same reasons. “We are vulnerable, but we don’t want to be reminded of that. We want to believe that the world is understandable and controllable and unthreatening, that if we follow the rules, will be okay. So, when this kind of thing happens to other people, we need to put them in a different category from us. We don’t want to resemble them, and the fact that we might is too terrifying to deal with. So, they have to be monsters.“ (pg.313)
In his June 1908 baccalaureate address, Wilson dourly told the young Princeton men: “I am not sure that it is of the first importance that you should be happy. Many an unhappy man has been of deep service to the world into himself.“ (pg.331)
What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
— from “Leisure,“ by W.H.Davies
(Pg.356)