Media
Warfare
First published 2005 by Transaction Publishers
Published 2017 by Routledge
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Library of Congress Number: 00-034408
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lasky, Melvin J.
The language of journalism / Melvin J. Lasky.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
Contents: v. 1. Newspaper culture.
ISBN 0-7658-0001-2 (v. 1.: alk. paper)
1. NewspapersLanguage. 2. JournalismLanguage. I. Title.
PN4783.L37 2000
070.4014dc21
00-034408
ISBN 13: 978-1-4128-0728-9 (pbk)
ISBN 13: 978-0-7658-0302-3 (hbk)
You do not need to leave your room. Remain sitting at your table and listen. Do not even listen, simply wait. Do not even wait, be quite still and solitary. The world will freely offer itself to you to be unmasked, it has no choice, it will roll in ecstasy at your feet.
Franz Kafka, Reflections on Sin, Pain, Hope and the True Way (1917-1919)
What did Burton read in his solitary study? As far as we can see, everything, absolutely everything: ancient classics, modern literature, latin and Greek, French and English, philosophy, philology, history, politics, travel, mathematics, astornomy, medicine. He was a complete humanist scholar, but he loved the English poets too, and was up-to-date in all modern subjects. Like his contemporary, Francis Bacon, he took all learning for his province....
It [The Anatomy of Melancholy, 1621] has left traces in our literature for the next two centuries. We find traces of it in the poetry of Milton and the prose of Sterne. It was the only book which could get Dr. Johnson out of bed two hours early. It inspired Keats. It was enjoyed by Byron....
Like most interesting men, Burton is not quite consistent. He preaches the happy mean and does not practice it....He is as frank as a pornographer and as mincing as a prude.
Hugh Trevor-Roper, Renaissance Essays (1985)
We have been pursuing the techniques of censorship by punctuation-they are evidently as old as the hills...especially those odious mountainous obstructions, indeed those s, f.******? and otherwise unmentionable ranges which block our perception of the road ahead and a clear vision of blue sky. Byronesque asterisks, as we have seen, managed to create enough discreet obfuscation to preocccupy searchers for plain-speaking unambiguous evidence on Lord Byrons life and loves for centuries. Burtonesque dashes-to which we will be coming in due time-were even older; and their decipherment is rather more complicated by the suspicion that the ingenious seventeenth-century English essayist was being playful and provocative, and justifiably felt that he had expressed his robust and subversive opinions on important topics of the day with sufficiently outrageous directness. Why, then, the blankety-blank dashes?
Here is Robert Burton, going on in his radical way about his civilization and its discontents, in the second volume of his Anatomy of Melancholy (1621).
He poses the question: Who, in point of embarrassing or harassing historical fact, were the great men of power and distinction who constituted the indomitable ruling class of his Elizabethan and Renaissance age? No small dangers lay in this question, especially if it were to be answered candidly and with no sparing of words. After all, acute struggle-between social classes, political clans and their power-hungry kinsmen; among troubled or otherwise discontented souls-has often been held to be historically determined, to be our destiny: We are sent as so many soldiers into this world, to strive with it, the flesh, the devil; our life is a warfare, and who knows it not? But Burton also knew that truth had more than one side-an open-mindedness very rare in such parlous times. His beloved Homer was blind, yet who made more accurate, lively, or better descriptions, with both his eyes? Perception was all, and the insight obtained therefrom would penetrate whatever blocked the path to truth:
Homer was blind, yet who (saith he) made more accurate, lively, or better descriptions, with both his eyes? Democritus was blind, yet, as Laertius writes of him, he saw more than all Greece besides; as Plato concludes....When our bodily eyes are at worst, generally the eyes of our soul see best. Some philosophers and divines have evirated [emasculated] themselves, and put out their eyes voluntarily, the better to contemplate. Angelus Politianus had a tetter in his nose continually running, fulsome in company, yet no man so eloquent and pleasing in his works. Aesop was crooked, Socrates purblind, long-legged, hairy, Democritus withered, Seneca lean and harsh, ugly to behold; yet show me so many flourishing wits, such divine spirits: Horace a little blear-eyed contemptible fellow, yet who so sententious and wise? Marsilius Ficinus, Faber Stapulensis, a couple of dwarfs, Melancthon a short hard-favoured man, yet of incomparable parts all three. Ignatius Loyola, the founder of the Jesuits, by reason of a hurt he received in his leg at the siege of Pampeluna, the chief town of Navarre in Spain, unfit for wars and less serviceable at court, upon that accident betook himself to his beads, and by those means got more honour than ever he should have done with the use of his limbs and properness of person: a wound hurts not the soul. Galba the emperor was crook-backed, Epictetus lame; that great Alexander a little man of stature, Augustus Caesar of the same pitch; Agesilaus despicabili forma [contemptible in appearance]; Boccharis a most deformed prince as ever Egypt had, yet, as Diodorus Siculus records of him, in wisdom and knowledge far beyond his predecessors. Anno Dom. 1306, Uladislaus Cubitalis, that pigmy King of Poland, reigned and fought more victorious battles than any of his long-shanked predecessors. Virtue refuseth no stature, and commonly your great vast bodies and fine features are sottish, dull, and leaden spirits. Whats in them? What but sheer bulk and stupid insolence?
This was colorful and exuberant; but if Burton would go on (and he would), insolence and worse would be the grievous charges of yet others who felt they were being-as later victims were to cry-slandered, libelled, and calumnied. Burton had no time for those would-be grandees who furtively changed their names, burned down their birthplace (because nobody should point at it), bought titles, coats of arms, and by all means screw themselves into ancient families, falsifying pedigrees, usurping scutcheons, and all because they would not seem to be base. As Burton says, Of all vanities and fopperies, to brag of gentility is the greatest. It was, for him, a mere flash, a ceremony, a toy, a thing of naught.