Though a pity, it is wonderfully appropriate that the American
journalistic culture is almost never looked into except by
journalists, for narcissism is its salient characteristic. Indeed,
for anyone without the journalist’s penchant for
self-congratulation, the whole subject is faintly disgusting. Partly
this is because of the profession’s parasitic nature. Journalists
are revolting the way leeches or tapeworms or lawyers are revolting.
But some parasites can be of benefit to their host organisms, and
journalists would have to be said to fall into this category. So
long as they realize that their place is with garbage collectors and
sewer workers, there is no harm in them. In some parts of the world,
they still do realize it. I remember once talking to a British
journalist about his paper’s coverage of the O. J. Simpson trial,
which he expected to stand out from the pack by arguing that the
verdict was entirely correct. When I expressed my astonishment, he
replied: “What can I say? We’re the scum of the earth.”

But
American journalists don’t believe that. On the contrary, they
believe that they are the cream of the earth, if not god-like
emissaries from some supermundane Absoluteville, graciously
condescending in their ineffable glibness to explain to lesser folk,
engaged in their petty, earth-bound and “partisan” quarrels, how
easily they might have solved all their problems if only they had
had the good fortune to be born journalists. It is the smelly
arrogance and smugness of this habit of mind