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Updated: May 26, 2025
In the end, however, like the painter with the journalist's heart in Robert Browning's poem, I console myself for having enlisted among the tradesmen of literature rather than among the artists: For I have done some service in my time, And not been paid profusely. Let some great soul write my six thousand leaders!
Those who attend the meetings of the Assembly are, as a matter of fact, excellently well-provided by the enterprise of the Secretariat with literature. A delegated or a journalist's pigeon-hole is far better than a circulating library. To quote, then, the Journal for the day after the first meeting of the Committee for Dealing with the Disappearance of Delegates: "Committee No.
There is nothing corrupt in such honest service, when rendered either to a man or a nation, or even to a Party. To put it in another way, there are worse things than studying public opinion and endeavouring partly to interpret it honestly and partly to guide it in the right direction. I will end this chapter by asking the readers of a Journalist's Memoirs to do two things.
It was just because he didn't nose about and wasn't the usual gossipmonger that they had picked him out; it was a branch of their correspondence with which they evidently wished a new tone associated, such a tone as, from now on, it would have always to take from his example. "How you ought indeed, when you understand so well, to be a journalist's wife!"
If that is all why, these are the mere everyday risks of the young journalist's life. Without them we should be dull and dissatisfied. Our work would lose its fire. Men such as ourselves, Comrade Windsor, need a certain stimulus, a certain fillip, if they are to keep up their high standards.
"Yes, my little man, why d'you say that?" shouted Mignon, bringing down his huge hands on the journalist's slender shoulders with such force as almost to double him up. Prulliere and Clarisse refrained from laughing aloud. For some time past the whole company had been deriving amusement from a comedy which was going on in the wings.
The journalist's words made no impression on the sleeping monarch, so, ignoring all formality, he laid hands upon the King and gave him a violent shaking. "For Heaven's sake, try to recognize me ... speak to me ... I am Jerome Fandor ... I've come to save you." In leaning over the sleeping man, Fandor suddenly got a whiff of his breath and then drew back, amazed. "Why, he's drunk!
He was laughing a little, shoving them back with open hand and elbow, when a small, compact group of men suddenly dashed up the steps together, and a heavy stick swung out over their heads. A straw hat with a gay ribbon sailed through the air. The journalist's long arms went out swiftly from his body in several directions, the hands not open, but clenched and hard. The next instant he and Mr.
Then bending down and whispering in the journalist's ear: "Tell me, my dear fellow," he said, "this Nana surely she's the girl we saw one evening at the corner of the Rue de Provence?" "By Jove, you're right!" cried Fauchery. "I was saying that I had come across her!" La Faloise presented his cousin to Count Muffat de Beuville, who appeared very frigid.
So run no risks, be prudent both of you. Say not a work I have read your heart." Madame de la Baudraye was defenceless under this serried attack, and in the presence of a man who spoke at once as a doctor, a confessor, and confidential friend. "Indeed!" said she. "Can you suppose that any woman would care to compete with a journalist's mistresses?
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