You know, and what do we do to make sure—had we covered at The New York Times, with all of its resources, was it on top of the story of terrorism and its threat?
Isn't this the hardest challenge of journalism regardless of the story? Were we really prepared for the end of the Cold War?
When did we call it as opposed to when did the government call it? Were we ahead or behind that story? I mentioned that one in particular because we were ahead, so I'm comfortable with that. We called the end of the Cold War in a series about a year before the CIA realized what was going on. It was called "The End of Communism" or maybe "The Death of Communism." A big series.
All of us grapple with that. Did we really understand what was happening in the civil rights movement? Did we really understand what the women's movement was all about? Especially when you're dealing with stories that don't have a moment in time, no building collapses.
But all of a sudden, there's a shift in the way we think.
To cover stories like that, you can't merely have spot reporters. You've got to have people who just follow trends a long time and start to put those pieces together. And that's why you need newsrooms and editors who are committed to long-term journalism.
Have there been any economic restraints, budgetary restraints in covering this story?
In covering this story, if you were to ask Howell Raines that question, I think he might have a different answer than I do. But in truth, I think we both probably would agree that no, there have not been. And this is at a very difficult time. As I mentioned earlier, revenues—we have had buyouts, we have had layoffs throughout this company. We are operating with 9% fewer people companywide. The newsroom is not much. They did have some buyouts earlier this year, but nothing of that magnitude. I think the proof is in the pudding. Did we cover that story as best we humanly could? I can't make that judgment; you can, and our readers can. I think the answer is yes. And I think the commitment of space in particular and that ability to produce that section day after day—very expensive—stands as a monument to that.
What have been the economic demands? I mean, what demand has covering this story put on the newspaper?
It's not been an economic demand. It's been an emotional demand on the whole, really. People's exhaustion, you know, people going there, working under enormous, difficult conditions—not just New York Times journalists, all of the journalists over there—continuously day after day. It's been a struggle to pull people away from the story and say, "Look, you need to recharge. Go away for a day. Go away for a weekend. Center yourself." And it took us a while to get folks comfortable that that was an important part of their responsibility. If they're not going to take care of themselves, they can't take care of the story.
Are you satisfied that they've been able to do the story that is necessary to do from the government public trust that they have?
Are you talking about the government's—
Of course not. But no journalist at wartime ever will have that kind of access. Let's start off with that. We didn't in Vietnam, we certainly did in the Gulf War, and we don't today. We would all like to have more. We have to recognize there's a legitimate balance between the journalist's need to know, the American people's need to know—because that's all we are, a conduit to the American people, and in a democracy that's obviously a critical part of the equation of democracy—and the government's right to keep certain facts and certain actions secret to protect lives. There is a legitimate conflict there, and our democracy is shaped in some degree in how institutions grapple with that. We failed to grapple with that well in Vietnam. And when I say "we," I don't mean newspapers or the news media; I mean the institutions failed to grapple with that, and the support of the American people fell away from our government's actions in that war in large measure, I think, because as they became more aware of what that war was about, they lost faith in it. We now know that the President of the United States lost faith in it in 1964 or '65 because we now have heard those tapes, and we know that McNamara, the Secretary of Defense, lost faith in it because we've read his book.
We also know that there was a moment in which President Kennedy was unhappy with David Halberstam's reporting and called your father.
And said, "Your guy needs to be reassigned," or something to that effect.
And David Halberstam was at that point prepared to take a vacation. And the story goes that your father said, "Don't take that vacation, because it'll look like we're caving in."
I think what's critical here is in an era of such information flow, part of the job of the military and part of the job of the politicians has to be to recognize that they cannot succeed unless the American people are firmly behind them. And to have the American people firmly behind them means that information has to come to the American people. It's a critical part of the equation.
It does point out, though, that in great journalistic institutions, there are day-to-day, year-to-year moments in which you have to make tough calls, as you did in the Unabomber crisis. You have to say, "What is my responsibility here to life and death, to country, and to my readers?" Have you had to make that kind of decision during this crisis?
Not really. Are there things we aren't publishing? Of course, because we are concerned about people's safety, but that's a long-standing tradition. We are part of this country, and we believe deeply in the ethics and the ethos of this land. So, we're going to perform our task to the best of our ability within those confines. You don't report troopship movements.
If you look at the Times today and you take note at this important 150th anniversary—beginning with the Times, which was here before your family became involved with it—what's missing from it?
Television is the next great frontier for us because we need to understand how to translate what we do into that medium.
And also you're sitting here as another mode of distribution with an enormous amount of information and analytical capabilities.
Right. And your viewers are our readers, and we need to find better ways of serving them our information.
I'm doing the best I can by constantly parading New York Times reporters.
You are doing a hell of a job. And once they find out you're on our payroll—
I know, my career is over.
I know, but you're worth every penny.
Yes, indeed. It's a good thing I don't measure my worth in the amount of money that you pay me for this particular—
I ask actually that question in a different way. Let me talk about some things that people might say and get your appraisal of this in terms of looking at the newspaper, the primary means of understanding The New York Times as an institution. Okay, we'll talk about television in the future in a moment. But some have said to me that is it fun to read The New York Times, or is it a little stuffy? Does it take itself too seriously or not?
There's a question in there, I'm sure.
Does The New York Times take itself too seriously? Is it a little bit—
I don't believe we are arrogant, but I know that that is a rap on us. We are never going to be an easy read. We're just not. We can be a fun read, and we can be a challenging read, and we can be an insightful read, but easy we're not going to be. And that's okay. Our readers aren't asking for us to be easy. More accessible, maybe. And I think that's the biggest challenge that we face as journalists: how do we make an increasingly complex world more accessible?
And I think there's a distinction there. Arrogance comes from an institution. I think all Americans believe all large institutions are arrogant. I think we have in us a distrust of large institutions. I happen to think, even though I run one, I happen to think that's healthy.
