Did you hear the one about the exchange that took place between senior diplomatic reporters for the Chinese Peoples’ Daily and United Press International on the eve of Yasser Arafat’s address to the United Nations?

"What’s the best thing that could happen when Arafat delivers his speech tomorrow?" the UPI man asked his counterpart over drinks at a nearby pub.

"That’s easy," replied the Chinese journalist. "Chairman Arafat would announce a peaceful settlement had been reached with Israel over the disposition of the West Bank."

"No, no, no," cried the crusty American newsman. "The best thing would be an assassination on the floor of the General Assembly just before the PM deadline."

That we journalists should find this amusing, and should so easily identify with the UPI reporter, ought to tell us something profound about the values we bring to our work. In a conflict between our sense of decency and our quest for the great story, rectitude is often a casualty.

Concern about cynicism in our profession is nothing new. Many more esteemed journalists than I have discussed the problem it creates. As David Broder noted a few years ago: "If the assumption is that nothing is on the level, nothing is what it seems, then citizenship becomes a game for fools and there is no point in trying to stay informed."

In political writing in particular, nothing is easier – and ultimately more destructive -- than to strike a cynical stance. Particularly susceptible are young reporters who confuse meanness with toughness, who imagine they are demonstrating their worldliness by "seeing through" what is automatically assumed to be hype, spin and insincerity.

But the cynical approach is by no means an affliction only of younger, less experienced writers. Plenty of old hands succumb too easily to cynicism. As Los Angeles Times media writer David Shaw describes it, "an increasingly glib, smart-ass approach to the news -- which you see in the chat-and-shout shows on television from Washington" -- is "bleeding into the mainstream print media," yielding "cheap edge and cheap cynicism."

Too often, our political writing reads like a "perpetual sneer," the Wall street Journal said a few years ago.

Yet despite such warnings from some of the best minds in our business, cynicism continues to infect our work. Perhaps we continue to write and edit with a cynical edge because we don’t fully understand what cynicism is, how to recognize it and how it differs from skepticism. So my object here today is to offer a fuller definition of cynicism and to discuss how we can know it when we see it. Maybe, by clarifying the differences between cynicism and skepticism, we can avoid the former and practice the latter.

First, let me say, I believe that the best of us – despite public perceptions – are not cynics. Although we may carp and sneer – particularly among ourselves -- underneath that crusty exterior lies, for most of us, a rather idealistic belief, perhaps even faith, that if we do our jobs well, if we report fairly, accurately and intelligently, and if our newspapers, magazines, stations and networks publish or produce our stories, something akin to truth will emerge and the American people, in their collective wisdom, will use that information to advance the cause of democracy. We are, most of us, guided by this Jeffersonian notion of our role.

Yet in some quarters – and many would say especially in Washington -- one is considered a gullible rube if he suggests he actually believes in such lofty ideals – or any ideals, for that matter. It seems the worst thing a reporter or commentator can be accused of in certain circles is not inaccuracy or unfairness, but credulousness. To be taken in, fooled and bamboozled – that, to many of us, is the most humiliating of all possibilities.

So what is a cynic?

A cynic is one who approaches the world with a scornful and bitterly mocking attitude. Someone who assumes that all people are motivated by selfishness and that institutions are inept at best, corrupt at worst. A cynic, Oscar Wilde once said, is one who "knows the price of everything and the value of nothing."

Classical cynicism derived from a sect of philosophers in ancient Greece founded by Antisthenes, a pupil of Socrates. They were marked by an ostentatious contempt for ease, wealth and the enjoyments of life; the most famous was Diogenes, who carried the principle of the sect to an extreme of asceticism.

Today, a cynic has come to mean a person disposed to rail or find fault: one who shows a disposition to disbelieve in the sincerity or goodness of human motives and actions, and is wont to express this by sneers and sarcasms; a sneering fault-finder.

"A cynic," H.L. Mencken once wrote, "is a man who, when he smells flowers, looks around for a coffin."

"Cynicism," former Brown University Vartan Gregorian said last Spring, is "the most corrosive of human failings. Cynicism sows suspicion and distrust, demeans hope and debases idealism."

The cynic assumes that all politicians are consumed with naked self interest, that political compromise equals moral capitulation, that policy debate is always a cover for Machiavellian intrigue and that insincerity, hypocrisy and mendacity are the natural condition of man.
Not content to describe impacts and effects, the cynic tends to ascribe motives, which are almost universally shallow or ignoble. That a politician’s personal motives might also coincide with the public good is a logical impossibility to the cynic. And the very idea that some politicians, officials and policy makers might on occasion act out of principle is, to the cynic, a joke. As Michael Lewis wrote approvingly in the New Republic: "The cynic sees the world as a vast comic tableau. The distance he puts between himself and others saves time, money, anxiety and a great deal of moral indignation."

Some cynical political writing is easy to spot. Here’s a staggering example – commentary albeit, but cynical nonetheless:

Like all responsible media outlets, Slate deplores the deplorable situation that forces us to discuss deplorable matters such as alleged fellatio in the White House rather than global warming or the strategic balance in the Persian Gulf. We deplore the tawdry chain of events itself – whether the deplorable scenario should turn out to be a president misbehaving and lying about it under oath, or the government brought to a halt by the fevered imaginings of an overexcitable young woman. Whatever happened exactly, it is deplorable. And we deplore it.

Since none of the actors can be taken seriously, the cynic has decided, a priori, that there is no hope for a positive outcome. Better, from this point of view, to demonstrate how wise, how clever, how hip the writer is, than to lead readers to hope that something good might come of the tableau in question.

Most cynical writing, however, is more subtle. Some hallmarks of the "cheap edge" include blithe labeling and the inherent assumption of insincerity. When these are coupled with what Kathleen Hall Jamieson and Joseph Cappella refer to as "strategic frame," in which all politics is reduced to a game or a performance, the not-so-subliminal message to the reader is: "Don’t take this guy at his word."

Consider these two headlines and opening paragraphs to the same story:

Lungren Promotes 'Values' in Gubernatorial Kickoff

RIVERSIDE -- Attorney General Dan Lungren formally kicked off his campaign for governor Wednesday praising his parents' generation as a model of virtue and calling for a revival of religious values in public policy debate.

" We are going to be a campaign that does not believe that separation of church and state means separation of public debate and religious values,'' Lungren told about 100 supporters in Costa Mesa, the second stop of a three-day bus tour of 13 cities from San Diego to Sacramento.

The Republican attorney general, a Roman Catholic who is deeply opposed to abortion, said he would not impose his religious values on anyone else. But, he said, ``if we are to be a successful people, we have to be a religious people as well.''

Lungren's discussion of deeply-help religious values as a part of the public policy debate is nothing new for him. But it is the first time in the modern era that such issues have been so sharply injected into a California governor's race by a presumed major party nominee.

Lungren Opens Campaign With Evangelical Fervor

RIVERSIDE -- An emotional Dan Lungren performed the opening act of his quest to become California's third consecutive Republican governor yesterday with a call for religion to play a larger role in the lives of all citizens.

The two-term attorney general, who faces no serious opposition in the June 2 primary, formally announced his candidacy with evangelical fervor as he toured Southern California on a three-day campaign swing that will wind up at the GOP state convention tomorrow in Burlingame. It was at his second stop, Orange County Republican headquarters, where one parked car bore a license plate frame reading ``G.O.P. -- God's own party,'' that Lungren extolled the value of religion.

" Separation of church and state,'' he told about 75 followers at a parking lot rally, "does not mean separation of public debate and religious values.''

" If we are to be a successful people, we have to be a religious people as well,'' said Lungren, a Roman Catholic educated in parochial schools and a graduate of the University of Notre Dame.

The second approach, while not an egregious example, nevertheless is worth deconstructing for its cynicism. For starters, Lungren is described as "emotional" and he is "performing" an "act." He is said to have announced his candidacy with "evangelical fervor" – loaded words in a political context that jump out because they appear also in the headline. Finally, Lungren is linked to a slogan, "GOP – God’s Own Party," that was seen on one parked car near his rally.

In its defense, at least the second article did not begin: "Seeking to shore up his standing with religious conservatives in his Republican base, Attorney General Dan Lungren, etc, etc, etc." But that would not be an uncommon approach to such a story, giving it a wholly strategic frame and assigning a purely self-interested motive to Lungren’s remarks.

The sources of press cynicism are fairly well known. As Paul Starobin observed in the Columbia Journalism Review, it’s the effect of being manipulated and treated like an enemy by politicians; it’s the result of a sort of journalistic cabin fever that develops on the campaign trail or on a beat of not wanting to appear soft by one’s peers; it’s the lost idealism of romantics who were profoundly disappointed by the mediocrity and venality of many politicians; it may even be the work of those who entered journalism so that they can remain separate from a world with which they are utterly contemptuous – the sort Ambrose Bierce described as "a blackguard whose faulty vision sees things as they are, not as they ought to be."

Finally, there is "marketplace cynicism." This is the brand of cynicism Van Gordon Sauter once demonstrated over dinner when he suggested, during the O.J. Simpson trial, that if he owned a television station, he would tell his staff that he’d fire anyone who wasn’t working on an O.J. story 24 hours a day.

Marketplace cynicism often originates at the news desk. Not long ago, after it was reported that Eddie Debartolo, owner of the San Francisco 49ers, was under investigation for influence peddling in Louisiana, and that San Francisco Mayor Willie Brown’s new stadium proposal was in jeopardy, an editor of mine suggested I do a story on how politicians use sports and stadium projects for their own political gain. As we discussed the idea, however, it occurred to us that one could just as easily argue that local politicians pursue sports facilities because their constituents want them. Why frame a story, we asked, from such a cynical perspective? We scrapped the idea.

The incident, however, is instructive. Sometimes, with good reporting, we know what motivates a particular politician or his political operation. But we often get into trouble when we assume that the people we’re writing about are motivated wholly or primarily by self-interest.

Jamieson and Cappella argue that "By supplanting the what of politics with the why, we have interiorized the process, making it about the psyche and self of individual politicians rather than about policies and their outcomes on the lives of the citizenry. By answering the question Why? through the assumption of self-interest in conflict with public interest, we risk casting everyone in political life as a venal schemer."

But shouldn’t good political reporting also explain the tactical or strategic impact of a candidate’s remarks? Absolutely, it should. But there is a huge difference in the message conveyed to readers when we write about motives and when we write about effects. Saying Lungren discussed religion because he seeks to assure a particular political outcome portrays him as if his motives are purely cynical. It suggests he is a politician who will say whatever he has to say in order to win a particular bloc of votes.

It is possible to provide equally valid political analysis by describing the effects of his speech, for example, to explain that his remarks addressed concerns that are on the minds of many on the religious right and also that they raise fears among those on the secular left. By discussing effects rather than motives – as a part of coverage, not as a whole -- political writing can avoid cynicism and yet maintain its analytical integrity.

While writing about motives, which often are unknowable, is dubious journalism at best, writing about effects – political consequences and policy impacts – gives readers information they actually can use.

When Jane Harman kicked off her campaign for governor recently, she was surrounded by women officials and political figures. It took her less than 2½ minutes to mention her pro-choice stance on abortion. And although her primary emphasis was on education, she also mentioned her support for prison construction, three-strikes laws and the death penalty.

Some stories suggested all this staging was driven by polling and strategy, rendering Harman as a smooth operator. Others explained the political impact of the visual impression she made for TV cameras, raised concrete questions about her proposals and put her remarks in a broad political context. One approach was cynical, the other analytical.

When we find ourselves writing a story that suggests a politician is driven by only one motive, a warning bell should go off: Is this too simplistic? Can I fairly suggest that this politician’s self-interest is in conflict with the public interest? Is it possible that this person could be doing the right thing and serving his personal ambition at the same time? Will the person I’m writing about recognize himself or herself in my article?

I am not arguing that in rejecting cynicism, we must abandon critical thinking and accept people in public life at face value. It is, I believe, our duty to maintain a healthy skepticism. Our challenge is to understand the difference between cynicism and skepticism and then to apply the theory to practice.

Skepticism is derived from Pyrrho and his followers in Greek antiquity. A skeptic was one who doubts the possibility of real knowledge of any kind; one who holds that there are no adequate grounds for certainty as to the truth of any proposition whatever.

Today, a skeptic is one who maintains a doubting attitude with reference to some particular question or statement; one who is habitually inclined rather to doubt than to believe any assertion or apparent fact that comes before him.

Tom Friedman of the New York Times put it this way: "Skepticism is about asking questions, being dubious, being wary, not being gullible. Cynicism is about already having the answers – or thinking you do – about a person or an event. The skeptic says, `I don’t think that’s true; I’m going to check it out.’ The cynic says, `I know that’s not true. It couldn’t be. I’m going to slam him.’"

As opposed to cynicism we should be infused with a powerful sense of skepticism. We must doubt, question and challenge assertions and generally accepted conclusions. We ought to understand that politicians come in two types: those who want to do good and those who want to do well. The important point is that they we should begin with the belief that there are politicians who want to do good. But, on behalf of our readers, we have a duty to dig and to doubt until we can be sure. Skepticism, Oscar Wilde said, is "the beginning of faith."

But in what – beyond our individual religious outlooks – do we journalists have faith? I’d submit that journalists, by and large, are not the snarling dogs many of us appear, although we certainly run in packs from time to time and practice pack journalism as if it were blood sport. But fundamentally, we journalists believe in the rather Jeffersonian ideal that if we unearth the facts and give people in a free society the information they need, democracy will flourish.

"The cynic fundamentally believes that people and the groups they represent cannot be trusted, even in the absence of evidence pro or con," write Jamieson and Cappella. "The issue is not whether the mistrust is deserved. Rather the cynic begins with mistrust and must be persuaded to the opposite view."

The core of cynicism is mistrust; the core of skepticism is doubt. When we report and write as if we believe in nothing, as if we see through everything, as if we are certain that "any action, however noble, can be reduced to some strategic intent," we aggravate public disengagement from the political process and from the press itself.

But one need not be a wide-eyed naïf to believe that outcomes do matter, that journalism has a role to play in the democratic process and that some, if not many, of the people we write about may be decent and dedicated individuals. It is possible both to believe in representative democracy and to approach politicians and policy makers with a healthy measure of doubt. We can work from this worldview, but not if we are infected with cynicism, not if we practice carping, wiseacre journalism or assume that everyone in public life is a liar, a schemer or a dunce.

[top]