Since blogging is called into question rather often let me offer a few words in defense of the blog. I have done this before but let me add a little to my previous discussion.
I previously wrote that bloggers are the political pamphleteers of the 21st century. Thomas Paine, Alexander Hamilton and Ben Franklin offered the more than occasional polemic, the frequent jeremiad, in their day. I do not compare a lot of blogging to these worthies but bloggers serve the same purpose.
Some professional writers disparage the blogger for the same reason the trained theologian rejects the televangelist. This is understandable.
However, the amateur writes from the heart and some of us write very well. The casual, dismissive sneer of the paid journalist hides his jealousy in the same way it reveals his fear.
True, bloggers are often no less narcissistic than the the narcissists we gleefully rake. Our little blogs have no editorial board, the professional narcissist insists, and so anyone can pass himself off as an expert.
But, soft, wait, there is a genius to this uneditorialized missive. If we are wrong consistently or wrong egregiously the very fact of our error will cause men to run from us. True, we tread not the halls of power and any ort of information we crisp falls off the sumptuous banquet table of the well-placed fellow, you know the one who knows but has a reason not to say. He is the fellow, sleek and well-fed, trained to eat from the hand of his subjects but never to feed on that hand.
There is no advertising for sale here. I do not have to ask you to subscribe to me or mine. You may come here for free or not come here at all but you have never yet been asked for anything here. You are my editorial board for better or worse but I write to expand my own heart and mind more than for your edification.
I have little fear left. The fear I do possess is more the frailty of an old man who worries he may leave unsaid the truth that might topple a dark empire. This is the beauty of the blog. We write the unacceptable, for all to read, the things that once men said in the quiet hall conversations at the great arenas of the past. No one goes there now. You could hear the whispered conversations without straining to listen. That is, if anyone cared to offer the sotto voice rendition of what is killing us.
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