American Notes by Rudyard Kipling
page 99 of 101 (98%)
page 99 of 101 (98%)
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grinding tyranny of that thing which they call the Press here.
Thus:--I--But you talk about interviewing people whether they like it or not. Have you no bounds beyond which even your indecent curiosity must not go? HE--I haven't struck 'em yet. What do you think of interviewing a widow two hours after her husband's death, to get her version of his life? I--I think that is the work of a ghoul. Must the people have no privacy? HE--There is no domestic privacy in America. If there was, what the deuce would the papers do? See here. Some time ago I had an assignment to write up the floral tributes when a prominent citizen had died. I--Translate, please; I do not understand your pagan rites and ceremonies. HE--I was ordered by the office to describe the flowers, and wreaths, and so on, that had been sent to a dead man's funeral. Well, I went to the house. There was no one there to stop me, so I yanked the tinkler--pulled the bell--and drifted into the room where the corpse lay all among the roses and smilax. I whipped out my note-book and pawed around among the floral tributes, turn-ing up the tickets on the wreaths and seeing who had sent them. In the middle of this I heard some one saying: "Please, oh, please!" behind me, and there stood the daughter of the house, just bathed in tears--I--You unmitigated brute! |
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