I covered everything. City general assignment, crime, politics, whatever. I worked on the rewrite desk for a time because I was quick and clean. My bread and butter was city crime and the drug culture in particular. You name it, I could give you eighteen inches of clean copy in twenty minutes on deadline.
David Simon
My son Ethan dictates terms and takes all my time. That's pretty perfect when I have the chance to let it occur.
chance time perfect son pretty
I would be lying if I said the journalism doesn't reflect my own choices as a reporter and a writer: what to say, what to emphasize, how to say it, what is true or untrue.
choice choices true lying writer journalism
One of the sad things about contemporary journalism is that it actually matters very little. The world now is almost inured to the power of journalism. The best journalism would manage to outrage people. And people are less and less inclined to outrage.
people power world sad journalism things contemporary
I tend to suspect that my female characters are, to quote a famous criticism of Hemingway, men with tits. I think it is among my weaknesses and I work harder on those scenes, I think, because I feel vulnerable.
work men characters quote feel female vulnerable criticism famous
What writer wants to make compromises with story? Story is the only reason you're in it.
reason story writer
culture politics crime clean time city bread give
We are talking mostly cosmetic work at the Sports Arena and Coliseum, and we have so many more facilities, like Staples Center, that are available to us
work talking sports
The arrival of Tiffany is a significant event for The Fashion Mall and indeed, the entire Indianapolis retail community,.. It again validates one of our core strategies - that the world's greatest retailers want to be at truly preeminent retail properties.
community fashion
If I let them, they would drag this out for another 20 years,.. They may be kicking and screaming, but they're going to clean that site up and it's going to be sooner rather than later.
clean
It occurred to me, having written a couple of 600-page tomes, that if you want to say something intricate about something as disorganized, confused, and interconnected as an American city, you want to stay for the whole season on a single story
city story written single american confused
That's the myth of it, the required lie that allows us to render our judgments. Parasites, criminals, dope fiends, dope peddlers, whores--when we can ride past them at Fayette and Monroe, car doors locked, our field of vision cautiously restricted to the road ahead, then the long journey into darkness is underway. Pale-skinned hillbillies and hard-faced yos, toothless white trash and gold-front gangsters--when we can glide on and feel only fear, we're well on the way. And if, after a time, we can glimpse the spectacle of the corner and manage nothing beyond loathing and contempt, then we've arrived at last at that naked place where a man finally sees the sense in stretching razor wire and building barracks and directing cattle cars into the compound. It's a reckoning of another kind, perhaps, and one that becomes a possibility only through the arrogance and certainty that so easily accompanies a well-planned and well-tended life. We know ourselves, we believe in ourselves; from what we value most, we grant ourselves the illusion that it's not chance in circumstance, that opportunity itself isn't the defining issue. We want the high ground; we want our own worth to be acknowledged. Morality, intelligence, values--we want those things measured and counted. We want it to be about Us. Yes, if we were down there, if we were the damned of the American cities, we would not fail. We would rise above the corner. And when we tell ourselves such things, we unthinkably assume that we would be consigned to places like Fayette Street fully equipped, with all the graces and disciplines, talents and training that we now posses. Our parents would still be our parents, our teachers still our teachers, our broker still our broker. Amid the stench of so much defeat and despair, we would kick fate in the teeth and claim our deserved victory. We would escape to live the life we were supposed to live, the life we are living now. We would be saved, and as it always is in matters of salvation, we know this as a matter of perfect, pristine faith. Why? The truth is plain: We were not born to be niggers.
poverty race society lies fear prejudice bigotry hatred delusion
If a drug dealer falls in West Baltimore and no one is there to hear him, does he make a sound?
crime
If the case isn't plea bargained, dismissed or placed on the inactive docket for an indefinite period of time, if by some perverse twist of fate it becomes a trial by jury, you will then have the opportunity of sitting on the witness stand and reciting under oath the facts of the case-a brief moment in the sun that clouds over with the appearance of the aforementioned defense attorney who, at worst, will accuse you of perjuring yourself in a gross injustice or, at best, accuse you of conducting an investigation so incredibly slipshod that the real killer has been allowed to roam free. Once both sides have argued the facts of the case, a jury of twelve men and women picked from computer lists of registered voters in one of America's most undereducated cities will go to a room and begin shouting. If these happy people manage to overcome the natural impulse to avoid any act of collective judgement, they just may find one human being guilty of murdering another. Then you can go to Cher's Pub at Lexington and Guilford, where that selfsame assistant state's attorney, if possessed of any human qualities at all, will buy you a bottle of domestic beer. And you drink it. Because in a police department of about three thousand sworn souls, you are one of thirty-six investigators entrusted with the pursuit of that most extraordinary of crimes: the theft of a human life. You speak for the dead. You avenge those lost to the world. Your paycheck may come from fiscal services but, goddammit, after six beers you can pretty much convince yourself that you work for the Lord himself. If you are not as good as you should be, you'll be gone within a year or two, transferred to fugitive, or auto theft or check and fraud at the other end of the hall. If you are good enough, you will never do anything else as a cop that matters this much. Homicide is the major leagues, the center ring, the show. It always has been. When Cain threw a cap into Abel, you don't think The Big Guy told a couple of fresh uniforms to go down and work up the prosecution report. Hell no, he sent for a fucking detective. And it will always be that way, because the homicide unit of any urban police force has for generations been the natural habitat of that rarefied species, the thinking cop.
insight
The trick to making a story matter is that every now and then, somebody you care about has to go. If it's somebody that you don't care about, then it doesn't really have - the stakes aren't there. But if you do that every now and then, then the story matters to people. And there are actual stakes involved, emotional stakes.
people
While I think storytelling is a meaningful way to spend your life.. It does feel a little bit secondary or off-point.
life
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