Legendary WaPo editor Ben Bradlee died yesterday at the age of 93. David Remnick reflects:
[T]he most overstated notion about Bradlee was the idea that he was an ideological man. This was a cartoon. Because of the Pentagon Papers and Watergate, he and Katharine Graham were often seen as ferociously committed liberals. They were, in fact, committed to the First Amendment, committed to publishing; they made their names by building an institution strong enough to be daring.
But Bradlee did not question deeply institutional Washington. Bradlee and his wife, the writer Sally Quinn, were at the center of what remained of old Georgetown, not outside of it. (He had been married twice before, and had four children in all.) And when, in conversation or in his memoirs, he did talk about his political ideas, they did not run very deep. As a former soldier, he was ambivalent about the anti-Vietnam War movement. After a trip to Vietnam, in 1971, he “ended up feeling uncommitted politically as usual,” he once said. …
Bradlee was, above all, a driven newspaperman, a man of his time and of his institution, and more alive than a major weather system. He was a man of great principle and of great luck, blessed in the ownership that supported him and blessed with a loving wife who cared for him to the very end–an end that was miles from easy.
Peter Osnos explains what Bradlee’s “editorial genius” consisted of:
It was his unfailing sense of what made a story stronger. His questions were precise and invariably to the point. His credo for the front page was that stories carry impact, preferably were exclusive, and were written with flair. He had particular admiration for intrepid reporting, especially when it was connected to good writing. If a piece was a dud, Ben would let you know one way or another, but he rarely held a grudge as long you came roaring back with a better version or some breakthrough on a running story.
Ben was renowned for creating the Post’s Style section, which was the ne plus ultra destination for major profiles and features that changed the character of what readers could expect to find in newspapers. The edgier writing of the kind that had previously been found in magazines like Esquire made the section hugely popular and influential.
John Dickerson adds some nuance to Bradlee’s celebrity culture:
When I think of the journalists and columnists of the Kennedy era—Teddy White, Hugh Sidey, Joe Alsop, and Bradlee—I wonder where any of them would fit today. They were all mythmakers in one form or another. White worked with Jackie Kennedy to give us the Camelot story, but Bradlee irritated the former First Lady by writing his account. He also ticked off the president at times, which accounts for the gaps in Conversations with Kennedy. This suggests at least some astringency in the relationship, and that Bradlee retained some perspective.
In retrospect, the book is such a glowing account that it’s hard to see what anyone in the Kennedy camp could be sore about. But Bradlee’s relationship with Kennedy defines a category that we could use more of: the irritating confidante. There’s plenty of critical coverage of presidents and there are plenty of official meaningless statements put out by the president’s mouthpieces. What’s required is someone who can work the gap in the middle, a sympathetic voice who gives us some insight into the office, what really happens, and what it does to a person that only access can bring. At the same time, this someone must have enough self-respect, experience, and wisdom to know that using that access to write hagiography is a special kind of dull lie.
Former WaPo writer Ezra Klein chimes in:
Most men with that kind of charisma are crippled by it. They so love to be liked that they cannot stand to be hated. But Bradlee could. The decision to run the Pentagon Papers could have destroyed the Washington Post. The decision to keep pursuing President Richard Nixon could have done much worse than that.
Bradlee was better than virtually anyone else from his generation at being liked, but he built his legend — and his paper — because he was willing to be hated in service of journalism. “As long as a journalist tells the truth, in conscience and fairness, it is not his job to worry about consequences.” he wrote in 1973. “The truth is never as dangerous as a lie in the long run. I truly believe the truth sets men free.” A lot of editors write things like that. But Bradlee really believed it, and he proved it, again and again.
(Photo: The Washington Post’s Ben Bradlee in the composing room looking at A1 of the first edition headlined “Nixon Resigns.” By David R. Legge/The Washington Post via Getty Images)
The Dish 