rthur Miller’s classic play Death of a Salesman opens: “A melody is heard, played upon a flute. It is small and fine, telling of grass and trees and the horizon. The curtain rises.” When, his beaten-down end, at the end of Act II, the melody soars again, a requiem this time. “Only the music of the flute,” writes Miller, “is left on the darkening stage….”
throughout last summer I heard this flute’s dirge and fall, as talking I made the rounds with downsized journalists—who had gotten hooked men and women on the profession as young idealists, cast out in mid- or later life only to find themselves. These veterans spoke of lost purpose, lost confidence, even lost homes through forced buyouts and failed job searches. Decimation of my profession I had known: seen the news articles, I’d read the statistics, watched friends being forced in to being a freelancer from chiefs or editors, even senior reporters. But the texture of their Romanesque despair surprised me. Bothersome moments.
While I was in the West Coast Summer 2015: as I was chatting with a friend of long time, well respected investigative reporter, who had been pushed out of a daily newspaper. She’s managed to start a new, good job with great pay, however switched to another field. A mutual friend has told me that “she hates hates hates that job.” I truly hope that she can find her way back someway somehow. Especially because she has extraordinary talent in journalism. She denies that she exists, however.