The Columnist I

n his prime the journalist worked like a thor oughbred. He was built to race. Age disables him in active competition. The special breed of horse, when out of the racetrack, is also useful in the circus. A beast of burden it becomes. In the local setting, the old hag clip- clops the little byways with his master who is famous for his “kwentung cochero.”

Like the horse discharged from arduous work, the aging newsman becomes a columnist.

Generally people are bored and like to see things in a humorous light. I have styled my writings to the ancient art form called familiar or personal essays. The style is the person.

Since I have learned that the writer should not take himself seriously I discovered that anyone without a sense of humour is at the mercy of anyone else. Like in a romance story it happens that how such something so true turns out to be a lie.

If I live my life again I would still be a newsman. It probably is the only occupation I know which gives one the privilege of asking complete strangers and inquire about their personal secrets without being scolded. You intrude into their private demons with impunity.

The journalist likes to get up close and personal with very important people called celebrities. The paucity of reward for this effort is compensated by getting at the most proximate truth. There is treasure from the junkshop of their peccadilloes and scandals.

The writer’s essential goal is to discern the truth. I always invoke the Holy Spirit to see beyond the chaos, beyond the issues, beyond the doubts. If he is obsessed to reach these, his resolute instinct will take him there.

It is like chasing the girl in your youthful dreams. In an experiment of butterflies breeding cycle one male butterfly was released three miles from his female partner. He found her in half an hour.