A long life in journalism convinced me many presidents ago that

Hear the words of Walter Lippmann, sage of the press and witness to the rise and fall of leaders: “A long life in journalism convinced me many presidents ago that there should be a large air space between a journalist and the head of a state.” At first, these words sound like counsel of prudence, a technical instruction on the craft of reporting. Yet beneath them beats the heart of a profound truth: that the journalist must not sit too close to the throne, lest his voice be drowned by the whispers of power.

For the task of the journalist is not flattery but truth, not servitude but vigilance. The head of state commands armies and laws, but the journalist commands words, and words are no less mighty. If they are bent by proximity, softened by friendship, or chained by favor, they become hollow. Lippmann, who lived through many administrations, understood the danger: that when the journalist draws too near the ruler, he ceases to be the voice of the people and becomes instead the echo of power.

History itself bears witness to this. In the courts of kings, bards and chroniclers often lost their independence, shaping their tales to please their sovereigns. But in times of liberty, the press was strongest when it stood apart. Recall the Watergate scandal, when reporters Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein pursued truth not by dining with President Nixon, but by investigating him from afar. Their distance gave them clarity, and their clarity brought down corruption at the highest level. Here was the very “air space” of which Lippmann spoke—room enough to see power clearly, without being drawn into its orbit.

And yet, this is no call to hostility, but to integrity. For too great a closeness corrupts, but too great a distance blinds. The journalist must be near enough to observe, but not so near as to be absorbed. It is a balance of fire and restraint, of access without allegiance. The glory of journalism lies not in companionship with rulers, but in service to the governed. To speak truth for those without voice, to hold leaders accountable, to remind the powerful that they too are bound by the law and by justice—this is the ancient calling.

Think also of the role of the Athenian orators, who in the agora addressed their fellow citizens. They were not courtiers whispering into the ears of kings, but men standing in the open air, answering not to rulers but to the people. In this way, democracy itself was sustained—not by secrecy, but by light. So too must journalism be a lamp held at a distance, shining upon the deeds of rulers, illuminating what they would rather hide.

The lesson is sharp and clear: guard the independence of your voice. Whether you are a journalist, a thinker, or an ordinary citizen, do not let your judgment be clouded by intimacy with power. Question authority, even when it flatters you. Keep enough air space that your words remain your own, unbent by favors or fear. For the closeness that silences truth is the death of freedom, but the distance that preserves it is the breath of democracy.

Therefore, O seekers of wisdom, remember the counsel of Lippmann: do not sit too close to the throne. For rulers come and go, but truth must endure. The journalist, the citizen, the teacher, the writer—all must guard their independence, that justice may live. Let your words serve the people, not the powerful. In this way, the air between you and the throne becomes not emptiness, but space for truth to breathe.