Newspapers with declining circulations can complain all they

The words of Marc Andreessen strike like a trumpet call across the valleys of commerce and time: “Newspapers with declining circulations can complain all they want about their readers and even say they have no taste. But you will still go out of business over time. A newspaper is not a public trust—it has a business model that either works or it doesn’t.” In these words lies not only the fate of the printing press, but the eternal truth of all human endeavor that seeks to endure: survival is not guaranteed by tradition, nor by sentiment, but by the ability to adapt and remain relevant.

From the dawn of cities, when criers walked the streets with tidings of war and edicts of kings, the flow of information has been tied to the survival of the messenger. Once, parchment and ink held sway; later, the printing press became the forge of nations, carrying revolution, knowledge, and propaganda alike. But the river of time flows on, and when new vessels arise—be it radio, television, or the digital scrolls of the internet—the old must either transform or perish. Andreessen reminds us: the press is not sacred by itself. Its holiness rests only in its ability to serve and sustain through a working model.

Consider the fall of mighty Rome. For centuries, its legions conquered, its roads connected, its laws ordered. But when Rome ceased to adapt—when corruption hollowed its core, and its people clung to past glory while ignoring present necessity—the empire crumbled. Just as the empire could not survive on memory, neither can a newspaper endure by invoking its past prestige. The citizen does not consume out of reverence alone, but out of usefulness. If the words no longer serve, the people will turn away, and the once-mighty pages will gather dust.

Yet history also reveals those who grasped change and rose with it. Think of The New York Times during the digital shift. Where others clung desperately to the old ways, the Times sought new ground, embracing subscriptions and digital platforms. They did not survive by insisting the readers had lost taste; they survived by reshaping their business model to match the times. Like Odysseus upon the stormy sea, they lashed themselves to the mast of innovation and endured the waves of change.

The essence of Andreessen’s teaching is stern but just: do not confuse your work with destiny, nor your tradition with entitlement. A public trust may inspire reverence, but a business must breathe through its own lungs. When the marketplace shifts, the wise do not rail against the crowd—they listen, adapt, and evolve. To curse the reader for abandoning you is to curse the tide for turning. Both are in vain.

Let us learn, then, that every endeavor—whether in art, in commerce, or in life—must wed principle with practicality. Passion alone will not preserve it. Noble mission must walk hand in hand with a model that sustains it. As the farmer cannot reap without sowing, so too can the writer, the craftsman, the entrepreneur, or the dreamer not endure unless their vision stands upon a foundation of sustainability.

The lesson is clear: hold your mission dear, but never neglect the vessel that carries it. Do not cling to failing forms while condemning those who leave you behind. Instead, ask: How must I change to remain alive? For relevance is earned, not inherited, and survival belongs not to the proud, but to the adaptable.

Practical actions follow: if you lead a venture, measure both your heart and your revenue. Listen humbly to those you serve, for their choices speak louder than your intentions. Build models that sustain your work, so that your mission does not crumble with time. And if you are the reader, the customer, the supporter, recognize your power: where you place your attention, there shall the future rise or fall. In this eternal dance of creation and commerce, may we all learn to move with the rhythm of change, not against it.