America 1929: John F. Kennedy, the Great Writer

At 4 p.m. on October 30, Arthur and Isabella stood in front of a brownstone townhouse on East 65th Street.

Arthur straightened his collar, Isabella took a deep breath, and pressed the doorbell.

The door opened, and Elizabeth Harrison Walker stood there.

She was wearing a simple dark wool sweater and long skirt, her hair was neatly pulled back, and she was holding a stack of manuscript paper that was densely covered with pencil corrections.

She stepped aside to let them in:

"Punctuality is a good habit. I always want to change a few words at the last minute of my radio script. Come in, it's warm by the fireplace."

In the living room, the fireplace was burning brightly, the firewood crackling. Bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling, crammed with books, many with library-style labels on their spines.

"You still do radio programs?" Arthur asked, following up on the conversation.

"Every Friday afternoon, WEAF radio, 'Information Guide.' We talk to women about how to save money when a bank goes bankrupt, how to negotiate rent reductions with landlords, and things like that."

She gestured for them to sit down and poured herself three cups of tea.

"Isabella didn't mention it to you? No wonder, some people in this family think it's not very respectable for me to be out in the public eye and talking on the radio. But luckily, my husband is very supportive."

"So, why did you invite me here today?" Arthur asked tentatively.

"I'm having tea with some friends today, and I'd also like to introduce you to them."

Elizabeth took a sip of tea and looked at him:

"I've read your article, 'Yes, Mayor,' and a few of my friends are also very interested in it. I'd like to arrange a meeting for you today and find you a few safe havens while I'm at it."

Just as Arthur was about to answer, the doorbell rang again.

Elizabeth stood up: "The first safe haven has arrived."

The man who entered was a gentleman in his forties, wearing round-framed glasses. He was well-dressed, had a calm expression, and exuded an air of deep thought.

"Walter, you're always right to the second."

Elizabeth greeted them, then turned to Arthur and Isabella and introduced them: "This is Walter Lippmann, a big name in the press."

"The habit cultivated by deadlines."

Lippmann responded to Elizabeth, then turned to Arthur and Isabella and nodded slightly.

"Hello, I've read your newspaper."

Walter Lippmann is arguably the most renowned political commentator in the United States. His editorials are essential reading for presidents, cabinet ministers, and Wall Street tycoons.

He was later regarded by the academic community as one of the founders of communication studies.

"Mr. Kennedy, your Humphrey executive is portrayed very vividly. In particular, his talent for ensuring nothing goes wrong through perfect procedures is an epic poem of bureaucracy."

Arthur replied with a touch of humor:

"Thank you, Mr. Lippmann. I don't produce bureaucracy; I'm just a mover of it."

"Then you can be considered an excellent porter."

Lippmann sat down in the armchair by the fireplace, took the tea Elizabeth offered, paused for a moment, and then asked:

"But my question is: after you make the readers laugh at this cleverness, what do you leave them with? A deeper sense of powerlessness, or a more lucid anger? Can laughter destroy the walls of bureaucracy, or merely add some graffiti on the outside?"

The question was rather pointed. Isabella instinctively sat up straight.

Arthur pondered for a moment.

"Mr. Lippmann, my first hope is that they can recognize this wall. Many people live their whole lives in the shadow of this wall, feeling oppressed and blocked, yet they can't explain what that wall is, who built it, or why it exists. My article aims to outline that wall, or even throw a stone to make a sound."

"At least, the next time someone tells them, 'This requires a committee to study it,' they might recall Humphrey's executive smile and ask, 'How long will the study take? What's the budget? And what will the results be?'"

"You want to cultivate an instinctive skepticism?" Lippmann said.

"Or perhaps it's a kind of common-sense vigilance. You use a grand analytical framework to help readers understand how the world works, while I might just be trying to give them a small hammer to knock on the seemingly solid wall in front of them and listen to whether the sound is hollow."

Elizabeth clapped her hands gently.

"Well said. Walter, your column is for people who are already sitting in their studies with a world map spread out."

"His articles are for those who make a living at the foot of the wall but suddenly want to look up and see just how high the wall really is. Different paths may lead to different destinations."

Lippmann took a slow sip of tea, neither confirming nor denying, but his expression relaxed slightly.

"I reserve my opinion. But I don't deny that your article spread very quickly. In the current climate, that in itself is a valuable thing."

Just then, the doorbell rang again.

The man who came in this time was a man in his fifties with a reserved and composed demeanor.

"Ralph, it's so good to see you here," Elizabeth greeted him.

"How could I possibly miss Elizabeth's tea party, where the discussion revolves around the news?"

He looked at Arthur and reached out his hand.

"Ralph Pritzker. My father would be interested in your article if he were alive."

Ralph Pritzker is the eldest son of newspaper legend Joseph Pritzker, the current head of Pritzker Publishing, and the undisputed guardian and largest funder of Columbia University's Graduate School of Journalism.

Yes, this is the same Pulitzer Prize winner.

"Mr. Pritzker, it is a great honor."

Arthur said it from the bottom of his heart.

Ralph Pritzker sat down in another armchair.

"I've been following the New York Herald for a while now. It has a small circulation, but a significant voice. Especially recently. Miss Harrison has inherited your father's courage."

"We just did what a newspaper is supposed to do," Isabella said softly but clearly.

"Often, the things that should be done are the hardest to do."

"Ralph Pritz said slowly."

"My father firmly believed that the press must be independent, courageous, and a check on power, whether that power comes from the government, from capital, or from its own peers."

Lippmann looked up: "Ralph, what do you mean?"

"I'm referring to any attempt to suppress news competition using non-journalistic means."

"A healthy journalism industry depends on the competition of diverse voices and the free market of opinions. Overwhelming the market with sales figures is a skill, but slandering with rumors is another matter entirely."

These words were clearly pointed. Arthur and Isabella exchanged a glance, wondering what rumors this big shot had heard.

The doorbell rang for the third time.

This time it was a woman who was about forty years old, dressed elegantly and fashionably.

"Hopefully I'm not late? Something came up at the editorial office and I was held up."

"Margaret, you always have the perfect reason."

Elizabeth smiled and hugged her, then introduced her:

"Margaret Swoop, my most important friend and my staunchest supporter. Without her, the Information Guide might have turned into a fashion cooking show long ago."

Elizabeth then introduced Mrs. Swoop's husband, Herbert Bayard Swoop, as the editor-in-chief of the New York World and the first Pulitzer Prize winner, while Mrs. Swoop herself was active in public welfare and social activities.

Mrs. Swoop smiled and shook her head:

"Elizabeth, your listeners can't live without you. Last time you explained clearly what a mortgage loan is, and my inbox was almost flooded with thank-you messages."

She turned to Arthur and Isabella, her smile genuine.

"I've read your newspaper and your excellent article, Mr. Kennedy. My husband mentioned it when he got home, saying that many people at the newspaper office are talking about it."

Arthur and Isabella exchanged greetings, having a general idea of ​​the theme of today's event.