{"product_id":"the-new-new-journalism-isbn-9781400033560","title":"The New New Journalism","description":"Forty years after Tom Wolfe, Hunter S. Thompson, and Gay Talese launched the New   Journalism movement, Robert S. Boynton sits down with nineteen practitioners of what   he calls the \u003ci\u003eNew \u003c\/i\u003eNew Journalism to discuss their methods, writings and careers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The New New Journalists are first and foremost brilliant reporters who immerse themselves   completely in their subjects. Jon Krakauer accompanies a mountaineering expedition   to Everest. Ted Conover works for nearly a year as a prison guard. Susan Orlean follows   orchid fanciers to reveal an obsessive subculture few knew existed. Adrian Nicole   LeBlanc spends nearly a decade reporting on a family in the South Bronx. And like   their muckraking early twentieth-century precursors, they are drawn to the most pressing   issues of the day: Alex Kotlowitz, Leon Dash, and William Finnegan to race and class;   Ron Rosenbaum to the problem of evil; Michael Lewis to boom-and-bust economies; Richard   Ben Cramer to the nitty gritty of politics. How do they do it? In these interviews,   they reveal the techniques and inspirations behind their acclaimed works, from their   felt-tip pens, tape recorders, long car rides, and assumed identities; to their intimate   understanding of the way a truly great story unfolds. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Interviews with: \u003cbr\u003e Gay Talese\u003cbr\u003e Jane Kramer\u003cbr\u003e Calvin Trillin\u003cbr\u003e Richard Ben Cramer\u003cbr\u003e Ted Conover\u003cbr\u003e Alex Kotlowitz\u003cbr\u003e Richard   Preston\u003cbr\u003e William Langewiesche\u003cbr\u003e Eric Schlosser\u003cbr\u003e Leon Dash\u003cbr\u003e William Finnegan\u003cbr\u003e Jonathan   Harr\u003cbr\u003e Jon Krakauer\u003cbr\u003e Adrian Nicole LeBlanc\u003cbr\u003e Michael Lewis\u003cbr\u003e Susan Orlean\u003cbr\u003e Ron Rosenbaum\u003cbr\u003e Lawrence Weschler\u003cbr\u003e Lawrence WrightRobert S. Boynton is the director of the Literary Reportage program at the Arthur L. Carter Journalism Institute at New York University. He graduated with honors in philosophy and religion from Haverford College, and received an MA in political science from Yale University. He has been a senior editor at \u003ci\u003eHarper's\u003c\/i\u003e and a contributing writer for \u003ci\u003eThe New Yorker\u003c\/i\u003e.   His work has appeared in \u003ci\u003eThe Atlantic Monthly, The New York Times Magazine, The Nation,   Rolling Stone\u003c\/i\u003e and many other publications.Ted Conover   \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe first time Ted Conover was asked if he was a tramp he wasn’t sure how to respond. The son of a successful lawyer, Conover had been jumping on and off trains for months, riding the rails as research for his college anthropology thesis. He certainly \u003ci\u003elooked\u003c\/i\u003e the part; even his parents didn’t recognize him when he showed up on their doorstep. In fact, he had entered the life so completely that when another tramp tried to jump into his boxcar (a violation of hobo etiquette), Conover barely hesitated before stepping on the man’s hand, sending him flying off the moving train. “I guess I am,” he answered uneasily, all too aware of the vast expanse—economic, social, intellectual—separating him from his veteran-tramp interlocutor.   \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt is this expanse that Conover has spent the last two decades exploring, first in \u003cb\u003eRolling Nowhere\u003c\/b\u003e (1984), the cult classic he wrote about his hobo travels, and then in his three subsequent books—\u003cb\u003eCoyotes\u003c\/b\u003e (1987), \u003cb\u003eWhiteout\u003c\/b\u003e (1991), and \u003cb\u003eNewjack\u003c\/b\u003e (2000)—about Mexican illegal aliens, Aspen celebrities, and prison guards. Together, they have cemented Conover’s reputation as one of the finest participatory journalists of his generation.   \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThose who have read only one or two of Conover’s works might cubbyhole him as the bard of gritty, rough-and-tumble subcultures. While not untrue, the description is incomplete. It obscures Conover’s real subject: the fine lines separating “us” from “them,” and the elaborate rituals and markers—“parts of town, railroad tracks and boulevards, places in the heart and mind,” he writes in \u003cb\u003eCoyotes\u003c\/b\u003e—that we have developed to bolster such distinctions.   \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn Conover’s hands, migrant workers, rootless hoboes, and prison guards become vivid, morally ambiguous characters, deserving of praise \u003ci\u003eand\u003c\/i\u003e scorn, admiration \u003ci\u003eand\u003c\/i\u003e pity. Without sacrificing the commitment of the early-twentieth-century muckrakers, or the gusto of the nineteenth-century literary adventurers in whose footsteps he walks, Conover combines “a sociologist’s eye for detail with a novelist’s sense of drama and compassion,” as \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e’s Michiko Kakutani wrote of \u003cb\u003eCoyotes\u003c\/b\u003e.   \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBorn in 1958 in Okinawa, Japan, where his father was stationed as a navy pilot, Conover was raised in an affluent Denver neighborhood. In high school, he was bused to a newly desegregated school (50 percent black, 40 percent white, and 10 percent Hispanic), and he credits the experience with inspiring his love of anthropology (a discipline he calls “philosophy as lived by real people”). “I learned that one’s own culture is not necessarily normative,” he says, “that there are many ways of looking at the world.”   \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn 1980, after three years of studying anthropology at Amherst, Conover wearied of the college’s elitism. Conover proposed to ride the rails for his senior thesis. He wanted to learn whether hoboes were great American rebels (“renegades, conscientious objectors to the nine-to-five work world”), infantrymen in the army of homeless who were then inundating cities across America, or both. The college said they couldn’t sanction an illegal activity, but Conover completed the fieldwork on his own time, hitting the road armed with little more than an emergency stash of traveler’s checks.   \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eConover returned to Amherst to write his senior thesis gaining approval for the project after the fact, when his professor saw the notes he’d taken on the trip. He also spun off an autobiographical article for a student magazine, which caught the attention of several television producers. His enthusiasm for the subject bolstered by the attention, Conover turned down the reporting job he had been offered at \u003ci\u003eThe Indianapolis Star\u003c\/i\u003e and decided to write a book about his adventures.   \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eRolling Nowhere\u003c\/b\u003e was published in 1984. \u003ci\u003eWashington Post\u003c\/i\u003e staff writer Chip Brown noted the peculiarly American themes—expansion, restlessness, the myth of the West—that would mark much of Conover’s future work. “Freight trains possess grandeur. They cast an epic spell. With their long whistles and their magical names, they summarize something in us, for they have carried not just the steel and wheat of America, but the nation’s westwardness and some measure of its spacious dream,” Brown wrote.   \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter graduating from Amherst summa cum laude, he won a spot as a Marshall Scholar at Cambridge University. It was not long before Conover was back on the road, expanding on the insight he had gained writing \u003cb\u003eRolling Nowhere\u003c\/b\u003e: “Mexican farmworkers were the new American hoboes.” For \u003cb\u003eCoyotes\u003c\/b\u003e, Conover crossed the U.S.-Mexican border four times, traveling with migrant workers through California, Arizona, Idaho, and Florida. He picked lemons and oranges, and lived for a time in the village of Ahuacatlan, Querétaro, the hometown of a number of the illegal immigrants he met.   \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAgain, some critics realized that Conover was writing about something more fundamental than the immigration debate. “What makes it really glow on every page is Mr. Conover’s realization that he is dealing neither with a crime nor a tragedy, but with another of those human adventures that make America a country that is constantly renewing itself,” wrote T. D. Allman in \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e.   \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBack in New York, Conover was rankled at a cocktail party when a friend introduced him as “Ted Conover, a writer who makes his living sleeping on the ground.” The accuracy of the remark disturbed him. “I was unsettled to feel so easily typecast at age thirty, and began to wonder whether my participant-observer method could be used to write about people who weren’t remote or poor.”   \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe result was his 1991 book, \u003cb\u003eWhiteout: Lost in Aspen\u003c\/b\u003e, in which Conover conducted what he described as “an ethnography of hedonism,” observing Aspen’s celebrity culture from his perches as a local cab driver and reporter at the \u003ci\u003eAspen Times\u003c\/i\u003e. As with his previous books, \u003cb\u003eWhiteout\u003c\/b\u003e was a meditation on the author’s ambiguous relationship to the phenomenon he chronicled—the “great celebrity laboratory” that Aspen had become. Some critics were disappointed by Conover’s turn away from the dispossessed. Writing in the \u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e, Richard Eder felt that Conover’s considerable “talent overmatches his subject.” Others perceived a continuity. “His subject is Aspen, the glittering ski resort and celebrity enclave in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado. The underlying theme, however, is similar to that explored in his earlier books: the promise and betrayal of the American Dream,” wrote Kakutani.   \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the early nineties, Conover asked the New York State Depart-ment of Correctional Services for permission to write an article for \u003ci\u003eThe New Yorker\u003c\/i\u003e in which he would follow a guard through training. The U.S. prison population was at an all-time high, and he conceived of the story as being as much about economics as society. The Department is New York State’s second-largest employer, and ailing communities throughout the region routinely bid for new prisons in the hopes they will revive the local economy.   \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen his formal request was rejected, Conover applied for a job as a guard, carefully navigating the ethical and legal minefield of undercover reporting. He offered no false information on his application, but did omit mention of his three books, and he vowed to himself not to write anything about the experience until after he had quit. “When I was a guard, I wanted to be 100 percent a guard,” he says, living on a guard’s salary and eschewing writing assignments. Fortunately, journalists and guards do share one thing—both carrying around notebooks in which to jot down their observations. Every night, from March 1997 to January 1998, when he returned from Sing Sing, Conover would type up pages of single-spaced notes (nearly five hundred in all), elaborating on the day’s observations. It was part journalism and part therapy, as he tried to unburden himself of the awful things he’d witnessed—and taken part in—every day.   \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe project required complete secrecy, and Conover’s double life took a toll. He was wracked with terrible headaches and found he was often sullen around his family. He feared he was allowing the anarchy of Sing Sing to seep into his placid home life. Published in 2000, \u003cb\u003eNewjack\u003c\/b\u003e won the National Book Critics Circle Award and was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize. Conover was awarded a Guggenheim Fellowship in 2003 and is at work on a book about roads. In February 2004, Conover received the kind of compliment life pays to art. Using \u003cb\u003eNewjack\u003c\/b\u003e as their guide, a group of Sing Sing inmates hatched an ingenious (though unsuccessful) escape plan in which they would pose as guards.       \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eDo you think of yourself as a “New Journalist”?   \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eIt isn’t a phrase I use, although I wouldn’t object if someone called me that. Wolfe’s essay on the New Journalism was important to me because it articulated and validated many of the methods—saturation reporting, attention to detail, attention to status, etc.—I was already practicing. I feel lucky to have started my writing career at a time when writers like Wolfe were experimenting with the tools of the fiction writer.   \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eSo if not “New Journalism,” what do you call your genre of journalism?   \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eI write nonfiction narratives. I like that phrase because it doesn’t have the pretensions of “literary journalism,” and it stresses the fact that storytelling is the backbone of my work.   \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eWhat subjects are you drawn to?   \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eI guess mainly those that seem socially significant and underreported, particularly if they allow me to participate in the story in some meaningful way. I might discover a situation or group—sometimes a marginal or strange subculture—which I find fascinating. By participating in that world, I try to offer the reader a level of insight and detail he would not otherwise have. I prefer smaller, overlooked stories. I’d rather not be competing with the presidential press corps. I like to take my time and to be a bit contrarian.   \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eWhy subcultures?   \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eIn college I studied anthropology, which dovetails with journalism in fascinating and productive ways. If you’re a journalist who has the luxury of time and a willingness to get your hands a little dirty, you will be able to get stories that nobody else gets.   \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAn example is the story I told in \u003cb\u003eNewjack\u003c\/b\u003e. Here is an important subject, a worsening problem—incarceration, the boom in building new prisons—whose significance, I felt, was underappreciated by society at large. I found an unexplored angle from which to approach: guards are a stigmatized, insular subculture which have, for all their notoriety, rarely been written about. And guarding—working as a correctional officer—turned out to be something I could \u003ci\u003edo\u003c\/i\u003e.   \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eSo why not just interview prison guards?   \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eBecause I would only get part of the story. The interview will only take you so far, especially when you are talking to people who are uncomfortable with the press or who have things to hide. You can get further by conducting many interviews, over time, in different places. That was my original plan when I got the assignment from \u003ci\u003eThe New Yorker\u003c\/i\u003e: I would follow a family of corrections officers at work and at home. But the New York State Department of Correctional Services turned down my requests for access to the prisons. And I thought, “Until you’ve seen somebody doing this kind of work, you probably won’t know a thing about it.”   \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI suppose what I’m getting at is like the distinction between \u003ci\u003etourist\u003c\/i\u003e and a \u003ci\u003etraveler\u003c\/i\u003e. The tourist experience is superficial and glancing. The traveler develops a deeper connection with her surroundings. She is more invested in them-the traveler stays longer, makes her own plans, chooses her own destination, and usually travels alone: solo travel and solo participation, although the most difficult emotionally, seem the most likely to produce a good story.   \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eDo many of your stories begin as an opportunity for role-playing, whether you are writing about hoboes, illegal immigrants, or prison guards?   \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eI guess there’s some role-playing involved. I’m fascinated by the idea of wearing different hats, of how one’s outlook changes depending on one’s position in the world, by the whole question of \u003ci\u003eidentity\u003c\/i\u003e. For my first book, \u003cb\u003eRolling Nowhere\u003c\/b\u003e—which started as a college thesis—I lived for four months as a hobo, with hoboes. The prospect was total wish fulfillment for me—several freight lines run through my hometown of Denver, and I grew up with a bit of an image of the hobo as a cultural hero, the kind of romantic figure you find in Kerouac. Riding the rails seemed, on the one hand, a great adventure.   \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut I knew it was something else, too. This was 1980, when the word “homeless” was just entering our vocabulary because of the large number of street people appearing in cities. I wondered to myself, Were the transients on freight trains homeless people? Or were they—as \u003ci\u003ethey\u003c\/i\u003e insisted—something else entirely? Were they a social problem, or—the more romantic option—conscientious objectors to the nine-to-five world? I liked the dialectic. So the project was two things, as I guess all my books have been: an intellectual inquiry, and an adventure.   \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eWhy did you study anthropology in college?   \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eI’d always been interested in philosophy, and anthropology seemed like philosophy as lived by real people. It was the study of how different groups of people view their experience of the world. Anthropology combines the abstractions of philosophy with the concreteness of lived experience.   \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eWhat about the notion of multiple views and experiences of the world interested you?\u003c\/b\u003e   \u003cbr\u003eI think it started a long time ago. One big piece comes from high school in Denver, where I was bused by court order from a predominately white school to a predominately black school. I was a racial minority for the first time in my life and it taught me a lot. The world looks different when your own group is not in charge. Also, there was a core of progressive teachers who were determined to defy the larger community’s expectations that there would be a riot and that the experiment in integration would fail. The students embraced the possibility that it could be a new kind of school, one without the archetypes of jocks, freaks, and nerds. It was a place where you could be something new: a white person cheering the basketball team, or a black person cheering the soccer team. I found it profoundly liberating.   \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eHow do you connect those lessons to the kind of journalism you practice?   \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eOne result was that it made me want to avoid the kind of journalism that relies heavily on “credentialed” sources. I sometimes think of what I do as a kind of a guerrilla action. I try to find people and groups who have \u003ci\u003enot\u003c\/i\u003e been heard from. I depend on the \u003ci\u003enewness\u003c\/i\u003e of this information to keep my audience interested in my writing.","brand":"Vintage","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302326423781,"sku":"NP9781400033560","price":21.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781400033560.jpg?v=1767740677","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-new-new-journalism-isbn-9781400033560","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}