Last night I dreamt that The New York Times shut down. In my dream, it was the world's last printed newspaper, and the silencing of its presses marked the death of a medium. I was saddened by the news, but everyone around me seemed unconcerned as they read the story on their Ipads.
Like most dreams, this one was inspired by a real life experience. It was a visit to an exhibition called «Paris Journal: le quartier de la presse», held at my local town hall in the IXe arrondissement (6, rue Drouot). The exhibition recalls the era when the streets behind the grands boulevards were full of newspaper offices. Most of them have gone now, but for more than a century the district was packed with reporters, photographers and press agencies. In those days, journalists needed to be close to the cafés, theatres and brothels that were the potential sources of stories. News was gathered on the street. And newspapers were located among the toiling masses rather than in airless, silent towers in the suburbs.
I caught a brief glimpse of this world when I started working on a small local newspaper in 1987. The newsroom featured typewriters, jangling telephones and reporters who smoked. Less than a decade later, that world had vanished. And now it seems that newspapers themselves may follow, leaving only nostalgic exhibitions in their wake.
