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There was no one thing that killed journalism. There was no singular tragic moment. No literary or poetic climax. This is real life, not Hollywood.

When I was a kid, I remember hearing “old folks” complain about how the young had no respect for their elders—just a bunch of goddammed hippies singing about love and marijuana—and how the country was going to hell in a handbasket. Now that I’m the age of those old folks, I find myself thinking (and sometimes saying) scarily similar things—and...