Cliché is anesthetic death. Only the unfinished building lets in light. Fiction, in its greatest period, was deeply unfinished as a genre. It was written for the rich or possibly the poor, for reasons of high art or possibly low commerce, by radical invention or antique saga-spinning, about the everyday or the extraordinary, through modes of parody or preaching. Social media has thrown nonfiction into a similar happy confusion. What is simple reportage? What is memoir? What is a blog post? What is an essay? What is high and what is low? What is commercial and what is art? All of the standards and distinctions are melting; old forms, superheated in the furnace of the internet, may be molded into new.
However, after its appearance there may have been constructive changes in outline, but not in the heart of the profession. Identical to its nature in the times of the first European newspapers, the journalists’ work is to provide his readers (listeners, viewers) with information; the less obtainable it is, the more valuable is his work. That is why the representatives of this trade are so much hated in totalitarian states – journalists embody the freedom of information , while any dictatorship is based on reality – and mind -control and doesn’t let anybody have any opinion of their own.