Real Rabbits

This week, I was asked to write for one of the national newspapers.

I refused.

I have written for big publications before. But I prefer writing my books and articles without worrying who might read them. There is a pleasure in being your own Editor-in-Chief—hunting the truth, giving it light, choosing your own words. I won’t let others cut my work. They can shove off.

Writing as I do has risks. You can be sued. Lose everything. I didn’t have the top lawyers of the nationals to hide behind and, until recently, I didn’t have any top lawyers to rely upon at all. Sadly, in Britain today, you can write the truth and still end up in court. That’s no reason to quit. That would be weak.

Neither have I ever wanted to be a talking head. What’s the point? Racing between studios to shout at ideological foes—unless it’s a proper, long fight, count me out. I’ll do long interviews, but only on things I know. The usual faces gabble on topics they’ve just Googled. Blah, blah, blah. Sure, without them, the algorithms of social media firms would starve. But what good does it do?

The studios are loud. The lights are hot. The questions are shallow. Men and women who know nothing argue about everything. They speak in soundbites, not truths. Their words vanish like smoke.

Some like the fight. The quick jab. The clever twist of phrase. But I prefer the long war—the one fought in books, in essays, in quiet thought. If a man knows something, let him say it properly. If he doesn’t, he should keep his mouth shut.

The cameras blink like hungry eyes. The producers want conflict, not wisdom. A man can lose himself in that game. Better to walk away. Better to write one true sentence than shout a hundred lies.

Maybe one man and his dog are watching. I’d tell them not to bother wasting time watching the talking heads rabbiting away. Better to walk the green fields. Chase real rabbits. Healthier. More honest.