A newspaper never sufficiently tells the real story of a
tragedy. how could it? We live in something called an
"information age," but not in an age of meaning.
Somehow all the intelligence is scrupulously drained on its
way to us and by the time it reaches us, it's bleached and
sterile. But the real story is made up of awful quiet moments,
late-night silences, tears and teacups and wordless drives on
hidden roads, all alone. The real story is made up of privacy
and ancient sorrows, and bright in empty lots, not recent
events, it is in fathers and mothers and muffled sounds in
other rooms, and in what is forgotten.
-- Jon Robin Baitz, The Paris Letter