The Guardian: Why read any other obituaries?

I’ve ceased reading anything but the Guardian obituaries because they’re so well written and focus on the people that really make the world tick.  Here’s a quick example:

His stately demeanour and slightly otherworldly, almost aristocratic appearance gave him the air of an Oxford don: bespectacled, pin-striped and with a floppy forelock, he was easy to mock and incongruous in the demotic and inky world of 1970s newspapers. There was a certain tweediness of opinions, too, that could be reminiscent of a Wodehousian country squire. But his remote and reserved manner belied a steely intelligence and ambition that saw him become a national newspaper editor before his 40th birthday and kept him active in journalism for decades. He was regularly derided as “Mystic Mogg” – a parody of a tabloid astrologer – for his occasionally perverse or wrong-headed assumptions, but none could deny that his columns were serious, if often pompous, or – a term he would have relished – influential in circles that mattered.


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