There is a certain mystique about newspapers—the piles of identical bulletins stacked in the newsagent, the solemn blackness of the headlines, the ink on your fingers, the wrinkly familiarity of spreading it out in front of you on the table. I’m not sure how the combination works, but whatever the reason, I still find it hard not to believe what I read there. There is a gravitas, a kind of aura of trust, that seems to emanate from the pages. Surely if it’s there in black and white, then it must have happened like that?

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