"I can write better than anybody who can write faster, and I can write faster than anybody who can write better"
About this Quote
It’s a swagger disguised as a yardstick. Liebling’s line snaps shut around an old newsroom anxiety: speed versus quality, the eternal trade-off editors pretend they can solve with deadlines. He refuses the binary. The boast is structured like a seesaw that never tips, a neat chiasmus that turns a workplace metric into a personal mythology: if you’re fast, I’m better; if you’re good, I’m faster. There’s no safe corner left for rivals to occupy.
The intent isn’t just self-praise; it’s a claim about authority. In mid-century journalism, where the wire services and daily deadlines rewarded velocity and column inches, “fast” could mean sloppy and “better” could mean precious. Liebling signals he can deliver polish under pressure, the skill that buys a writer freedom: more space, more latitude, fewer meddling edits. The subtext is that writing isn’t merely art or labor but a competitive sport with invisible scorekeeping, and he’s announcing he knows the rules better than the accountants do.
It works because the sentence performs what it asserts. It’s quick on its feet, almost oral, built to land like a punchline; yet it’s also tightly engineered, balancing clauses like a well-cut suit. Liebling’s humor carries a defensive edge too: when you’re good, people assume you’re slow; when you’re fast, they assume you’re shallow. He preempts both critiques by making them mutually canceling. In a culture that fetishizes productivity metrics, it’s also a reminder that the best writers weaponize time itself.
The intent isn’t just self-praise; it’s a claim about authority. In mid-century journalism, where the wire services and daily deadlines rewarded velocity and column inches, “fast” could mean sloppy and “better” could mean precious. Liebling signals he can deliver polish under pressure, the skill that buys a writer freedom: more space, more latitude, fewer meddling edits. The subtext is that writing isn’t merely art or labor but a competitive sport with invisible scorekeeping, and he’s announcing he knows the rules better than the accountants do.
It works because the sentence performs what it asserts. It’s quick on its feet, almost oral, built to land like a punchline; yet it’s also tightly engineered, balancing clauses like a well-cut suit. Liebling’s humor carries a defensive edge too: when you’re good, people assume you’re slow; when you’re fast, they assume you’re shallow. He preempts both critiques by making them mutually canceling. In a culture that fetishizes productivity metrics, it’s also a reminder that the best writers weaponize time itself.
Quote Details
| Topic | Writing |
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