When I heard the news of the death of Rex Murphy, not unexpected but so hard to accept, my first thoughts were of how much I would miss his kindnesses.
We loaned or gave each other books and extensive reviews of books. Rex was meticulously courteous, an ambassador in our midst from an unhurried era when people took the trouble to notice, to say what they intended to say, without impatience or excessive verbosity. He communicated with his readers and with the public he randomly encountered, and began all relationships, no matter how fleeting or coincidental, with the belief that the person he was meeting had something to say worth hearing. He was without prejudice of any kind and was never too old to learn.
His great love and talent were Irish and English literature, and there was no modern phenomenon he lamented more than the decline in the literary standards and the integrity of journalism. He felt intensely that those who imparted the news to the public had a duty to do so impartially and in as distinguished language as possible: written or spoken; not elaborate but clear and correct in its emphasis. And nothing worried or annoyed him more than the widespread current tendency to mix reporting and comment in a way that effectively transformed chronicling into advocacy, without notice.
He felt so impassioned about public addresses he delivered that he accused himself, unjustly, of being a “demagogue.” He always ended in a powerful flourish, and took about an hour to return to his normal state of equable serenity. He was so civilized in his opinions and contented with his lot that he was practically unmoved by the imminence of death. He always knew what ultimately awaited, and did not feel any right to complain about it after 77 years. In our last conversation he thought he might be up for one more dinner, but added: “I will die soon and I’m fine with that. I’ve had pretty much the life I wanted.”
It is somehow indicative of Rex Murphy’s endlessly considerate nature that as I wrote this piece, his daughter telephoned me to thank me on behalf of Rex and his family for my friendship with her father. All I could do was explain that her kindness was reminiscent of his and that it was my honour to be his friend.
Rex was one of the rare people whom it was a privilege to know and about whom it was almost impossible to find anything to criticize. There was never a lapse of even two seconds in conversation with him, and when it was time to rise from a dinner with him I regretted that it couldn’t continue for another couple of hours. He was a literary and Newfoundland historical encyclopedia, but he was never domineering in conversation or other than a polite and patient companion.
Though Rex began his journalistic career as a reporter, it was as a commentator that he is best remembered and was most satisfied. Because he saw the attractions of expressing opinions he well understood, he avoided the temptation to which most journalists succumb of transmuting reportage into personal advocacy. This trait, which good editors always used to be on guard against, especially aggravated Rex in recent years when he considered that public opinion had severely deteriorated to biased tabloid simplicity. The ambition for what he regarded as mindless change, accompanied by exaggerated disregard for anything that could be called the status quo, propelled him to frequent acerbities toward other commentators, especially when they were ostensibly just reporting.
In his early days in Newfoundland, he was a controversial reporter as he naturally took some issue with the flamboyant but high-handed government of Premier Joey Smallwood. His literacy and vividness as a commentator soon came to the fore, and he is generally reckoned a masterly host of the CBC’s “Cross Country Checkup” for 21 years. He had his grievances with the CBC as it moved fairly steadily to the left, and in the last 20 years of his career was best known for his contributions to The Globe and Mail and National Post. He was a frequent public speaker, and always to great effect. Among the most enjoyable evenings I have spent were joint appearances with him, and on two occasions with our friend Jordan Peterson, where we effectively encouraged each other to take the points we were trying to make further—a sort of auction of increasingly sharply formulated opinion.
His last published commentary was in the National Post on May 7, where he gave an extended and brilliantly eloquent defence of the right of Israel to exist as a Jewish state and the right of the Jewish people to peace and respect at last. No one that I have read has formulated that opinion more persuasively. Perhaps because he was from Newfoundland, Rex always seemed to be especially open to sympathy for the underdog.
In days before I knew Rex, he was one of the staunchest supporters I had in the spurious prosecution I faced in the United States. It was much-needed encouragement from a total stranger. It has been a great blessing of my 70s to have developed such a warm friendship with so charming and interesting and brilliant a man, and it is a great sadness to think that I shall not be seeing Rex again.
