Opinion: Remembering Kevin Klose, former NPR president and broadcasting icon 66%
By Scott Simon0%
4/18/2026, 12:00:00 PM
BS Summary: This article contains 16 faulty reasoning types, including Halo Effect, Appeal to Emotion, and Optimism Bias, with Indoctrination as the most egregious example at 27.9% saturation with 109 hits. Analysis detected 823 faulty-reasoning hits from 391 analyzed words, generating a BS Score of 60.3% and a BS Rank of 66% (5,775 of 16,813 articles). This article is worse (more manipulative) than 65.70% of the article peer group.
Kevin Klose was silver-haired, silver-tongued, and the gold standard for broadcast journalists.
Klose, who was president of NPR from 1998 to 2008, died this week.
He was 85.
He had covered the Cold War from the Soviet Union for The Washington Post, and used to say he had seen what can happen in societies where people can't hear real news, debate is closed, and propaganda masquerades as truth.
"Gathering news and getting it out to other people — it's absolutely essential for our democracy," Klose told the public media publication Current in 2003.
This was just as technologies were developing that would put so much of what's now called news inside of opinion bubbles, or behind paywalls.
Klose went on to serve as president of Radio Free Europe and Radio Liberty, and came to NPR, he often said, having learned that there is no force more vital than the freedom of ideas and inquiry.
He helped NPR grow and prosper.
Notably, in 2003 he helped secure a $200 million dollar bequest from the late philanthropist Joan B.
Kroc, which, as NPR's David Folkenflik said this week, led to "new reporting positions, expansion of foreign coverage and an endowment that allowed NPR to weather a series of financial crises and political storms."
And Klose encouraged us to get out there, dig, challenge truisms, and yes, have fun with the blessed opportunity to be a part of national life.
"People turn to us in times of crisis," he used to remind us.
"Let's be sure to be there."
We were broadcasting live on Saturday, February 1, 2003 when the space shuttle Columbia shattered during re-entry, killing all seven astronauts aboard.
Our show stayed on the air for eight hours.
Klose first heard the news at home in his slippers; and felt he should come in.
"Actually," he told me later, "I couldn't stay away."
He helped staff make phone calls, set up interviews, and even brought coffee into the studio.
"No sugar, thanks," I got to tell the president of NPR.
When we finally signed off and gave way to a new crew, Klose went around with hugs and handshakes, telling us, "You helped your country today."
He helped us stay on the job — so that we're still here for you today.
Analysis
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