Woodward:
What the hell were you doing rewriting my story?
Bernstein:
I sure couldn't hurt it, could I?
Woodward:
It was fine the way it was.
Bernstein:
It was bullshit the way it was.
Woodward:
I have to stand here and listen to the staff correspondent from Virginia?
Bernstein:
What have you been here, nine months? I been in this business since I was sixteen.
Woodward:
And you've had some fucking meteoric rise, that's for sure. By the time you turn forty you might be the head of the Montana bureau.
Bernstein:
You only got the job because both you and Bradlee went to Yale.
Woodward:
Bradlee went to Harvard.
Bernstein:
They're all the same, all those Ivy League places. They teach you about striped ties and suddenly you're smart.
Woodward:
I'm smart enough to know my story was solid.
Bernstein:
Mine's better.
Woodward:
No way.
Bernstein:
Read 'em both and you'll see.
[Woodward reads the stories]
Woodward:
Crap.
Bernstein:
Is mine better?
[Woodward nods]
Woodward:
What is it about my writing that's so rotten?
Bernstein:
Mainly it has to do with your choice of words.