就陈道明这一案例来看，有些地方，我觉得改的挺好。

比如说，记者写到“著名表演艺术家”，这是头衔的安排。陈道明要求写“演员”即可。

比如说，记者写到“德高望重的”、“语重心长的”，陈道明要求删除。这种修饰性词语，记者本意要抬高被采访者的地位，被采访者不愿意，我也没觉得有什么特别的不妥之处。

老实讲，我见多了如此的文字：***（被采访者）笑言、坦言，言就言吧，笑个鬼啊，坦？你怎么知道ta坦白交代了呢？

——《采访者 vs 被采访者》

As China develops into a country of smartphones and cappuccinos, the duties of propaganda are going beyond conventional media. Our bosses know that, like all expats, their foreign employees depend on Virtual Private Networks (VPNs) for daily essentials like porn and Google. And we’re not the only ones who need them.

As it tries to rebrand, the government is looking to social media—despite the pervasive censorship, colloquially known as the “Great Firewall of China,” which keeps the best parts of the internet inaccessible. Like computer-illiterate grandparents, the Communist Party needs our help posting to Twitter and Facebook.

“It’s like they want all the benefits of social media and none of the consequences,” Alex says. “I write the tweets for our magazine every week. But instead of just posting them, I have to send them to the web editor, who passes them on to the North American bureau.

“I only realized after a couple of days that I was expected to just use a VPN,” Alex continued. “They also expect us to promote the magazine on our own Facebook profiles. They want to use us for advertising, but they won’t pay $60 for a VPN.”

Alex wasn’t the only one. Richard was also assigned work editing his company’s Facebook profile. “I said, ‘How am I supposed to access Facebook? Are you going to pay for a VPN?’ They replied: ‘Just use your own.'”

Of course, Chinese officials could not keep face if they paid for a VPN—that would mean acknowledging censorship exists.

— My Life as a Communist Stooge: Working in China’s Ministry of Truth