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It is important to tell the story honestly, even if that means using difficult images. I think the Guardian was right to use that picture last week. This was debated at the Guardian's morning conference, where opinion was divided. However, as I wrote in my replies to readers' emails: \"It was the terrorists, not the photo, that took her dignity.\" I know that many readers will disagree with my view -- that's the nature of this job for whoever has the privilege of holding it. The new Guardian global readers' editor will find no shortage of readers expecting to challenge and be heard. In my experience this is not a sign of their hostility but commitment to their understanding of what the Guardian stands for and should be. There is one other great quote from [David Blundy], which was remembered by his former editor Harry Evans at Blundy's memorial service and is reproduced in the epilogue to The Last Paragraph, a collection of Blundy's journalism brought together by his great friend Anthony Holden. According to Evans, Blundy once looked up from his notebook as he hunched over his typewriter: \"Do you find a problem,\" he would say, \"of getting the words in the right order? What's it all about?\" That doesn't change.

David is survived by his father, [David E. Blundy]. (Deirdre) Blundy, East Peoria; his mother, Patricia Kinney, Brimfield; two brothers, Michael and Timothy Blundy, Brimfield; two half-sisters, Teagan and Jentry Blundy, East Peoria; his maternal grandfather, Tom Kinney, Peoria; and his former spouse, Crystal Blundy, Bloomington.

SAN SALVADOR (Special) - The Salvadoran army's counter-offensive against guerrilla strongholds in the capital, San Salvador, came to a halt yesterday as the left-wing rebels infiltrated new areas of the city. The Pan American Highway, the nation's main east-west artery, is closed by fighting in San Salvador. The parallel Litoral Highway is nearly deserted and periodically cut by fighting in Usulutan. The rebels damaged one bridge and dug a trench across the road. In San Miguel, 136 kilometres (85 miles) east of San Salvador, the 100-bed military hospital was full, with some wounded laid out on mattresses on the floor. Doctors said they were sending the most seriously wounded to San Salvador.

Blundy, it seems, was forever a contradiction and no more so than in his wayward upbringing of his first daughter. As a little girl, [Anna Blundy] found out about her daddy's \"day at the office\" in late night, long-distance telephone calls from far-away, exotic locations. She has boxes full of cherished postcards, scribbled in slanting handwriting from places as diverse as Cairo, Washington DC, Jordan, and Haiti. Throughout Every Time We Say Goodbye there are excerpts of letters and postcards Blundy sent his daughter from his travels. Typically they would begin \"Dear Rat Features\" and end \"Love Daddikins\". Whereas before his death she had battled to draw her father's attention from his girlfriends - \"having three, sometimes four, parents seemed fairly normal to me,\" she explains following her parents' divorce - after Blundy was shot by a Salvadorean sniper she fought even harder to hold on to his fading image.

WHEN [Anna Blundy] was 19 years old, her father, David, a foreign correspondent for a Sunday newspaper, was shot and killed while on assignment in El Salvador, central America. I mention this stark fact at the outset because, by her own admission, Blundy's life since - she's now 33 - has been largely defined by it. Narrated by the fearless Faith Zanetti, of an unspecified British broadsheet, and populated by a collection of thrill-junkies, nervous wrecks and shameless alcoholics, The Bad News Bible whizzes along at ferocious speed, beginning with suspected murder and ending, many violent deaths later, with a highly inventive form of suicide. Though the mechanics of the plot are occasionally clumsy, and the secondary characters at times snobbishly cartoonish (the tabloid reporter is a chain-smoking oik; the photographer a lovable drunk), it has the merit of pace and densely packed action with the feel of Alex Garland or Toby Litt. Her parents had never married and David Blundy was constantly on the move, swooping in and out of his daughter's life to whisk her away to exotic places for brief holidays - New York, Haiti, Jerusalem - either deux or with a new girlfriend in tow, whom Anna would instantly resent.

We met when he joined the Sunday Times as foreign editor in 1984. He was a friend of the then recently appointed editor, Andrew Neil - and a new kind of person on that newspaper. The appearance of most journalists there ran the gamut from dowdy to scruffy. Stephen was neat in suit and striped tie. Most of us were sceptical, cynical, liberal, sometimes lazy, often passionate and frantic, sometimes rude, and occasionally drunk - the late David Blundy, killed in El Salvador in 1989, took this style to its apogee. Stephen, by contrast, was perplexingly cool and polite. The 1960s, which had camouflaged the social origins of many of us, seemed to have left no mark on him. He was unabashed about his childhood in stockbroker Surrey, his boarding school, his presidency of the Oxford Union. He had worked previously on the Economist and he talked about \"intellectual rigour\". When someone wanted to write a story on a Third World dam which would displace thousands of peasants, Stephen wondered if, rather than siding with the peasants as usual, we should not be celebrating the benefits of electricity and irrigation that the dam would bring. A wedding date was fixed. Then, a few weeks before the ceremony was to take place, Stephen called it off. He had been uncertain and terrified. David Blundy and he were by then both based in Washington and reporting for rival newspapers, and it was to David that Stephen turned for advice. This became a comic story - the blind leading the blind, we said, because David's own private life was famous for its chaos. The high point came on the long flight from Washington to Helsinki, when Stephen poured out his troubles to David for hours, and in the end broke down and wept. In retrospect, none of this was comic at all, but it made wonderful gossip. No wonder then, that people like Stephen fear self-disclosure.

There are many names here from that era in Irish journalism, some fading, such as my own, others still in lights, such as David McKittrick, [Walter Ellis]'s close friend whom I hired for The Irish Times on his recommendation and who is now the revered London Independent correspondent in Belfast. Walter describes McKittrick as a reporter unmatched for \"shrewd judgment, even-handedness and probity\" (and McKittrick repays the compliment with a blurb on the jacket describing the book as a \"minor masterpiece\"). Young master Ellis is much harsher on others, including Henry Kelly, who appointed him to the Irish Times Belfast office, and Fergus Pyle, who as editor gave him the plum Brussels job: each is rewarded with an acid character sketch depicting them as idiots. [Ronnie Bunting], in an act of defiance of his loyalist father, Maj Ronald Bunting, later joined the Official IRA and then the INLA, while his school pal stumbled into journalism. He once got Walter unwittingly to look after a case containing the proceeds of an armed robbery. He tricked Walter's mother into sheltering IRA man Joe McCann, just after he had shot a British soldier. Bunting, a killer with a Pol Pot-like desire to see the bodies pile up, once even asked Walter to let him hide out in the Irish Times Brussels apartment, but his former school pal had had a bellyful by then and declined, even when a tearful Maj Bunting pleaded his son's case over the phone. Bunting went on to blow up Airey Neave in the House of Commons before being shot dead in Turf Lodge by persons unknown. Where [David Blundy]'s death caused Walter a poignant sense of loss, the killing of Bunting exorcised the demon who tormented him.

Journalists honor their colleagues who have passed away by writing a few words of tribute in the fallen writer's honor. A commenatary pays tribute to David Blundy, a journalist who recently died in El Salvador.

''The last thing I heard him say was, 'Get me out of here,' '' said a photographer, Bill Gentile of Newsweek, who was with Mr. [David Blundy] when he was struck. ''This is devastating news,'' said Mr. [Peter Cole]. ''He was very experienced and his career was one of great bravery.'' He had been a Middle East correspondent for The Sunday Times and had written two books, ''Gaddaffi and the Libyan Revolution'' and ''With Geldof in Africa,'' about the famine-relief efforts of the Irish pop star Bob Geldof.