Whitney Houston’s death came at sort of an interesting academic time for me. In a rather odd confluence of event and study, it happened at the same time my journalism ethics (yes, there are such things) seminar was studying the issue of privacy.

Since she was a) a celebrity and b) a celebrity train wreck, we’re bound to find out more about Houston’s end than we would about that of the woman next door. For good or ill, we live in a celebrity culture. Houston gave up most of her privacy the minute she got famous.

Of course, she aggravated that by turning herself into a sort of dancing bear. There are two ways to view the way Houston conducted her life: as a tragedy or as a tragedy brought on by her carelessness, thoughtlessness and stupidity.

Disclaimer: I was never a big Whitney Houston fan. I never bought a CD. I wouldn’t have paid to see her in concert (although had I been assigned to review her, it would have beaten all hell out of many of the acts I did have to go see). But still, I can acknowledge her extraordinary gift. God does not give a voice like hers to many people. She had talent that can only be called sublime and influenced a generation of singers.

But to me, the tragedy of her life is tempered by how she chose to live it. Nobody ever put a crack pipe in her hand; she picked it up willingly, at least at first. And even after she’d kicked, she still did things that anyone who’s sane realizes a person in the public eye shouldn’t do. There was that reality show with her ex-husband, for example, in which she discussed her bowel habits. This was not a woman of great intelligence.

Whatever her flaws, she chose to put them on display. That’s the deal with the devil that famous people make. Privacy is the first casualty of fame.

But what about the privacy of those who aren’t famous?

It’s one of the uglier aspects of journalism that part of the job is invading peoples’ privacy. I’ve done it more times than I care to remember. I’ve spoken to widows before the husband’s body is even cold. I’ve watched the dead being pulled from the river and, in one case, nestled under the train that had run him over. I’ve watched a man be talked out of hanging himself from a tree, seeing him in all his emotional nakedness at the single worst moment of his life.

I’m not proud of those moments, but neither am I ashamed. They are what they are. They are part of my job, just as much as knowing how to type or how to read a city budget.

Does that sound callous? Maybe it is. I prefer to think of it as realistic. Everybody has disagreeable parts of their job.

But understandably, it’s perhaps the hardest part of our job to explain to those who don’t do it. How, one could reasonably ask, could I talk to that widow or watch that guy in the tree? What kind of human being does things like that?

For those of you who ask that question, let me turn it back on you. What kind of human being reads stories like that?

For just as the job requirement to horn in on people’s tragedies is a dirty little secret of journalism, it’s a dirty little secret of journalism consumers that people read the hell out of those stories. Every time I get a complaint that a story I wrote invaded someone’s privacy, I want to ask, “Okay, but did you read the entire story?” The vast majority of time, the complaining person has.

I’m not blaming readers, especially not for the times journalists go way too far. It’s a lousy excuse to do something just because people want it. It’s no excuse, actually. It’s just pandering.

But for those reading this who have themselves been the subject of such an invasion of privacy, or know someone who has, let me ask a different question. If the story didn’t involve you (or someone you know), would you have still been horrified? Or would you have read it, thought, “hmm, interesting,” and then gone on with your life without another thought?

Really, if you’re going to say a story is offensive it shouldn’t matter whether you have a connection to it. You should be offended whether it’s about your brother or someone in Sri Lanka you’ve never met. People don’t think that way, though. The closer something is to home, the more sensitive people are about it, even if there’s very little real difference.

This is not a ringing defense of offensiveness. Reporters do plenty of offensive, insensitive things. Sometimes it’s done under orders, or because of overweening ambition, or because it seems like a good idea at the time. And sometimes, it’s done out of sheer stupidity.

But sometimes, it’s done because people want or even need to know, or because it says something about the human condition or the risks of living in the modern world. And sometimes it happens because there simply is no better way to tell the story.

So if you don’t want to hear the minute details of Whitney Houston’s death, don’t read the stories. Turn off the radio. Watch a movie on HBO. But if you’re interested in them, don’t be shocked when they’re reported. When it comes to invasions of privacy sometimes the fault, dear reader, lies not in our stars but in ourselves.