It’s an image for the ages: the shot of Julian Assange, the air-mattress guerilla, holding forth from the first-storey window of the Ecuadorian Embassy in London. The sad, bail-jumping pope of Wikileaks addressing his paranoid flock: Shirt open, with the familiar shock of white hair, he read aloud to the few, dwindling and pathetic pilgrims below. This was not the denouement of a work by John le Carré or even Ian Fleming. It was instead a Mike Myers scene: Dr. Evil of Austin Powers fame. All that was missing was Assange stroking a reluctant pussycat. What a falling off there has been. A year or so ago, to those who see Amerikka as the enemy of all that is good and decent, Assange was a Superhero of High Leftism. He was a spiller of classified beans in the electronic age, a genius hacker turned world whistleblower. He and his childishly named Wikileaks were throwing millions of secret documents to the four open winds (but first to Britain’s Guardian and The New York Times, together with a host of lesser journals that would re-channel whatever the more esteemed organs would release). [More]
May It Be!
Bridge Over Troubled Waters
“God bless” the thought and the Irish are calling.