A spy, like a writer, lives outside the mainstream population. He steals his experience through bribes and reconstructs it.

I used to think it was clever to confuse comedy with tragedy. Now I wish I could distinguish them.

During the Cold War, we lived in coded times when it wasn't easy and there were shades of grey and ambiguity.

Our power knows no limits, yet we cannot find food for a starving child, or a home for a refugee. Our knowledge is without measure and we build the weapons that will destroy us. We live on the edge of ourselves, terrified of the darkness within. We have harmed, corrupted and ruined, we have made mistakes and deceived.

It's the oldest question of all, George. Who can spy on the spies?

In every war zone that I've been in, there has been a reality and then there has been the public perception of why the war was being fought. In every crisis, the issues have been far more complex than the public has been allowed to know.

What else has a journalist to do these days, after all, but report life's miseries?