Julian Assange. Julian Assange
First published in Great Britain in 2011 by Canongate Books Ltd, 14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE
This digital edition first published in 2011 by Canongate Books
Copyright © Julian Assange, 2011
The moral right of the author has been asserted
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available on
request from the British Library
ISBN 978 085786 386 7
CONTENTS
A Note from the Publisher
Julian Assange: The Unauthorised Autobiography
7 The Mathematical Road to the Future
9 The World That Came in From the Cold
Afterword
Appendix: The Leaks
A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER
On 20 December 2010, Julian Assange signed a contract with Canongate Books to write a book – part memoir, part manifesto – for publication the following year.
At the time, Julian said: ‘I hope this book will become one of the unifying documents of our generation. In this highly personal work, I explain our global struggle to force a new relationship between the people and their governments.’
In the end, the work was to prove too personal.
Despite sitting for more than fifty hours of taped interviews and spending many late nights at Ellingham Hall in Norfolk (where he was living under house arrest) discussing his life and the work of WikiLeaks with the writer he had enlisted to help him, Julian became increasingly troubled by the thought of publishing an autobiography. After reading the first draft of the book that was delivered at the end of March, Julian declared: ‘All memoir is prostitution.’
On 7 June 2011, with thirty-eight publishing houses around the world committed to releasing the book, Julian told us he wanted to cancel his contract.
We disagree with Julian’s assessment of the book. We believe it explains both the man and his work, underlining his commitment to the truth. Julian always claimed the book was well written; we agree, and this also encouraged us to make the book available to readers.
And the contract? By the time Julian wanted to cancel the deal he had already signed his advance over to his lawyers to settle his legal bills. So the contract still stands. We have decided to honour it – and to publish.
What follows is the unauthorised first draft. It is passionate, provocative and opinionated – like its author. It fulfils the promise of the original proposal and we are proud to publish it.
Canongate Books,
September 2011
JULIAN ASSANGE
The Unauthorised Autobiography
‘If you want to build a ship, don’t drum up people together to collect wood and don’t assign them tasks and work, but rather teach them to long for the endless immensity of the sea.’
Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
1
I consider myself lucky to have been born to curious people who filled the air around me with questions. One day I would meet my enemies and they would hate me for wanting the truth. You could almost forget your own name in all the name-calling. Yet I know well enough who I am and hoped I could tell you myself. My name is Julian Assange. And one day the police wanted me in London. The story could end there, were it not for the complications of time and history and personhood. They say the past is another country, but so is the future if you’ll only let it be: speeding along in the back of an English police van you begin to see the world.
They were shouting my name. Shouting slogans. And the press photographers were scrabbling around the windows like crabs in a bucket. It felt like the van was being beaten and that it might turn over, but it was just the press trying to get pictures. I crouched down and held my head between my knees, not wanting to be cast as a criminal. At one point I looked up and saw the cameras being thudded against the tinted glass and angled so as to catch me. I covered my head with my arms. Then suddenly the vehicle gathered speed and was off. Some of the other prisoners shouted out in their own cubicles, unaware of who I was, evidently shocked at the smashing of the van. Others laughed at the commotion. The show was over. It took about forty minutes for us to reach the gates of Wandsworth Prison. It was 7 December 2010.
I felt weirdly confident at the entry point. I suppose some of that came from knowing my predicament was being scrutinised. I knew the world was watching and that made my plight worthwhile: it serves the cause to be the one visibly taking the flak. Some part of me was horrified at the idea of being branded a criminal for doing our work, but I knew enough to appreciate it could only highlight the issue of justice. There’s no bravery involved in such a position, only cunning. I was asked to sign in my personal belongings, which amounted, on this good day, to a single Biro pen and about £250 in cash. I was instructed to strip, which I did, immediately donning prison garments of a grey pullover and grey pants. Oscar Wilde, when he was transferred to the same prison in 1895, created a noble stir when he found that his waistcoat was missing. ‘Pray pardon my ebullition of feeling,’ he said to the warder. I’ll try to keep the words ‘like Wilde’ out of this, and say nothing about my own poor stock of waistcoats, but the Irishman couldn’t fail to come to mind in that rank Victorian slammer. My lawyer later