In Virginia Woolf’s essay “A Room of One’s Own” she argues that the primary barrier between a woman and literary success is opportunity. Given time, space, and license a woman of talent and inclination can create great work. It’s easy to further this postulate to include all people who have been deprived of any of these things, all requisites to a career in words. Due to recent events I have found myself suddenly granted a surfeit of time, a bare minimum of space, and license (at least in regards to what I write). I think that had Mrs. Woolf seen my current circumstance she might have amended her statement to include such things as freedom to use the bathroom unsupervised, the sight of an unmasked human face, sunlight, and perhaps another eighteen inches of chain in one’s manacles so that one might reach the keys that hang on the other side of one’s tiny, stinking broom closet/dungeon.

My editor/captor has refused to heed my complaints in these matters. Instead he insists that I write an essay that in some way illuminates the current condition of these United States. His firm promise is that I will be released upon satisfactory completion of this project. Given this promise, and the lack of any other project by which I might hold on to my sanity, I will try to do my best.

Security is an issue that tops the list of concerns in these troubled times. Both the FBI and the CIA have been working around the clock to prevent another 9-11 and they have succeeded. Some question their techniques; whether the patriot act is a violation of our civil rights, if domestic spying should be allowed and under what conditions. As a journalist I have tried to remain as neutral as possible in these matters, but recent events have stretched my neutrality to breaking. I have to question the security of a country in which a famous journalist can be grabbed off the street and held against his will for who knows how long without any outcry or response from law enforcement. You would think that with all the official and unofficial powers granted our intelligence agencies that a man who has personally interviewed President Bush could be rescued from his lightless dank prison. I mean, what is this, Brazil?

But as always, it is the little things that give us comfort in these trying times. My little rat friend, I’ve named him “Deep Throat,” is a tiny ray of metaphorical sunshine (I’ve forgotten what the real thing looks like) in my life. When he comes scampering out of his little hole in the wall, free to come and go as he pleases, I can’t help but smile and offer him the more gristly bits of my supper. I like to think that when Deep Throat returns to other side of the wall, he enters the loving embrace of his family; a family who would call the police and report him missing if he failed to show up for several days.

Recently, Deep Throat has begun to learn some tricks. It’s simply amazing what an animal can be taught to do with a bit of patience. Why, even something as complex as fetching a key, a key I can see hanging on a hook not far from here, might be possible. I hope so anyway. Well, supper has arrived, time for me to sign off and return to training.

Desperately Yours

Bob Woodward