NEW YORK -- Neither fame nor being hated has changed journalist Seymour Hersh. He answers his own phone -- on the second ring. And just as quickly rains a torrent of words down the receiver.
He'll talk about his stories, "but I am not talking about me anymore," he says, responding to a request for an interview. "I'm not Uriah Heep-ing it, but I'm still working. I owe the magazine that. I owe the magazine my stories."
He means Charles Dickens' hypocritically humble Uriah Heep. The magazine he is beholden to is The New Yorker. And the stories are a shattering series detailing the abuse of Iraqi prisoners by American soldiers in a notorious jail called Abu Ghraib.
"Well, listen," he says, softening a bit, "I'll talk to you for a little while until the phone rings. Go ahead, ask me questions. I'll answer them as best I can, but I can't tell you everything because I'm still working on the story."
That should thrill the Pentagon.
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