{"id":9929,"date":"2011-12-20T12:16:28","date_gmt":"2011-12-20T17:16:28","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.prosebeforehos.com\/?p=9929"},"modified":"2012-12-26T16:07:50","modified_gmt":"2012-12-26T21:07:50","slug":"remembering-christopher-hitchens","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.prosebeforehos.com\/article-of-the-day\/12\/20\/remembering-christopher-hitchens\/","title":{"rendered":"Remembering Christopher Hitchens"},"content":{"rendered":"

The Article:<\/strong> Postscript: Christopher Hitchens, 1949-2011<\/a> by Christopher Buckley in Vanity Fair.<\/p>\n

The Text:<\/strong> We were friends for more than thirty years, which is a long time but, now that he is gone, seems not nearly long enough. I was rather nervous when I first met him, one night in London in 1977, along with his great friend Martin Amis. I had read his journalism and was already in awe of his brilliance and wit and couldn\u2019t think what on earth I could bring to his table. I don\u2019t know if he sensed the diffidence on my part\u2014no, of course he did; he never missed anything\u2014but he set me instantly at ease, and so began one of the great friendships and benisons of my life. It occurs to me that \u201cbenison\u201d is a word I first learned from Christopher, along with so much else.<\/p>\n

A few years later, we found ourselves living in the same city, Washington. I had come to work in an Administration; he had come to undo that Administration. Thirty years later, I was voting for Obama and Christopher had become one of the most forceful, and persuasive, advocates for George W. Bush\u2019s war in Iraq. How did that happen?<\/p>\n

In those days, Christopher was a roaring, if not raving, Balliol Bolshevik. Oh dear, the things he said about Reagan! The things\u2014come to think of it\u2014he said about my father. How did we become such friends? I only once stopped speaking to him, because of a throwaway half-sentence about my father-in-law in one of his Harper\u2019s essays. I missed his company during that six-month froideur (another Christopher mot). It was about this time that he discovered that he was in fact Jewish, which somewhat complicated his fierce anti-Israel stance. When we embraced, at the bar mitzvah of Sidney Blumenthal\u2019s son, the word \u201cShalom\u201d sprang naturally from my lips.<\/p>\n

A few days ago, when I was visiting him at the M. D. Anderson Cancer Center, in Houston, for what I knew would be the last time, his wife, Carol, mentioned to me that Sidney had recently written to Christopher. I was surprised but very pleased to hear this. Christopher had caused Sidney great legal and financial grief during the G\u00f6tterd\u00e4mmerung of the Clinton impeachment. But now Sidney, a cancer experiencer himself, was reaching out to his old friend with words of tenderness and comfort and implicit forgiveness. This was the act of a mensch. But then Christopher was like that\u2014it was hard, perhaps impossible, to stay mad at him, though I doubt Henry Kissinger or Bill Clinton or any member of the British Royal Family will be among the eulogists at his memorial service.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

I first saw his J\u2019accuse in The Nation against\u2014oh, Christopher!\u2014Mother Teresa when my father mailed me a Xerox of it. He had scrawled a note across the top, an instruction to the producer of his TV show \u201cFiring Line\u201d: \u201cI never want to lay eyes on this guy again.\u201d W.F.B. had provided Christopher with his first appearances on U.S. television. The rest is history\u2014the time would soon come when you couldn\u2019t turn on a television without seeing Christopher railing against Kissinger, Mother (presumptive saint) T., Princess Diana, or Jerry Falwell.<\/p>\n

But even W.F.B., who tolerated pretty much anything except attacks on his beloved Catholic Church and its professors, couldn\u2019t help but forgive. \u201cDid you see the piece on Chirac by your friend Hitchens in the Journal today?\u201d he said one day, with a smile and an admiring sideways shake of the head. \u201cAbsolutely devastating!\u201d<\/p>\n

When we all gathered at St. Patrick\u2019s Cathedral, a few years later, to see W.F.B. off to the celestial choir, Christopher was present, having flown in from a speech in the American hinterland. (Alert: if you are reading this, Richard Dawkins, you may want to skip ahead to the next paragraph.) There he was in the pew, belting out Bunyan\u2019s \u201cHe Who Would Valiant Be.\u201d Christopher recused himself when Henry Kissinger took the lectern to give his eulogy, going out onto rain-swept Fifth Avenue to smoke one of his ultimately consequential cigarettes.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s the fags that\u2019ll get me in the end, I know it,\u201d he said once, at one of our lunches, tossing his pack of Rothmans onto the table with an air of contempt. This was back when you could smoke at a restaurant. As the Nanny State and Mayor Bloomberg extended their ruler-bearing, knuckle-rapping hand across the landscape, Christopher\u2019s smoking became an act of guerrilla warfare. Much as I wish he had never inhaled, it made for great spectator sport.<\/p>\n

David Bradley, the owner of The Atlantic Monthly, to which Christopher contributed many sparkling essays, once took him out to lunch at the Four Seasons Hotel in Georgetown. It was\u2014I think\u2014February and the smoking ban had gone into effect. Christopher suggested that they eat outside, on the terrace. David Bradley is a game soul, but even he expressed trepidation about dining al fresco in forty-degree weather. Christopher merrily countered, \u201cWhy not? It will be bracing.\u201d<\/p>\n

Lunch\u2014dinner, drinks, any occasion\u2014with Christopher always was. One of our lunches, at Caf\u00e9 Milano, the Rick\u2019s Caf\u00e9 of Washington, began at 1 P.M., and ended at 11:30 P.M. At about nine o\u2019clock (though my memory is somewhat hazy), he said, \u201cShould we order more food?\u201d I somehow crawled home, where I remained under medical supervision for several weeks, packed in ice with a morphine drip. Christopher probably went home that night and wrote a biography of Orwell. His stamina was as epic as his erudition and wit.<\/p>\n

When we made a date for a meal over the phone, he\u2019d say, \u201cIt will be a feast of reason and a flow of soul.\u201d I never doubted that this rococo phraseology was an original coinage, until I chanced on it, one day, in the pages of P. G. Wodehouse, the writer Christopher perhaps esteemed above all others. Wodehouse was the Master. When we met for another lunch, one that lasted only five hours, he was all a-grin with pride as he handed me a newly minted paperback reissue of Wodehouse with \u201cIntroduction by Christopher Hitchens.\u201d \u201cDoesn\u2019t get much better than that,\u201d he said, and who could not agree?<\/p>\n

The other author that he and I seemed to spend most time discussing was Oscar Wilde. I remember Christopher\u2019s thrill at having adduced a key connection between Wilde and Wodehouse. It struck me as a breakthrough insight; namely, that the first two lines of \u201cThe Importance of Being Earnest\u201d contain within them the entire universe of Bertie Wooster and Jeeves.<\/p>\n

Algernon plays the piano while his butler arranges flowers. Algy asks, \u201cDid you hear what I was playing, Lane?\u201d Lane replies, \u201cI didn\u2019t think it polite to listen, sir.\u201d And there you have it.<\/p>\n

Christopher remained perplexed at the lack of any reference to Wilde in the Wodehousian oeuvre. Then, some time later, he extolled in his Vanity Fair column the discovery, by one of his graduate students at the New School, of a mention of \u201cThe Importance\u201d somewhere in the Master\u2019s ninety-odd books.<\/p>\n

During the last hour I spent with Christopher, in the Critical Care Unit at M. D. Anderson, he struggled to read a thick volume of P. G. Wodehouse letters. He scribbled some notes on a blank page in spidery handwriting. He wrote \u201cPelham Grenville\u201d and asked me, in a faint, raspy voice, \u201cName. What was the name?\u201d At first I didn\u2019t quite understand, but then, recalling P.G.\u2019s nickname, suggested \u201cPlum?\u201d Christopher nodded yes, and wrote it down.<\/p>\n

I took comfort that, during our last time together, I was able to provide him with at least that. Intellectually, ours was largely a teacher-student relationship, and let me tell you\u2014Christopher was one tough grader. Oy. No matter how much he loved you, he did not shy from giving it to you with the bark off if you had disappointed.<\/p>\n

I once participated with him on a panel at the Folger Theatre on the subject of \u201cHenry V.\u201d The other panelists were Dame Judi Dench, Arianna Huffington, Chris Matthews, Ken Adelman, and David Brooks; the moderator was Walter Isaacson. Having little original insight into \u201cHenry V,\u201d or into any Shakespeare play, for that matter, I prepared a comic riff on a notional Henry the Fifteenth. Get it? O.K., maybe you had to be there, but it sort of brought down the house. Nevertheless, when Christopher and I met for lunch a few days later, he gave me a tsk-tsk-y stare and sour wince and chided me for \u201cindulging in crowd-pleasing nonsense.\u201d<\/p>\n

I got off lightly. When Martin Amis, his closest friend on earth, published a book in which he took Christopher to task for what he viewed as inappropriate laughter at the expense of Stalin\u2019s victims, Christopher responded with a seven-thousand-word rebuttal in The Atlantic that will probably have Martin thinking twice before attempting another work of historical nonfiction. But Christopher\u2019s takedown of his chum must be viewed alongside thousands of warm and affectionate words he wrote about Martin, particularly in his memoir, \u201cHitch-22,\u201d which appeared ironically\u2014or perhaps with exquisite timing\u2014simultaneously with the presentation of his mortal illness.<\/p>\n

The jacket of his next book, a collection of breathtaking essays, perfectly titled \u201cArguably,\u201d contains some glowing words of praise, including my own (humble but earnest) asseveration that he is\u2014was\u2014\u201dthe greatest living essayist in the English language.\u201d One or two reviewers demurred, calling my effusion \u201cforgivable exaggeration.\u201d To them I say: O.K., name a better one. I would alter only one word in that blurb now.<\/p>\n

Over the course of his heroic, uncomplaining eighteen-month battle with the cancer, I found myself rehearsing what I might say to an obituary writer, should one ring after the news of Christopher\u2019s death. I thought to say something along the lines\u2014the air of Byron, the steel pen of Orwell, and the wit of Wilde.<\/p>\n

A bit forced, perhaps, but you get the idea. Christopher may not, as Byron did, write poetry, but he could recite staves, cantos, yards of it. As for Byronic aura, there were the curly locks, the unbuttoned shirt revealing a wealth\u2014verily, a woolly mastodon\u2014of pectoral hair, as well as the roguish, raffish je ne sais quoi good looks. (Somewhere in \u201cHitch-22,\u201d he notes that he had now reached the age when \u201conly women wanted to go to bed with me.\u201d)<\/p>\n

Like Byron, Christopher put himself in harm\u2019s way in \u201ccontested territory,\u201d again and again. Here\u2019s another bit from \u201cHitch-22,\u201da chilling moment when he found himself alone in a remote and very scary town in Afghanistan,<\/p>\n

in a goons\u2019 rodeo duel between two local homicidal potentates (the journalistic euphemism for this type is \u201cwarlord\u201d; the image of the goons\u2019 rodeo I have annexed from Saul Bellow). On me was not enough money, not enough food, not enough documentation, not enough medication, not enough bottled water to withstand even a two-day siege. I did not have a cell phone. Nobody in the world, I abruptly realized, knew where I was. I knew nobody in the town and nobody in the town knew (perhaps a good thing) who I was, either\u2026. As all this started to register with me, the square began to fill with those least alluring of all types: strident but illiterate young men with religious headgear, high-velocity weapons and modern jeeps.<\/p>\n

His journalism, in which he championed the victims of tyranny and stupidity and \u201cIslamofascism\u201d (his coinage), takes its rightful place on the shelf along with that of his paradigm, Orwell.<\/p>\n

As for the wit \u2026 one day we were talking about Stalin. I observed that Stalin, eventual murderer of twenty, thirty\u2014forty?\u2014million, had trained as a priest. Not skipping a beat, Christopher remarked, \u201cIndeed, was he not among the more promising of the Tbilisi ordinands?\u201d<\/p>\n

I thought\u2014as I did perhaps one thousand times over the course of our three-decade long tutorial\u2014Wow.<\/p>\n

A few days later, at a dinner, the subject of Stalin having come up, I ventured to my dinner partner, \u201cIndeed, was he not among the more promising of the Tbilisi ordinands?\u201d The lady to whom I had proferred this thieved aper\u00e7u stopped chewing her salmon, repeated the line I had so casually tossed off, and said with frank admiration, \u201cThat\u2019s brilliant.\u201d I was tempted, but couldn\u2019t quite bear to continue the imposture, and told her that the author of this nacreous witticism was in fact none other than Christopher. She laughed and said, \u201cWell, everything he says is brilliant.\u201d<\/p>\n

Yes, everything he said was brilliant. It was a feast of reason and a flow of soul, and, if the author of \u201cGod Is Not Great\u201d did not himself believe in the concept of soul, he sure had one, and it was a great soul.<\/p>\n

Two fragments come to mind. The first is from \u201cBrideshead Revisited,\u201d a book Christopher loved and which he could practically quote in its entirety. Anthony Blanche, the exotic, outrageous aesthete, is sent down from Oxford. Charles Ryder, the book\u2019s narrator, mourns: \u201cAnthony Blanche had taken something away with him when he went; he had locked a door and hung the key on his chain; and all his friends, among whom he had been a stranger, needed him now.\u201d<\/p>\n

Christopher was never a \u201cstranger to his friends\u201d\u2014\u00e7a va sans dire, as he would say. Among his prodigal talents, perhaps his greatest was his gift of friendship. Christopher\u2019s inner circle, Martin, Ian McEwan, Salman Rushdie, James Fenton, Julian Barnes, comprise more or less the greatest writers in the English language. That\u2019s some posse.<\/p>\n

But in leaving them\u2014and the rest of us\u2014for \u201cthe undiscovered country\u201d (he could recite more or less all of \u201cHamlet,\u201d too) Christopher has taken something away with him, and his friends, in whose company I am so very grateful to have been, will need him now. We are now, finally, without a Hitch.<\/p>\n

The other bit is from Housman, and though it\u2019s from a poem that Christopher and I recited back and forth at each other across the tables at Caf\u00e9 Milano, I hesitate to quote it here. I see him wincing at my deplorable propensity for \u201ccrowd-pleasing.\u201d But I\u2019m going to quote it anyway, doubting as I do that he would chafe at my trying to mine what consolation I can over the loss of my beloved athlete, who died so young.<\/p>\n

Smart lad to slip betimes away
\nFrom fields where glory does not stay,
\nAnd early though the laurel grows
\nIt withers quicker than the rose.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The Article: Postscript: Christopher Hitchens, 1949-2011 by Christopher Buckley in Vanity Fair. The Text: We were friends for more than thirty years, which is a long time but, now that he is gone, seems not nearly long enough. I was rather nervous when I first met him, one night in London in 1977, along with […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":49,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[259],"tags":[],"yoast_head":"\nRemembering Christopher Hitchens - Prose Before Hos<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"The Article: Postscript: Christopher Hitchens, 1949-2011 by Christopher Buckley in Vanity Fair. 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