The death of Christopher Hitchens, too young at 62, set off a blitz of appreciations and recriminations. There was a pointed essay from a Christian believing “Hitch” is now in purgatory, being filled in on all the knowledge he lacked, so he can make his decision for Christ. The comments section on that particular missive are exactly what might be expected. There is a deeply moving remembrance by Graydon Carter, editor of Vanity Fair, the publications which broke the news of his demise. Carter actually refers to an uppercase “God” a couple of times in his column. The words of novelist Ian McEwan tremble on the page. In losing Hitchens, he clearly lost a close friend and something more—a totem, a man who acted as a guidepost for any writer who holds wit and honesty dear. McEwan glides momentarily from the main course of his narrative to observe that the children’s cancer ward, tucked near Hitchen’s own room, “denies the possibility of a benevolent god”.
Are you getting the picture?
Because Christopher Hitchens became so closely allied with the cause of atheism, his death presented itself as an occasion for us all to reflect, in part, on the existence of a creator—as opposed to Hitchens himself.
Of course, this was to be expected. And the God talk can hardly detract from all the applause. The Great Man is getting his due. Slate published a particularly fine set of reminiscences. And I must single out David Corn, who shared an office with Hitchens, describing the work habits—and generosity—of a man who somehow made it to alcohol soaked lunch appointments, late afternoon drinks, and dinner parties that stretched deep into the night, yet still hit all his deadlines. He also introduced Corn to people far beyond his station at the time, with the air of a man ushering about an equal, a fact that understandably maintains a grip on Corn’s heart today.
A generousness of spirit pervades all of the remembrances of Hitchens—by all accounts a man who loved as violently as he attacked—and poked through most of his own writing. Yes, he seemed to believe his own moral compass somehow inerrant. People who disagreed with him in the public sphere were subjected to all manner of mockery. But, I always felt, somewhere between the lines, and just under the surface of his blustering prose, a big-hearted giant who seemed to think that fierce argument might not bust us up—but unite us. He always seemed to be saying the same thing, from my perspective—that reason might give us all a common cause and suggest a way through the darkest problems we face.
I had the chance to speak to a colleague, who has written for Vanity Fair, on the morning of Hitchens’s death. He told me that Hitchens was known for not being a diva. In fact, when the magazine tried to supply him with better accommodations on one particular trip he essentially waved them away. I suppose that after he had taken up a famous vow, early in his career, to travel once a year to war torn and volatile countries, he realized that a warm, comfortable bed is a luxury, even when it isn’t luxurious.
In one sense, I cannot write enough about Christopher Hitchens. I disagreed with him about God and religion. I think he was a bit hard, to put it mildly, toward Gandhi. But… who cares? Gawker published this screed attacking Hitchens for his position on the Iraq war, and I did not, for an instant, think that this criticism was coming too late after the writings that comprised its subject, or too soon after Hitchens’ death. What I thought was: The vast outpouring of words Hitchens sent spiraling off his keyboard, over four decades, had amounted to something so great, and so vast, that the rest of us should respond with a respectful silence.
Sitting in silence isn’t the way of the world, and I am of course shoveling my own meager offering on you right now. But in the wake of Hitchens’ passing, I feel a need for white space. Just print the news of his death and follow it with what’s left.
A void.
