The Eloquent Heretic
When a writer as prolific and accomplished as Christopher Hitchens passes away it hardly makes a sound. In a literal sense Hitchens has been quieted, but his words, ideas, passions – indeed the very essence of what we would call a personality and a person – still reverberate in the echo chambers of our mind. His biting words and clever prose have the enviable state of always being in their prime, never succumbing to cancer or death. Forever fresh, forever bold.
But, it is not without sadness that we greet the news of his death. Not because it was shocking or unexpected, but rather because it ended the chapter to a life in which so much more narrative was expected. His guiding voice; sharp with sarcasm, smoked with descent and hinted with the scent of whiskey is now absent from the world.
Hitchens was fond of the saying, “We all have a book inside of us, and for most of us that’s precisely where it should remain.” We are lucky, however, that he graced us with his words, and that the book inside him, or rather many books, essays, reviews and debates made into the public discourse. We are fortunate to have had such a brilliant and volatile intellectual. His mixture of European education and literature combined with American freedom and bravado brewed to create a strong and intoxicating cocktail of brutal journalistic insights as well as cutting social critiques.
Having never found a sacred cow he couldn’t devour, Hitchens’ carnivorous wit and unapologetic, often shocking, opinions left an ocean of detractors and enemies in its wake. But for those of us who often agreed or never grew tired of his perspective, that was exactly why we came to cherish him. As a friend, a mentor, and a comrade.
So, what does it say about a man when strangers, those whom have never even been close enough to hear the sound of his voice, express heart-felt loss and tragedy upon his death? I suppose it speaks to the nature of truth. Whether it sings to us or stings us, it leaves a lasting impression; an indelible mark. Hitchens didn’t seem too concerned or intent on anything except what he felt was true. What was right.
He sought out and crawled into our social sewers, to roll around in the waste, bringing back up the smell of corruption, greed, malice, murder, and oppression. He waved the rank odors of humanity in front of our noses, not to disgust but to educate us. Enlighten. He had no hope for divine justice. The only hope he saw against the injustices of man was man himself. Never chasing an ideal, Hitchens’ work addressed the ills of humanity so that it might be healed and treated or at the very least made benign. His voice cried out against his enemies as often as to the aid of his friends. He was the anti-theist preacher. The chain-smoking guru.
But now, silence. Now, we feel his void. We stumble without his light with which to uncover some dark corner of our world gone unnoticed, or worse yet; unchallenged. Christopher Hitchens is gone. The flesh and bones will disappear, but his most important body, his work, will remain. He’s become forever and never. Swept away and carved in stone. He’s achieved the only immortality he imagined possible. And it doesn’t make a sound until you give it a voice.
