Last night in bed in Vanity Fair, I read Christopher Hitchens' typically astonishingly convincing contrarian argument that Jackie Kennedy was only classy to the classless. "I am once again visited with that vague feeling that the lovely widow has actually rather lowered the tone," he said. And this morning I see that he, like she, is dead.
“Writing is what’s important to me, and anything that helps me do that—or enhances and prolongs and deepens and sometimes intensifies argument and conversation—is worth it to me,” Hitchens said after being diagnosed with throat cancer. He said he had no regrets because it was “impossible for me to imagine having my life without going to those parties, without having those late nights, without that second bottle.”
And though he was quite clear about not believing in heaven, I will allow myself to hope.