Only a writer can make his emperor of maladies mere grist for the literary mill. Hitchens has proven he has no need for a trumped-up God, and his courage in the face of life's ultimate betrayal, his eloquent courage, is enough to see me through my day.
Words are so mighty, just read the poetry he quotes here:
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
—T. S. Eliot, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.”
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
—T. S. Eliot, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.”
They brought me bitter news to hear, and bitter tears to shed.
I wept when I remembered how often you and I
Had tired the sun with talking, and sent him down the sky.
Or even his own:
"One can become quite used to the specter of the eternal Footman, like some lethal old bore lurking in the hallway at the end of the evening, hoping for the chance to have a word."
This is why everything from Stacia Kane to JP Donleavy keeps me snug in bed in the still of night, happy as only good writing can make me. Knowing that the world matters less than the world of the mind is something else I thank Hitch for reinforcing.
Forgive the maudlin tone but sweet prince, I hope we never have to bid you good night.
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