Without a Hitch

I struggle to define Christopher Hitchens’ brand of journalism and politics in much the same way that he struggled to identify those same things.

Contrarian, rebel, radical, dissident. All of these terms he applied to his own years of writing and cigarette smoking, boozing, berating, criticising, and defining a now-established brand of atheism.

Debate show producers introduced him as an iconoclast, religious believers called for his head on a plate, the mainstream Left labeled him a traitor, members of the anti-war movement branded him a hawk.

To others, including myself, he was a voice – smooth, precise, consistent, and decipherable – for reason, for decency, for the traditions of liberalism and the American Constitution, and for remarkable journalism and writing.

Two years ago, the throat cancer that addled him viciously threw a knockout blow. He was 62.

His style was dense but understandable, and represented a brand of newspaper and magazine reporting that is quickly disappearing elsewhere.

He approached his subjects – from the liberation of Iraq, to the use of Agent Orange in Indochina during the Vietnam Campaign, to the increased popularity of the ‘blowjob’ in regular vernacular, to the throat cancer that eventually claimed his life – with irony and accuracy often fuelled by Johnnie Walker Black Label and Rothmans.

Veraciously researched, few (if any) of his claims have been challenged successfully.

Some claimed that his steadfast nature was simple stubbornness, never walking away from a fight (often verbal, some occasionally physical) and often emerging the victor. He remained unyielding over a long career gracing the pages of the New Statesman and The Guardian in the UK, and The Nation and Vanity Fair in the United States.

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Perhaps most notable amongst his many cherished topics was for the liberation of the Iraqi and Kurdish population, and against suppression, oppression, slaughter, and torture delivered by their crazed dictator Saddam Hussein. He called for the might of the Americans and their allies to be brought to bear against a disgraced regime, that Iraq’s infrastructure be rebuilt, and their eye focused on a freer and more economically viable alternative.

All of these conditions were non-negotiable, with emphasis on them equally.

The eventual reality of such an invasion and occupation was vastly different from the original plan. Too many civilians were murdered in cold blood, too many towns and villages were left destitute by uncaring American forces, and radicals were allowed to prosper amongst the ruins of a decimated nation. A gung-ho military driven by nefarious ideas ruined what could have been an example for interventionist policies across the world.

When the overwhelming sense of American patriotic indignation faded and public opinion turned against the war (perhaps the depleted uranium ammunition was a step too far?), Hitchens continued to brandish the stubbornness that had become his trademark.

To his detriment, there were too few words written or spoken in the years following 2003. Too much time was spent on exploration of original successes that later deteriorated. While he stuck to a fair treatise against undiscerning killing and needless torture, Hitchens never said or wrote enough against what led to today’s unbearable status, the consequences of which still pervade Iraqi citizens’ everyday lives.

Despite an innate sense of fairness and honesty, his reactions to even ‘safe’ topics drew more criticism than the usual quota. His piece for Vanity Fair (where he was a contributing editor) antagonistically titled ‘Why Women Aren’t Funny’, although reasonably argued, fell short of his usually high standards and into repeated non-sequitrs.

(One is obliged to wonder if Graydon Carter’s condition on joining the magazine – that Hitchens could have carte blanche provided he performs any requested tasks – played a role here).

These failings shouldn’t be confused with a major breach of integrity (How could one say that he had dignity as a journalist, whilst never exploring the repercussions of his campaign?). I’m not pointing out a compromise, but rather illustrating that perhaps one of the best journalists of recent decades must be considered fallible.

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Humour and irony were essential to his arsenal. In response to a banal question from Anderson Cooper live on CNN, Hitchens said of the ‘Reverend’ Jerry Falwell “if he had been given an enema, he could have been buried in a matchbox.”

Challenging a Nigerian Archbishop during a BBC debate, he berated recent Pope Joseph Ratzinger’s insistence that sexual abuse victims require “the most loving, pastoral care”.

“I’m sorry”, Hitch spat to rapturous applause, “but they’ve already that.”

His extended essay on Mother Theresa – a polemic against the treatment of the dying destitute in her wards and her irrational prohibition against contraception - was titled The Missionary Position.

“She’s got no charisma of any kind,” Hitchens said of frigid housewife-politician Sarah Palin. “But I can imagine her being mildly useful to a low-rank porn director.”

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Sadly, my own awareness of Hitchens began on the very day that he died. I had just begun a new job where the prospect to write columns was on the horizon, and on seeing his news of death come over the wires, I embarked on something of a journey.

His ornate and forceful debating skills are well-catalogued on YouTube, his well-reasoned arguments explored throughout a hefty pile of books, his expansive experiences scrawled across the pages of Hitch-22.

It was an introduction, for a journalist, quite far divorced from the realities for Hitchens’ prime years.

The well-versed magazine columnist is a breed of hack dying of bizarre symptoms far faster than editors can kill them off with malice. The age of the internet demagogue and politically-aligned blogger are upon us, with few heroes left to cling to.

The heroes of old might have to do, then.

Reading Hitch, the prospect of forging the tip-toeing fiction writing I had already embarked upon with my new role as an editor became obvious. Through his extensive columns at Slate and The Nation, I began to understand that combining the creative and factual was possible, that a Gay Telese-esque form of scribbling could be prescribed to politics and religion, war reporting and crime-covering equally.

Further, his unrelenting attacks on organized religion and superstition answered the questions I had begged at a fundamentalist Christian high school: why teach biology in one class when the next lesson would skewer it with a mal-transcribed version of god’s word? How could a group of students indoctrinated with heavenly pacifism so viciously shut down any notion of skepticism or heathenism?

Hitchens, ironically from beyond the grave, transformed my previously held agnosticism into a defendable atheism.

Perhaps Hitch might have been proud of the mischievous way in which I schooled a godly class on the obvious incredulity of Scientology, quietly poking fun at my school’s creation myths and crucifixion tales.

I urge you, dear reader, to explore Christopher Hitchens with the same brio that I did, if not for his stripe of politics, then for the honesty and integrity with which he transcribed his thoughts and spoken words.

(Edited by Nathan Perry)

Follow James on Twitter: @James_ARobins