Christopher Hitchens died approximately a year ago, and Slate, among other places, has been running a number of articles in tribute to him, as well as a brief, annotated section of his posthumous book, Mortality, which I believe is coming out in a few weeks. The most moving piece was written by his wife, saying that as she reread the notes he left around their home for her, or read any of his writings, she could hear his voice. She could hear his voice, but could not see her husband anymore. She noted that he never expected, really until the last minute, that his cancer would actually kill him. I don't totally agree, having read some of his last columns. One thing for sure, and Katie Riophe, reviewing Mortality today, pointed it out - Hitch looked at his impending end with an unflinching honesty. I would like to read the book, but I am not sure I can.
I'm not sure I can. Not because I have a problem with either crying, or laughing over the book (the reviewer says there is ample opportunity to do both), but because, like many middle-aged people, I feel myself Almost There. Both of my parents are gone, and though I wasn't there at the very last moment for either of them, I was there for the illness, the decline, the shows of strength, the fadeout. A couple of weeks ago at a funeral (see previous post) I saw people I had known years ago changed by time, and life. I saw my older sister last week - she looks great, but we are all at the point where none of us looks (or feels) like we once did. We're Almost There.
Hitch did not think that, in facing his illness, he was doing anything particularly courageous, apparently feeling that courage should be reserved to those who volunteer to do good in dangerous circumstances. I concur, actually. Like my mother, Hitch was struggling to stay alive. There really isn't any alternative. It's not bravery - it's necessity.
But, I think he was brave in his everyday life and writing. Living on his own terms in spite of any tut-tutters (and they were legion). I rarely feel like I have that choice - too many compromises - to work, to other people. Sometimes it really sucks.
The tourists flocking around NYC at this time of year seem to think everyone who lives here faces endless excitement (sometimes we do, and sometimes it's not the good kind), but the truth is that many of us go home at night from our not-very-interesting jobs, make dinner, watch tv and go to bed, and the next day we do the same thing again.
David Plotz, in his commentary about Hitch this week, pointed out that the way it at least feels like one is living a long life (regardless of the length in years) is to create lasting memories. Everyday routine is thoughtless and does not create anything worth remembering, but the frequent occurrence of significant events creates impressions that fill up your life experience. He suggested that Hitch did something of the sort every day. Even though the number of days he lived was cruelly short, when it came to experiences, he lived a long life indeed.
While adventures are way cool, and I try to have them as often as possible, I really envy the people who make everyday life an adventure. There aren't many of them, and it sounds like Hitch was one (and his wife too, and I hope she continues) - there have been many stories floating around in the past week about raucous dinner parties, shouting children, sharp witticisms over drinks, and the like. I tend to be a quiet person, and I am not sure I could sustain that much noise, but there can also be adventure in introspection, at least I would like to think so. In any case, we should all value our time, and our friends. That is one thing it is obvious that Hitch took seriously.
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