It’s settled in my mind: Chris Hitchens is no joke. From the
moment I read one of Hitchens’ final (as in end-of-life ‘final’) essays on the
internet, I was hooked. That particular essay, now only available in book
format, was such a gut-punch to the euphemistic adage “what doesn’t kill you
only makes you stronger”. Though I found myself somewhat disheartened as he
pistol-whipped this maxim which is dear to me, I had no shortage of respect for
a man baring his struggles to the world, a small part of which world informs
him that they relish his suffering. I am reminded of the way the theologian
Harry Emerson Fosdick cautioned people not to dismiss as meaningless those
brand of atheists which, in contrast to ‘pert disbelievers’, actually carefully
weigh the cost of their belief system and ride it to its end. Said Fosdick, “To
be sure, some denials of religion even a Christian must respect.”
Existentialist theologian Paul Tillich took this call for respect a step further,
“The vitality that can stand the abyss of meaninglessness is aware of a hidden
meaning within the destruction of meaning…It is creative courage which appears
in the creative expressions of despair.” I find this courage, even an unbowed
élan, in Hitchens’ writings, especially in this his final opus.
I think Hitchens may have been one of the few men brave
enough or resourceful enough to make us laugh at cancer—his cancer! Not that
cancer is funny, at all, nor was Hitchens in his last days trying his hand at a
Seinfeldian sense of irony: “so what is the deal with cancer?” But it was the
way he poked familiar things—things like “a vulgar little tumor”—and helped us
see them in a new light.“This alien can’t want anything; if it kills me it
dies, but it seems very single-minded in its purpose.” He gave a few hard blows
to blind, romantic optimism, and in chapter 6, probably the most powerful in
the book, he charges at that kind of idealism that sanctifies suffering as a
sort of purification rite that many believe secures health and happiness. He
cannon-blasts this last hope of the ailing, possibly as a stroke of mercy for
those taking lightly any potential encounters with pain. I have to admit, I am
the type of person who hates being told ‘be careful’ (true story, ask my wife),
but this little book drives home the point to be sure to count the cost of any
action that would bring one closer to a weakness of mind and body which
Hitchens chillingly warns may not be returned from so easily, or with all
senses and abilities intact. Go too far and we are “left with something quite
unusual in the annals of unsentimental approaches to extinction: not the wish
to die with dignity but the desire to
have died.” And suddenly cancer’s not funny anymore. In one chapter he
takes a shot at Randy Pausch, who lectured and penned The Last Lecture for his posterity while he was dying of pancreatic
cancer, for being sensational and
flippantly epigrammatic about something as mute and unfathomable as death—especially
one’s own death. While I wasn’t sure I was comfortable with his mocking jabs at
another dying man, I do believe there are many who are dying that may echo his
general sentiment of “it’s not like that” in response to the glamorization and
commercial profit of dying. Hitchens point here is that dying is much harder
than some people make it look, and it’s normal to feel whipped.
And, sadly, the book ends so startlingly abrupt, like death
itself. Fragments of his writings in the last ‘chapter’ of the book is
reminiscent of the waning of the powers of mind, and sense and composure begin
to be islanded between the death-rattle of rambling and unfinished thoughts.
Much of the final chapter is even repetitive of previous chapters, and makes me
wonder why it was even included; but I am ultimately glad it was included after
all, because it made it easier to let go in some strange way. Hitchens was
gone, and only the blinking, bobbing head was left clicking out its last sounds
while one realized he is gone. I
imagine that the death of brains has a way of helping us let go of the empty
casing of what once was the beloved. Matter of fact, the death of intelligence
is a bit repulsive in a way, as if to remind one that the brain is just a slimy,
gelatinous blob of an organ built and utilized by something greater, and its
demise is much more obscene than the wasting away of external flesh. Altogether
my confidence in intelligence took a hit as I read Hitchens die.
Hitchens didn’t have a whole lot to give us on his deathbed.
No real insight to life or death, unless it’s how not behave as some do around death. One of Hitchens’ favorite
poets, and one that I have an appreciation for, is Philip Larken who said in
his poem Aubade, “Being brave lets no
one off the grave. Death is no different whined at than withstood.” Maybe
that’s his message with this little literary experiment. Being with him, and
not necessarily having any death-bed revelations or secrets imparted to us, may have been what we best gained from this
experience. Maybe being with his audience was enough to make it worthwhile for
the author, and maybe it’s what we were looking for too. I’m starting to think
that the fine art developed by materialists is the art of distraction, or what often takes the form of living in the present. Buddhists happen to think it’s a great idea,
and call anything other than living
in the present (such as worrying about tomorrow) a distraction in and of
itself. Jesus held it as a virtue to “remember the lilies”, to live in the
present and not waste life worrying about the future.
I could be wrong, but I have a feeling that Hitchens was a
pretty good guy. In the afterward written by his wife, I couldn’t help but wish
I had known him personally. It helped that this book was published in a short,
100 page hardback with heavy, quality paper…it really felt oddly special and
intimate even through the quality of the binding; like a sacred moment with a
dying man. I may not be interested in facing death with the same outlook as
Hitchens, but witnessing him face death gives me hope—pardon me Hitchens—that
deeper reserves are available for each of us when the time comes to embark on a
new journey. I like to think that something deeper in him was able to withstand
the abyss of the threat of non-being and meaninglessness into which he stared. Perhaps
Hitchens was more than he knew. And maybe he is more than we know.
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