You could see it in his eyes at one point in nearly every debate. That glance, over the glasses or through the omnipresent cigarette smoke, that simply and openly said "you're a fucking twit." His well-stocked mouth would often state very much the same, but through such eloquently-spoken prose that his opponent could easily have mistaken his slander for a compliment or, at the very worst, a mild suggestion that their lacking knowledge of subjects A, B, C, and D was something of an unfortunate oversight that, perhaps, if they wished to spare themselves further embarrassment, they'd do well to keep to themselves. It is with no small amount of jealousy that I say words came unfailingly easy to Christopher Hitchens. He was a rhetorician of the master class whose intimidating presence had become an expected, if not necessary, component to honest discourse about... well, anything. People loved him, and people hated him. But everybody respected him. And when he spoke, people listened.
Today, the secular movement is far from alone in its grief. Hitchens' death, much like his life, leaves a mark on too many facets of intellectualism, philosophy, and ferocious human wit for those of us in the atheistic sphere to claim his loss as uniquely ours. He was a giant. The world will miss his voice. And, as Hitch would say, "... anyone who disagrees with this can pick a number, get in line and kiss my ass."
R.I.P. Christopher Hitchens.
Rest in peace, Hitch.
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