Christopher Hitchens, to those of you who have not heard of him, wrote this book in the year or so preceding his death in 2011; he was a fantastic writer, primarily on political topics until the release of his book God is Not Great in 2007, which earned him worldwide renown as one of the most eloquent and loquacious proponents of atheism. One of 'the Four Horsemen of New Atheism', he was a persistent thorn in the side of organised religion. He actually preferred to refer to himself as an 'anti-theist', saying that not only does he believe there is no god or gods, but that he is glad that this is so. This is because, as he wonderfully phrased it, he did not relish the thought of a 'cosmic North Korea' from which there was no escape, even in death. Which leads me to the book review itself.
This book, Mortality, is a very short affair, at only 106 pages. This does not, however, detract from its potency, which is remarkable. If anything, the book's brevity heightens our awareness to the subject matter, which is of course death. Hitchens was diagnosed with metastasised oesophageal cancer in 2010, at the age of 61. He somehow even describes such an experience with some elegance, writing: 'I have more than once in my time woken up feeling like death. But nothing prepared me for the early morning in June when I came to consciousness feeling as if I were actually shackled to my own corpse'. Undoubtedly it is effortless phrasing like this which allows Hitchens to make the topic more palatable.
There are, as one might expect from such a book, moments of anguish and dejection, most vividly manifested in the great study he makes of the voice as a core part of his character, and indeed anyone's. He writes: 'Most despond–inducing and alarming of all, so far, was the moment when my voice suddenly rose to a childish (or perhaps piglet–like) piping squeak... I used to be able to stop a New York cab at thirty paces. I could also, without the help of a microphone, reach the back row and gallery of a crowded debating hall. And it may be nothing to boast about, but people tell me that if their radio or television was on, even in the next room, they could always pick out my tones and know that I was “on” too.'
He then writes that 'Deprivation of the ability to speak is more like an attack of impotence, or the amputation of part of the personality. To a great degree, in public and private, I “was” my voice'. To even attempt to understand how this must have assailed his will to live allows the reader to at least share in the feeling of impotence he expresses. His illness deprived him, even if temporarily, of the most advanced ability in his possession. Stephen Fry even went as far to describe him as 'the greatest orator since Demosthenes'. The brilliantly named 'Hitchslap' has become almost an internet meme, used to describe a moment in which Hitchens used his talent in speaking to reveal an argument as false, ill-considered or hateful. But this voice was not just used for entertainment but also as a means of provision for his family, and this adds yet more to attempt to empathise with.
However, whilst there is genuine lament in parts of the book, and he says of his ordeal that it was a 'year of living dyingly', it is unexpectedly an encouraging book. He maintained an ardour for life - a ferocity in its pursuance - even in his moribund, etiolated state; the book is strewn with literary and philosophical references, and it is in equal parts admirable and encouraging that this is so. Admiration is a reaction which needs little explanation, but encouragement is derived from the idea Hitchens had that nothing was above knowledge and its fervid, unapologetic collection.
What I love about Hitchens is that he invests every topic he writes about with his inimitable wit and skill as a raconteur. He always said that he wanted his writing to appear as if it were written directly to the reader, as if they were engaging in a dialogue. This is observable even in this book, which one might reasonably expect to be more introspective and brooding. Indeed, it is all this, but he still retains his approachability, as it were.
Most saddening was the abrupt end to the book - there is a moment of surprise, emptiness and real loss when one moves from Chapter 7, filled as usual with a veritable panoply of literary miscellanea and intellectual energy, to Chapter 8 which is prefaced with the stern statement: 'Publisher’s note: These fragmentary jottings were left unfinished at the time of the author’s death'. These fragments come as a sort of conclusion, a recognition of Hitchens' dissolution which was expected but wholly unwelcome. The fragments themselves are great, filled with childlike epiphanies and imagination, unexpected references and his characteristic wit. But it is that Hitchens didn't have enough time to give true body to these fragments that is most crushing. One wonders what works he may have gone on to produce if he had lived a little longer.
This abrupt end does not, I feel, detract from the work itself however. Indeed, it adds to the sense of loss. The book easily qualifies as one of the best books I have read in a very long time. It is profound, counterintuitively alluring and laced with lurid discussion of both the divine and the quotidian.
The foreword to the book is a great contemplation by Hitchens' wife, who says that, through his lasting works, 'Christopher has the last word'. This is perhaps the greatest wish he would have had.
Mortality http://www.amazon.co.uk/Mortality-Christopher-Hitchens/dp/1848879210/
This book, Mortality, is a very short affair, at only 106 pages. This does not, however, detract from its potency, which is remarkable. If anything, the book's brevity heightens our awareness to the subject matter, which is of course death. Hitchens was diagnosed with metastasised oesophageal cancer in 2010, at the age of 61. He somehow even describes such an experience with some elegance, writing: 'I have more than once in my time woken up feeling like death. But nothing prepared me for the early morning in June when I came to consciousness feeling as if I were actually shackled to my own corpse'. Undoubtedly it is effortless phrasing like this which allows Hitchens to make the topic more palatable.
There are, as one might expect from such a book, moments of anguish and dejection, most vividly manifested in the great study he makes of the voice as a core part of his character, and indeed anyone's. He writes: 'Most despond–inducing and alarming of all, so far, was the moment when my voice suddenly rose to a childish (or perhaps piglet–like) piping squeak... I used to be able to stop a New York cab at thirty paces. I could also, without the help of a microphone, reach the back row and gallery of a crowded debating hall. And it may be nothing to boast about, but people tell me that if their radio or television was on, even in the next room, they could always pick out my tones and know that I was “on” too.'
He then writes that 'Deprivation of the ability to speak is more like an attack of impotence, or the amputation of part of the personality. To a great degree, in public and private, I “was” my voice'. To even attempt to understand how this must have assailed his will to live allows the reader to at least share in the feeling of impotence he expresses. His illness deprived him, even if temporarily, of the most advanced ability in his possession. Stephen Fry even went as far to describe him as 'the greatest orator since Demosthenes'. The brilliantly named 'Hitchslap' has become almost an internet meme, used to describe a moment in which Hitchens used his talent in speaking to reveal an argument as false, ill-considered or hateful. But this voice was not just used for entertainment but also as a means of provision for his family, and this adds yet more to attempt to empathise with.
However, whilst there is genuine lament in parts of the book, and he says of his ordeal that it was a 'year of living dyingly', it is unexpectedly an encouraging book. He maintained an ardour for life - a ferocity in its pursuance - even in his moribund, etiolated state; the book is strewn with literary and philosophical references, and it is in equal parts admirable and encouraging that this is so. Admiration is a reaction which needs little explanation, but encouragement is derived from the idea Hitchens had that nothing was above knowledge and its fervid, unapologetic collection.
What I love about Hitchens is that he invests every topic he writes about with his inimitable wit and skill as a raconteur. He always said that he wanted his writing to appear as if it were written directly to the reader, as if they were engaging in a dialogue. This is observable even in this book, which one might reasonably expect to be more introspective and brooding. Indeed, it is all this, but he still retains his approachability, as it were.
Most saddening was the abrupt end to the book - there is a moment of surprise, emptiness and real loss when one moves from Chapter 7, filled as usual with a veritable panoply of literary miscellanea and intellectual energy, to Chapter 8 which is prefaced with the stern statement: 'Publisher’s note: These fragmentary jottings were left unfinished at the time of the author’s death'. These fragments come as a sort of conclusion, a recognition of Hitchens' dissolution which was expected but wholly unwelcome. The fragments themselves are great, filled with childlike epiphanies and imagination, unexpected references and his characteristic wit. But it is that Hitchens didn't have enough time to give true body to these fragments that is most crushing. One wonders what works he may have gone on to produce if he had lived a little longer.
This abrupt end does not, I feel, detract from the work itself however. Indeed, it adds to the sense of loss. The book easily qualifies as one of the best books I have read in a very long time. It is profound, counterintuitively alluring and laced with lurid discussion of both the divine and the quotidian.
The foreword to the book is a great contemplation by Hitchens' wife, who says that, through his lasting works, 'Christopher has the last word'. This is perhaps the greatest wish he would have had.
Mortality http://www.amazon.co.uk/Mortality-Christopher-Hitchens/dp/1848879210/
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