Writing is eternal. As long as there are readers, the words left behind by the greatest writing minds will give life to the voices of men and women who are no longer with us. Writers don’t retire. They don’t get inducted into the hall of writing fame five years after their last novel, voted in by their peers and critics. Indeed, most writers, including the man we just lost, carry the ritual into the final moments of their lives. Their bodies retire, but their work and their words live on. That’s because writing is like breathing or eating to an author. It’s not a feat or an act performed and accomplished, it’s an ongoing exploration and recording of life. Writers are constantly moving on to the next thing, constantly striving to improve, and yet continually pouring over what they’ve done, regretting the missed opportunities, improving and editing the lines they still control. They may reach a peak of talent long before they die, but they never stop exploring the craft. Last night, as my wife and I discussed the role of writing in one’s life, while sipping on cocktails far too late into the evening, we were unaware that the literary world was becoming poorer. I’m a fan of the Paul Simon phrase “..and we note our place with bookmakers that measure what we’ve lost.” It’s a couple of lines from a song called “The Dangling Conversation” by Simon and Garfunkel, and I can’t think of a better way to frame a conversation about the contributions of great writers to our world. I truly believe the richest minds always grow more fertile when they write. I think it sharpens the memory, strengthens arguments, enhances the narrative quality of life. Writing forces us to explore ourselves, and it opens the door for readers to learn more about themselves.

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I did not know Christopher Hitchens, the man. I never shook his hand or listened to him tell a story over a strong drink. I never walked with him along a sidewalk discussing politics and smoking a cigarette. I do know Hitchens, the writer. I wish we lived in the time when the writing community was still small enough and tightly bound enough that I could say I’d come across him at a local cafe or restaurant. I’ll never have that chance now, and I know I’m still well short of that selective, private group of talented, achieved writers who can call each other up on a whim and recognize each other by name and work. We shared Chicago for a bit, but I was a self absorbed pothead bookstore manager more worried about getting in enough time on the barstool at Wellington’s or in front of a game of Madden with a smoldering joint at my side than pursuing this man, this icon, who couldn’t have been more than a half hour’s drive away. During those days, however hazy my recollection may be, I was fortuitous enough to come across God is Not Great. Hitchens sure knew how to title a book, didn’t he? And yes, it’s as confrontational and blunt as the title suggests. It changed the way I learned to develop an argument on paper, and for that, I owe Hitchens a debt I can’t pay back. In the hands of many readers, it was a validation of their own inner suspicions and darker, hidden feelings; it gave light to something we cover up—something not discussed in polite conversation, or in any conversation at all. Like all great writers, Hitchens wasn’t afraid to shine a light into the dirty, dusty closet no one dared to open, and he did it with Orwellian precision, perspective and aggressiveness.

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He was a controversial man because he wasn’t afraid to take on what he believed, and to expertly lay it out on the page. It’s that last part that separates him from the politicians, the soap box screamers and the lesser writers. I struggle and fumble through this eulogy from afar about a man I knew but never met. Imagine taking on the institutions, lore, mythology, fundamentalism, government, dogma, faith and passion behind all the major religions of the world, and articulating it well enough that it was actually hard to fight back against. Many atheists would tell you that those are easy points to score, because there is no evidence or fact to back up the other side, but Hitchens didn’t take-on the lowest common denominator of these people or their points. He gave careful consideration to arguments, often debating them live, in front of large audiences with brilliant minds along side him and opposing him. He felt that this strengthened his argument. I’m inclined to agree. Good writing—especially good essay writing—is like water over a piece of glass. Over time the edges wear down and the true, smooth beauty shines through. Or perhaps it’s more like steel. The more it is folded and the hotter the fire, the stronger the end product. A telling secret for the non-writers out there: Many of us don’t know what we’re getting at until we’ve gotten to it. The best writing and the best arguments, when carefully and skillfully crafted, lead to epiphanies not just for the audience, but for the orator or writer themselves. This morning I read a quote from an interview Hitchens did with C.P. Farley of the world famous Powell’s Books in Portland, Oregon. Farley conducted the interview shortly after the release of God is not Great, and already the author was rethinking arguments, expressing regrets about points not made, and exploring the insights further. Farley presses Hitchens about his inclusion of Buddhism as a religion, and further more about whether or not it’s a faith. Hitchens immediately references Sam Harris, a sharp-minded, intelligent voice who argues that Buddhism is, in fact, not a religion or a faith. Here is a bit of the exchange:

Farley: I thought it interesting that you wrapped Buddhism up in all this because at one point you suggest, quite rightly, that Buddhism isn’t really a religion.

Hitchens: No, but it’s a faith.

Farley: Is it?

Hitchens: Well, Sam Harris and I disagree very much on this, and he may possibly be right. We haven’t had the full-out discussion yet. He is a sort of Buddhist. And he’s definitely an atheist. What I’m saying is that it’s still an appeal to the transcendent — it’s a surrender of the mind.

Farley: In my experience, Buddhism teaches deep skepticism, that you shouldn’t trust anything you don’t experience for yourself.

Hitchens: Yes, but you’re supposed to be the subjective judge of what you’re experiencing, are you not? Look, it doesn’t seem to me, given what I write about its past, that it can be as innocuous as so many people believe. I failed to mention, I meant to, in my list of things that Buddhism or Buddhists have been responsible for, that it’s also the case that the Burmese dictatorship is a Buddhist one. It spends a great deal of the national product building stupas.

But I know that some people will think I’m piling on a bit there. That’s the only thing in the book so far that I’ve run into that I might have to consider rewriting. I am going to have a proper dialogue with Sam Harris on this because he is a very serious guy and he thinks I’m in error here. I’m not closed-minded. When I’m talking about Buddhism I don’t feel the same sense of urgency as I do when I’m talking about Islam, say. So I’m happy to concede that.

(for the full interview, click here)

You can learn a lot about the writer that Hitchens was right there. He believes, immediately, that he needs to argue the point with a “serious guy,” to hash out how Hitchens himself feels about it—to find and make his points stronger. He’s showing you that he doesn’t know the end result yet; he hasn’t had the epiphany. Young writers like myself, and the argumentative, opinionated devil’s advocates out there could learn a lot from that process. I know I have, and I know I’ll continue to go back to it.

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Hitchens was taken from us far too soon, at the age of 62, and even with all the stories, eulogies, analysis and goodbyes, it’ll be impossible to “measure what we’ve lost.” I read much of what this brilliant man put down in writing through his collections of essays and online articles, but I think I got to know him best through his columns in Atlantic and Vanity Fair; the former I’d read on airplanes or while hiding out in the back storage rooms of various bookstores I was managing years ago, and the latter, honestly, I tend to read on the shitter. As Hitchens fell ill—throat cancer—I felt I got to know him even more intimately. We find out who our truest selves are and who the people around us really are when they’re facing the challenges thrown at them by life’s more unfortunate circumstances. He was incredibly open and accessible in everything he wrote, and you couldn’t help feeling like you were talking with a colleague or professor you considered a close friend, but his work from his “deathbed” seemed to dial-up the intimacy even more. He talked of the pain, the difficulty writing, the exhaustion and the challenges. He wrote of the way the world around him changed and the way the people around him changed in their actions toward him. He openly shared the stupefying comments that came in from various fundamentalist assholes who truly seemed to believe that he’d been given cancer in his throat by the god he didn’t believe in because of the blasphemy he spoke. If that was the case—and it is not—then this vengeful god of theirs missed. Hitchens’ genius and his contributions to the world came from the brain to the hands.

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Hitchens was a writer, and he was a great one. Those who disagreed with his points or statements couldn’t take away from the talent he displayed in making them. We’ve all lost someone brilliant and beautiful. The writing community is in mourning. Those who opposed him came away with stronger arguments, and those who agreed with him found a voice that wasn’t afraid to stand out, despite the often vitriolic nature of the argument. To readers of Hitchens, who likely felt he was a friend, I shed a tear with you. To those who haven’t explored his work, it’s never too late to start. Perhaps the greatest thing about writing and reading is that it is largely timeless. The words of Christopher Hitchens will carry on his arguments, though his body has given up. Sadly, he will not be able to strengthen them further.

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This Hood Life is a journal of arts and literature dedicated to exploring our world through the well-crafted work of its artists and authors. The journal also promotes and celebrates writing and art for and by the masses. Because the journal will eventually be published and printed annually, chronicling the voices and artisans we lose each year seems to be a logical, valuable undertaking. The world is a more beautiful, profound and exciting place because of these men and women, and what we lose, we cannot recapture. Stay curious and explore.