I really wanted to start this little vanity project with something vaguely brilliant, or somewhat insightful.
That probably won’t happen right here and now.
So, instead of brilliance, a thin observation about brilliance in others.
Or, maybe this is an observation about how eloquence and chutzpah allow one to appear quite brilliant — and rational — even while the argument being made is specious.
The brilliant other in question:
Christopher Hitchens.
Yes, that Brit-born journo who noisily broke rank with his left-wing comrades years ago, and has been raging against ‘Islamo-fascism’ ever since. He’s been lumped in with the neocon architects of the Iraq War. And some of his arguments over recent years have been, well, um… emotional… and even unsavory.
Not least the whole armchair warrior thing: Hitchens calling for hard-line/military actions that he, personally, will never be executing.
Yet, I love to read his stuff.
Why?
His prose is most often engaging. I always learn something from his writings and media appearances. Even when I disagree (which is increasingly the case).
Of course, what many scribes (and enemies) have most enjoyed about Hitchens is his reputation as an unapologetically hard drinker, even while he’s on the job. This is inseparable from his rep for erratic behaviour and temperamental outbursts during public appearances.
Now, I don’t know Hitchens from Adam. (And my friend Adam doesn’t know Hitchens, so our triangle remains sadly disconnected.)
And I realize that the media tends to exaggerate and explode reputations, sometimes to the point that myth overtakes reality.
(That seemed to be the case with Hunter S Thompson and drug use: HST repeatedly said that reports of his drug use were exaggerated, otherwise he’d have been dead long before.)
But here’s the point about Hitchens:
Even if it is exaggeration and myth, he does often appear — to me, anyway — as a man who’s ragged, worse for wear, or recently in his cups.
(This perception is just that, but there you go.)
Yet…
And, yet…
Christopher Hitchens comes off as clever, articulate, sometimes brilliant.
Case in point:
Hitchens’ recent defence (earlier in May) of World Bank President Paul Wolfowitz. It was a classically Hitchian appearance on Aussie TV (ABC). The appearance followed news of Wolfowitz’s forced resignation in June amid the WB prez’s ethics scandal.
Hitchens, ever the contrarian, joined a minority of individuals who vocally defend Wolfowitz, and also scold whistle-blowers and media for starting a ‘witch hunt.’
Maybe, just maybe, not a winning argument.
Watch the ABC video: at best, Hitchens appears worn and bleary. Maybe sleepless. Maybe jetlagged. Maybe even — gasp! — hungover.
Still, Hitchens on auto-pilot is more interesting and thought-provoking than most pundits would be in top-form.
I know that I couldn’t pull it off. Hell, lack of sleep can turn me into a semi-retard. Even riding a full night’s sleep, I arguably wage a ceaseless struggle against retardation.
So, in this shallow respect, I envy Christopher Hitchens.
What to do?
Maybe I should stop sleeping?
No: too much heavy machinery for me to operate. Like spoons, forks and diapers.
Maybe I should start drinking and smoking during media appearances and book signings?
No: must actually finish the book first.
Or, hey…
Maybe I should cultivate a pompous, fancy-pants mid-Atlantic accent. You know, à la William F Buckley or George Plimpton.
No.
Stop right there.
Bad idea.
If I spoke like that, I’d probably get roughed up, and end up with my lunch money stolen.
And talking like Buckley — peppering my monologue with sprinkles of Latin — would be difficult on no sleep.
So, it’s time to accept the things I cannot change:
I will never be Christopher Hitchens.
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