In his very brave and very public dying, though, one could see again why so many religious people felt a kinship with him. When stripped of Marxist fairy tales and techno-utopian happy talk, rigorous atheism casts a wasting shadow over every human hope and endeavor, and leads ineluctably to the terrible conclusion of Philip Larkin’s poem “Aubade” — that “death is no different whined at than withstood.”
I can not help but notice an inundation of wonderfully prepared critiques of Hitchens, both positive and negative, since his death earlier this week. Perhaps it should not only be expected but respected, however the sheer volume and frequently overly sculpted texture of the prose suggests a preparation for an individual's death that strikes me as unseemly and hinting of possible selfism.
That said, I suspect Hitchens would respect much of the effort expended in attempting to match his prose, ghoulish as it might be.