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Christopher Hitchens

Christopher Hitchens—did you think it ironic that your tongue was overrun by cancer, after you cursed God with it for a decade or more? It was not said at the time—as I recall—but you among all neo-atheists, so-called, lashed God hardest, with purple mouth-carpet impudence. To me it looks like a moral boomerang—like girls in yoga pants who post “you get back what you give” on Instagram. I don’t say they’re enlightened, but maybe they have a point—camel-toe notwithstanding.

I’m not a man to sit in judgement—after all, my dog sits in judgement on me every day, with quiet reproach. His eyes say, “You could do better.” Then I tickle his ears and he runs away—he never explains, you have to work it out for yourself.

Yet I think I can read a sign when I see it, nothing plainer—pikestaff, check index. You were proud to be an American—and a Jew (and is that the same thing, when it comes down to it?). Is that because it got you off the hook—no longer an Aryan, no longer bound to tell the truth? At least your brother is ashamed to be half-Jew—yet not as much as he should be.


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