Sleep in heavenly peace, dearest Christopher

How fitting that Christopher Hitchens should die the week of Christmas. It’s almost as if he planned it. So many Christians, with their lights and trees and holly and crèches, eulogizing him at the time of their dear savior’s birth.

Christopher was one of the most beguiling people I have ever known. I thought so from the first moment I met him at a party about 30 years ago in my home. One of my guests had brought him along and I was warned that he was a rogue and lady killer. That was obvious. He was dressed in a white linen suit with a blue shirt, open to expose his chest. He held a glass of wine when we met and said something both polite and cheeky at the same time. “Ah, our esteemed hostess!” He bowed deferentially with that “merchant” smile. I was had. The more he drank, the more outrageous he became and the more charming. Who is this brilliant creature, I wondered, who can outwit everybody in the room and still have them at his feet?

Christopher was sexy. He was a bad boy. He was seductive, both physically and intellectually (truly an un-Washington quality). For all his reputation with women, I never got the feeling that he was anything but respectful. Gentlemanly. Never condescending. As far as he was concerned, he was an equal opportunity sparring partner or conversationalist. If he was entertained, intrigued, stimulated, it didn’t matter whether you were a man or woman.

I never once saw Christopher look over his shoulder to see who was more important in a room. When he was talking to you, he was talking to you. He was the best dinner partner in Washington. He loved a good debate, but he also loved a good gossip.

Soon after Christopher and I met, he also met the fabulous Carol Blue. If ever there was a perfect companion for this man, Carol was it. Imagine being married to him! Wouldn’t you feel intellectually and emotionally exhausted all the time? Not Carol. She was the calm at the eye of the storm. There was no rolling of the eyes, deep sighs, stoic demeanors or gritted teeth. Just total acceptance and love. Which of course, is what Christopher was all about.

For years, our relationship was one of party conversations, an occasional lunch and, on my part, great admiration for the seemingly bottomless pit of

information that was his brain. There was no book he hadn’t read, nothing he couldn’t recite by heart, no subject he could not converse on without extraordinary insight. Most people would find that daunting.

After “On Faith” launched, Christopher and I really became friends. He was working on “God Is Not Great,” focused taking on religion as a debate topic, and was most supportive of my new venture.

I was an atheist at the time. That was five years ago, still a time when atheist was a word most people didn’t use and, even if they were non- believers, would not identify with.

But Christopher’s book brought the subject into the mainstream. He made atheism acceptable. He made those who did not, or could not, believe, feel that they were part of this country where they had always felt marginalized despite the First Amendment. One day, perhaps because of Hitchens, we will have an atheist president: a president elected because of his values, not because of his beliefs.

He wrote for “On Faith” from the start and sat for two video interviews, one after he had been diagnosed with esophageal cancer. People were fascinated. Would, he, once he learned he was dying, finally see the light and embrace God? Anybody who would think that didn’t understand Christopher.

His sense of humor was legendary. He could be wicked, cynical and lacerating, but always hilariously funny. But those who debated Christopher did so at their peril. I moderated a number of debates between him and religious types. Christopher usually left them in the dust and his audience falling off their chairs with laughter. At a standing room only debate at Georgetown University, he had the British theologian Alister McGrath grasping for words while the audience hooted.

Once, Jon Meacham, my former co-moderator at On Faith, and I moderated a debate in New York with Christopher and the Catholic priest, the Rev. Lorenzo Albacete. Much to Christopher’s chagrin, Albacete, a gentle, humorous man who had come to him beforehand to compliment him on his book, kept agreeing with everything Christopher said during the debate. As he continued to fortify himself with red wine, Christopher became more and more frustrated until he finally burst out at Albacete, “Sir, how dare you wear a collar!”

Another time, at a conference where Christopher was to speak, I was sitting with Carol waiting for his entrance. Five minutes went by, then 10, then 15. The crowd was restless but Carol sat there, seemingly unperturbed. I became the nervous wife. After a few more minutes, I turned to Carol and asked where she thought Christopher might be. “Probably in the bar,” she said matter-of-factly. Sure enough, he sauntered in the door with a glass of whiskey and blew the audience away.

People criticized him for his anti-religion stance, but to me, he was never anti-religious. He was anti-hypocrisy. He didn’t care what people believed as long as they didn’t impose their beliefs on others. He was, as he discussed with me often, baffled by how intelligent people could believe all this “nonsense,” but he not only loved many religious people, he sought them out, reveled in discussions with them, and was always engaged by all things to do with religion. In fact one of his close friends toward the end was the atheist turned Christian head of the NIH Francis Collins, against whom he had debated several times. Collins was involved in Christopher’s treatment. Christopher told me that of all the people who had been supportive of him after he became ill, it was Collins who gave him the most comfort. And when I told him Christopher I no longer called myself an atheist, he was not critical but curious. He wanted to know why and listened to my explanation intently. He was one of the most learned religion scholars I knew, which is why he was such a formidable debater. He really knew the Bible. He really knew the Koran. He really had read all the theologians, thinkers and philosophers. He often knew more about the religion of those he was debating than they did themselves.

But beyond the sexy rogue image, beyond the intellectual giant, there was the real Christopher.

When he was in his early 20s, his mother, Yvonne, committed suicide. He never fully recovered. He spoke of her death in his book, “Hitch 22.” as “a lacerating and howling moment.” I learned about this shortly after I met him and from then on always looked upon him as a wounded boy. Sometimes, in his anger at God, I could almost feel the rage at the loss of his mother. It would certainly cause one to wonder how a good and loving God could have allowed this to happen.

I would tease him about being a typical Aries, the boy who wants to come into the playroom and demolish it. Of course he thought astrology was nonsense. And of course he sheepishly admitted reading his horoscope.

One of the times I saw him most excited was after he had undergone a makeover for a Vanity Fair piece. He underwent everything from bikini wax to veneers on his teeth and would brag on the article as if it were worthy of a Nobel for literature. He kept smiling broadly, showing off his new teeth. “Do you realize these veneers cost $40,000?” he asked. It was after the veneers that he appeared more confident in debates and on television.

Our second interview was shortly after he had been diagnosed. He was already undergoing treatment and beginning to lose much of his hair. In sharp contrast to the days after the Vanity Fair piece, this time he was apologetic about his looks. While our camera crew was setting up, he took me to the rooftop of his apartment, with its spectacular Washington view. Naturally he brought a bottle of wine. I sipped while he nearly finished off the bottle and a pack of cigarettes as well. He mumbled something about how it was probably not a good idea to smoke and kept puffing away.

From then on, my husband and I came by from time to time to bring dinner and wine for Christopher and Carol and occasionally their daughter Antonia. Though Carol always warned us that he was tired and wouldn’t last long, we would sit for hours and talk. They were among the best conversations I had ever been part of: fun, easy and totally engaging.

Then he went to Houston for treatment and stayed for months. He came home, was hospitalized, and went back to Houston. Through it all, he kept writing. He had told me that he wanted to write as much as he could, not just because he loved it, but because he wanted to make sure Carol and Antonia were provided for. In one of the last messages I received from him, he said he was writing for Vanity Fair, Slate, the Atlantic and was finishing a book, “Mortality.” He was more prolific than anybody I knew, sick or well.

When I asked when he was coming home, so we could bring dinner over, he responded that he was now being fed with a tube and could neither eat nor drink. I told him that was fine, we would just come by and schmooze. He thought that was a fine idea but sounded more dejected then than I had ever heard him.

Two weeks ago he emailed to ask if I could find a good nurse for him as he was returning to Washington. I was elated that I would get to see him soon. I replied immediately with a name and then the screen went dark. I would, in fact, not ever see him again. He was never to return.

Christopher was one of the kindest, gentlest, most thoughtful and loyal friends one could have. Even though he wanted people to think he was a bad boy, it was really so easy to see through him. He was truly good.

I don’t know where he is now but I can certainly feel his presence. I was getting in my car Friday morning and checked my Blackberry, only to learn that Christopher had died the night before. I turned on the radio and Silent Night began playing. I couldn’t help but think of my friend and what a terrible loss this is for me and for so many others.

Sleep in heavenly peace, dearest Christopher. Sleep in heavenly peace.

Sally Quinn  | Dec 20, 2011 1:26 PM