And here I am, a whole year-and-a-half later after starting Arguably, finally submitting my review on this Behemoth.
To be fair, I haven’t even read it wholly piece-by-piece as a work of this weight, altitude and breadth eventually makes it evident that to attempt a linear read as I did – Seriously, just DON’T - is as burdensome as trying to serve it as a meal.
Cristopher Hitchens’ prose – I found out - demands patience and maturity from the reader, since he rarely shows qualms in bringing up obscure events, citations or book passages or in resorting to lengthy, intricate reveries; if you’ve never been exposed to Christopher’s writings, you might think you already know all about his scholarly range and interests. Except, you really don’t. Hitchens’ intellect branches into the literary criticism of Sam Bellow or – Chris’ own hero - George Orwell with the same acute ferocity as he crafts the Darwinian argument for why, in the authors’ own words, Women aren’t funny.
And therein lies the largest merit of his writing. Because as self-involving – admittedly, even masturbatory at times – as his cogitations are, they matter-of-factly reflect the seemingly intricate character that we’ve always known Christopher Hitchens to be. Unless you’re deeply religious – for which Hitchens has a special brand of feverish repudiation – you’ll likely find yourself both marveled and maddened at his denunciations and expositions as he plows through nearly every topic as seen in nighttime network punditry.
Now more than ever, this book should be treasured not only as a brilliant work of essayism but also as a fantastic study on Hitchens’ trajectory, political identity and persona.
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And here I am, a whole year-and-a-half later after starting Arguably, finally submitting my review on this Behemoth. To be fair, I haven’t even read it wholly piece-by-piece as a work of this weight, altitude and breadth eventually makes it evident that to attempt a linear read as I did – Seriously, just DON’T - is as burdensome as trying to serve it as a meal. Cristopher Hitchens’ prose – I found out - demands patience and maturity from the reader, since he rarely shows qualms in bringing up obscure events, citations or book passages or in resorting to lengthy, intricate reveries; if you’ve never been exposed to Christopher’s writings, you might think you already know all about his scholarly range and interests. Except, you really don’t. Hitchens’ intellect branches into the literary criticism of Sam Bellow or – Chris’ own hero - George Orwell with the same acute ferocity as he crafts the Darwinian argument for why, in the authors’ own words, Women aren’t funny. And therein lies the largest merit of his writing. Because as self-involving – admittedly, even masturbatory at times – as his cogitations are, they matter-of-factly reflect the seemingly intricate character that we’ve always known Christopher Hitchens to be. Unless you’re deeply religious – for which Hitchens has a special brand of feverish repudiation – you’ll likely find yourself both marveled and maddened at his denunciations and expositions as he plows through nearly every topic as seen in nighttime network punditry. Now more than ever, this book should be treasured not only as a brilliant work of essayism but also as a fantastic study on Hitchens’ trajectory, political identity and persona.
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