CHRISTOPHER HITCHENS is the kind of writer who makes you miss your bus stop when you’re engrossed in him, who makes you want to grab friends by the arm and read them passages that have made you shiver between the shoulder blades
(this last was Vladimir Nabokov’s test for good writing). He is such an excellent writer, indeed, that on the notorious occasions on which he is colossally, flagrantly wrong you suspect he must be kidding. (Mustn’t he?)





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