Christopher Hitchens is a very clever man.
He is an iconoclast and, in some quarters, the hero of the age. He is, as others have described him, a proponent of the dialectic as an agent of social progress and an unyielding critic of the politics of mediocrity.
He is undoubtedly a writer of rare skill.
And yet, I rarely ever read him. His words are too heavily spiced with cynicism for my taste and he makes his cleverness too apparent. But it is only when he offers definitive comment on matters of no real interest to him, like Bob Hope, that I think I see him clearly for what he is.
He reminds me of a cheap huckster, devoid of ideals and empathy, selling wisecracks and fine words to anyone who’s fool enough to listen.
Bob Hope deserved better.
