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December 16, 2011

Comments

Konstantin

Nicely stated, Mr. Sarvas. I cried last night as well. Didn't think that was possible for me after the age of 8, but, like you say, the occasion is worthy of tears.

Difficult now to add anything more than so many borrowed clichés that have already been rephrased & printed in praise or remembrance of the late great Christopher Hitchens. It's been a bittersweet day as I peruse the many clever eulogies & obituaries online. No matter what I read about the man, it only serves to substantiate my feeling that we are all unworthy of the task of describing him with any sense of completeness, any notion of surety that our words are correct when his fresh ghost surely hovers between paragraphs ready to edit our silly babbling, illuminating & thus annihilating our hitherto unrealized ignorance with a perfectly incisive Hitchslap.

I am proud that I celebrated his beautiful prose while he lived, that I own most of his books, that I have at least twice read almost every available published word he has written, that I am not one of the johnnies-come-lately who finds suddenly that the occasion of a death is the appropriate trigger for a celebration of the man's brilliance.

DailyHitchens.com has been helpful in cultivating & maintaining my loving relationship with Hitch's words & efforts to make the world a better place for the godless among us.

I consider

    Hitch-22
to be the finest memoir I've ever read. Decouple the politics, the self-regard, the double-wick'd candle burning, or the whatever from his facility with English -- if nothing else, Hitchens was a superb writer, a marvelous voice seemingly effortlessly yet tirelessly adding to the numinous aspects of the gift of articulated expression.

If I ever publish something half as well-informed and one tenth as beautiful as virtually any given paragraph of speech uttered by Hitch during one of his many wondrously enlightening debate performances of the last several years, I'll consider my life fulfilled.

Hitchens makes me want to be a better person. I join his effort to condemn god[s], to kill religion, and to sustain a better, more logical source of goodness & ethics for the future of our species. His legacy inspires my efforts, as a US Army soldier and as a journalist & writer, to perpetuate a similar legacy of bravery, and to ensure that the Hitchens legacy becomes his immortality.

Shelley

You are right to connect the loss of Hitchens and Tony Judt.

In such a crazy and sometimes shallow world, it's gratifying to know that writers can be so sharply missed.

Clare

Cheers Hitch indeed.

John Verity

John Banville on Hitchens:

http://www.irishtimes.com/newspaper/world/2011/1217/1224309216164.html

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TEV DEFINED


  • The Elegant Variation is "Fowler’s (1926, 1965) term for the inept writer’s overstrained efforts at freshness or vividness of expression. Prose guilty of elegant variation calls attention to itself and doesn’t permit its ideas to seem naturally clear. It typically seeks fancy new words for familiar things, and it scrambles for synonyms in order to avoid at all costs repeating a word, even though repetition might be the natural, normal thing to do: The audience had a certain bovine placidity, instead of The audience was as placid as cows. Elegant variation is often the rock, and a stereotype, a cliché, or a tired metaphor the hard place between which inexperienced or foolish writers come to grief. The familiar middle ground in treating these homely topics is almost always the safest. In untrained or unrestrained hands, a thesaurus can be dangerous."

SECOND LOOK

  • The Bookshop by Penelope Fitzgerald

    Bs

    Penelope Fitzgerald's second novel is the tale of Florence Green, a widow who seeks, in the late 1950s, to bring a bookstore to an isolated British town, encountering all manner of obstacles, including incompetent builders, vindictive gentry, small minded bankers, an irritable poltergeist, but, above all, a town that might not, in fact, want a bookshop. Fitzgerald's prose is spare but evocative – there's no wasted effort and her work reminds one of Hemingway's dictum that every word should fight for its right to be on the page. Florence is an engaging creation, stubbornly committed to her plan even as uncertainty regarding the wisdom of the enterprise gnaws at her. But The Bookshop concerns itself, finally, with the astonishing vindictiveness of which provincials are capable, and, as so much English fiction must, it grapples with the inevitabilities of class. It's a dense marvel at 123 pages, a book you won't want to – or be able to – rush through.
  • The Rider by Tim Krabbe

    Rider_4

    Tim Krabbé's superb 1978 memoir-cum-novel is the single best book we've read about cycling, a book that will come closer to bringing you inside a grueling road race than anything else out there. A kilometer-by-kilometer look at just what is required to endure some of the most grueling terrain in the world, Krabbé explains the tactics, the choices and – above all – the grinding, endless, excruciating pain that every cyclist faces and makes it heart-pounding rather than expository or tedious. No writer has better captured both the agony and the determination to ride through the agony. He's an elegant stylist (ably served by Sam Garrett's fine translation) and The Rider manages to be that rarest hybrid – an authentic, accurate book about cycling that's a pleasure to read. "Non-racers," he writes. "The emptiness of those lives shocks me."