viernes, 16 de diciembre de 2011

Christopher Hitchens, EPD

Hitchens en 1999

Hitchens, bon vivant, jodedor, fumador y bebedor empedernido, ha muerto. Perdió la batalla contra el cáncer, pero disfrutó mucho la vida. Murió con candor y valentía, escribiendo hasta el último suspiro. No era su ateísmo lo que más me atraía, sino su prosa sofisticada y combativa. Con Hitchens el lenguaje construye conceptos y se escurre por senderos inesperados acechando con la estocada. A Hitchens hay que leerlo en inglés. Recomiendo Arguably  y Letters to a Young Contrarian. Aquí va la No. 7:
How to ward off atrophy and routine, you ask? Well, I can give you a small and perhaps ridiculous example. Every day, the New York Times carries a motto in a box on its front page. "All the News That's Fit to Print," it says. It's been saying it for decades, day in and day out. I imagine that most readers of the canonical sheet have long ceased to notice this bannered and flaunted symbol of its mental furniture. I myself check every day to make sure that the bright, smug, pompous, idiotic claim is still there. Then I check to make sure that it still irritates me. If I can still exclaim, under my breath, why do they insult me and what do they take me for and what the hell is it supposed to mean unless it's as obviously complacent and conceited and censorious as it seems to be, then at least I know that I still have a pulse.

You may wish to choose a more rigorous mental workout but I credit this daily infusion of annoyance with extending my life span.