Wonder Of Wonders. Gem Among Rocks

Wonder of Wonders, Gem among Rocks 

He got a letter from a vicious vixen the other might. He didn't know what prompted her to reach out for him after she had walked out in a huff and wandered into the wilderness of self-righteousness and the wilds of the frozen tundra of Alaska in the middle of winter. She begged him to reply to her. He obliged her:

"You would never really understand how I felt about you and thought of you. You viewed me from the lenses of practicality whereas I looked at you and life from "impossible dreams". You thought I was a greedy married man who wanted everything while in fact I was and am a lonely man trapped in a snare of my own weakness and sentimentality. My "farewell" letter was a test and your reactions showed deep down you cared more about your own self, your hurts, and your desire to hurt me back, than an investigation of what drove me to write such a letter. 

I have regained my peace. As I said, I would rather dwell on the beautiful, the kind, and the gentle sides of life while trying to block out from my mind your hurtful, harsh language. I am the type of person if once I address a woman in endearing terms, I cannot switch to terms of contempt even when I am angry. I would rather scream and yell to express my anger than to use contemptuous words because those words are ugly and have no place between a man and a woman, even if they are never romantically involved. Words have a way to tell the world who we really are. 

Believe it or not, deep inside me, I am a very gentle and soft person. The hard, clumsy exterior is just only my poorly adapted defense.

I hope you finally got some peace of your own. While it's highly unlikely our paths ever cross again (the magic was gone for good; your vicious side glistened and glimmered and shimmered in the sun), I always wish you the best of luck in the remainder of your solitary travel along the road called life. "

Of course, she wrote back to me and this time she signed her name instead of tersely putting down "me". I already deleted her annoying and self-righteous and stupid reply so I cannot reproduce here. I vaguely remember it left a sour taste in my mouth and an unexpected surprise at how ordinary and common her values were. She talked about her pride of being practical, her low opinion of my tendency to have dreams, and the justification of her display of contempt for me. After reading her reply, I asked myself how I, a person of learning and sensitivity, would and could ever be mixed up with a coarse midget of crass and crabby values. My only answer was that my loneliness blinded me of her crassness and crabbiness. On the other hand, I was glad that I didn't get in that deep a relationship with her. She taught me one thing: I didn't know shit about bitches!

So when my longtime, almost asphyxiated, fixated aficionado called me and inquired about my latest cardiac tests, I told him about her. He exploded, "How many times I told you to get rid of the fucking bitch, the stupid, impoverished, poverty-stricken dumb ass, good-for-nothing midget? Stop taking her calls. Don't text-message her back. Completely ignore her. She is scum. She is shit. She is just plainly no good. You hear me?" I meekly and softly sighed, "Yes, Victoria. I meant Victor." He slammed the phone on me. The asshole still uses an almost antique dialed land phone that he inherited from his mother. In this age of Internet and smart phones and tablets, he owns no computer and relies on a typewriter for formal written communications. I call him Dinosaur Victor.

Where am I ? How did I get here. Where's the "He" that started this meandering narrative, this thread of self-confrontation, this wild and crazy exploration and examination of the dark recesses of the human mind in looking for the forces of attraction and destruction.

I am 62 years old. A Spanish song is saying love kills. Please, I am saying to myself, tell me something I don't already know. Yes, love is a fucking funny thing, especially to a guy like me. And so is sex. 

I met a whiskey-soaked, starry-eyed girl in a bar in Tennessee
She later took me to a motel room for a ride
When it was over, I was black and blue and could hardly see
Ever since, I haven't been able to drink her off my mind

I once lay next to a  divorcée on the beach
I had to put up a fight for my life
When it was through, my sanity seemed to be out of reach
She not only blew me all over, but also blew away my mind

As I am lying in bed, alone, and depressed
I think of all the girls and women that have come and gone
I would have to tell you this: "Okay, I confess
I slept with them all, but no one made me moan and groan
Like the way I do with you, sweetie.
Don't you believe me? Go ahead, make me swear
Don't you see that I love you till eternity?
You're the only one that I really do care."


I once took a lad under my wings and counseled him the "Art of Love". I said, " Son, the Art of Love ain't no different from the Art of War. You must do unto others as you wish they do unto you, and that is, with passion and imagination. You have to weave a parachute out of words, sweet and tender words. You talk to them in a slow, soft, baritone voice, telling them not you want to say, but what they want to hear, while looking straight into their eyes, and acting all sincere and gentle. Remember the difference between a truth and a lie is as light as a feather. Don't rush things. Love is like sex and wine. The longer you get there, the more satisfying it gets." Guess what the lad said to me? "But, master, if you're so good with women, why you are always by yourself in the weekend, and I never see you with any woman?" I blushed, "Son, haven't you heard 'those who don't know love to teach'? Never mind." 

My voice trailed off and I stared into empty space which so resembles the void within me. I said goodbye to the young man and staggered home under the weight of loneliness. I opened the apartment's door and the emptiness of the room sucked me into its vortex. I plopped down on the sofa and instinctively reached for the remote on the coffee table. My cell phone rang. I looked at the number. A name went with it on the screen. It was the Midget. I said, "Hello." She asked, "Do you still love me?"

After a long silence, I sucked in the air and sighed, "Not really, not anymore." Then I clicked off the phone. I felt like shit, but I knew I had done the right thing. To ease off the pain of "conscience" that was tugging at my heart, I swallowed two Ambiens. I was drifting in a fog of forced sleep and unlocalized pain when the phone rang. "Did you tell the bitch Midget to get lost yet?". "Yes, I did, honey, just like I told you I would."

-You did the right thing. She was no good for you. Besides, she didn't know her place. She was stupid, vain, and thought so much of herself and not enough of you.
-Listen, Harriett, do we have to go through this again? I did that for you. I really didn't want to cause any pain and suffering to her or to anybody, no matter they desereve that or not. A loss is a loss. I knew what it felt like to be dumped. I was dumped once, maybe twice. I don't know. It was a long time ago. I finally got over the horrible memories, the terror of pain and uncommunicative shame. I know she asked for it, that I deserve better, that I deserve you. But I would rather close this chapter of my life for good. I don't want to talk about her anymore. I made a mistake. I was lonely. I thought she was a decent, caring, unselfish woman; I didn't know she was selfish, rude, and vengeful. Anyway, pain should not happen to anyone, but maybe we all learn from it. Love is not an easy thing to have. We must work hard for it. I think in the end only wise, kind, loving people really know what love is. Other people only experience the ersatz kind. That's probably why we have all kinds of separations and divorces. Love is like money. To get it, a lot of it, one must work hard, very hard, at it.
-Roberto, I love you.
-I love you, too. Now, I have to go back to sleep. I have a lot of things to do tomorrow.
-Such as?
-Honey, please, I need to go back to sleep. I'll call you tomorrow.



(to be continued)

Alarms and Red Flags

In talking to anybody, you need to pay attention to signs of inconsistency, selfishness, lies, and disdain. If you perceive signs and symptoms of any of these alarming red flags, proceed with caution and be ready to run away in a moment's notice. I think you would only love those who understand and show you care and respect, not those who show you disdain and contempt.

One Of These Nights

One of these nights 
                "Borrowed" from the original lyrics written by The Eagles

One of these nights
One of these crazy old nights 
You're gonna find out
Pretty mama 
What turns on your lights
What brings you smie
And who will be gonna make you cry 
With absolute delights

The full moon is shining
The fever is high 
And the wicked wind whispers and moans 

You got your demons 
You got desires 
Well, I got a few of my own 

Oo, someone to be kind to 
In between the dark and the light 
Oo, coming right behind you 
Swear I'm gonna find you 
One of these nights 

One of these dreams 
One of these wild and crazy dreams 
We're gonna have one 
One that really screams 

I've been searching for the daughter 
Of the devil himself 
I've been searching for an angel in white 
I've been waiting for a woman who's a little of both 
And I can feel her, but she's nowhere in sight 

Oo, loneliness will blind you
And you find yourself
In between the wrong and the right 
Oo, coming right behind you 
Swear I'm gonna find you 
One of these nights 

One of these nights 
In between the dark and the light 
You see nothing and nobody but me
Swear you will

Listen, imagine 
Life without music
No poetry
No you nor me
How dreary life would be

So, girl, make tonight the night
I have you 
You have me
Together we will make music
And write poetry
With our bodies
And what we feel inside

Roberto Wissai/NKBa'

Steven Pinker and Me

Steven Pinker and Me

I first came across Pinker about ten years ago. I  no longer remember the name of the book he wrote. I just vaguely recall that it was an important book and dealt with cognitive science. It was also the first time I was introduced to the field of study. Then from time to time I saw his name linked with Norm Chomsky as a foil. Today, I read in Newsweek that he just published  a thick book called "The Better Angels of Our Nature". One paragraph in the book review stood out because it encapsulated, perhaps too neatly, human nature while explaining Pinker's thesis that contrary to facile impressions, violence in the human world  has gone down. I felt compelled to share that paragraph with my fellow Mitchongs (those who have already read the book review, please read no further) in the hopes that it may shed some light on our behavior and others. Understanding leads to tolerance, hopefully.

"Human nature, he says, consists of a constant pull of good and evil. He includes five 'inner demons'-sadism, revenge, dominance, violence in pursuit of a practical benefit, and violence in pursuit of an ideology-that struggle with four 'better angels': self-control, empathy, morality, and reason. Over the years, Pinker says, the forces of civilization have increasingly given the good in us the upper hand." (0ctober 10&17, 2011 double issue, p.72)

I don't know about you, but the paragraph resonates strongly with me. In case you wonder, I have four "inner demons" and three "better angels" listed by Pinker. No wonder my angels are outgunned and I have been miserable and struggling to stay sane and out of jail.

Somebody asked me the other day what qualities I most like about myself and others. I was about to give him the usual suspects like honesty, courage, compassion, and all that shit, but then I took a look at him and saw he was not really, keenly interested in my answer ( his eyes were wandering; he just made small talks disguised as real conversation), so I blurted out with a smirk, a sneer, and a hoary laugh: "mystery and danger." That got him, he said, "come again?" I brusquely got up. "You heard me." was my parting shot. Life is a fucking jungle, full of wild animals. Some animals avoid you or pay you no attention. Others you have to watch out for because they are hiding and ambushing you. You cannot let your guard down while living or walking in a thick jungle, otherwise you just get killed. 

Yes, mystery and danger. I am talking rot and rubbish. I ain't no danger to nobody but myself. Last week, I became 62 years of age. Nobody remembered my birthday. Nobody gave a fucking damn. No card. No present. So I went to the neighborhood convenience store and bought myself a six-pack, a jar of unsalted peanuts, a can of sardines, and a bag of rice. I came home, put the rice in the rice-cooker. Thirty minutes later, I plopped down in the sofa in front of a TV and ate my dinner, all alone and feeling mysterious and dangerous. 

I used to have a very young girlfriend. She was only good for sex and nothing else, dumb as an ox and completely unlettered. I dumped her after two months. I was tired of talking nonsense to her and hearing nonsense from her. Sex without real communication can make you feel like a real animal. You had better believe it, take it from Grandpa. I now am dating more age-appropriate women. They don't have much in the Department of Looks, but they usually have money and they appreciate whatever attention I give them. Actually, I don't like women that much. I mean I don't enjoy dating. Too expensive and too time-consuming. I'd rather read if I feel lonely. 

Shit, a reader of my blog just shot me an emai professing concern and astonishment over what I wrote above and then slyly asked if it was factual. I fired back a reply, "use your imagination, if you have any." Gosh, I am 62 years old, overweight, ugly, impotent, impoverished, impolite, impolitic, and dying. I am a very lonely man. I ain't got no girlfriend, old or young. I was just bragging to boost my ego, to regain my balance. Words are my friends. They are my toy and tool to navigate through this loneliness of mine. Don't feel sorry for me. Without lonelines and a sense of impending death, I cannot write. The othe day I learned the virtue of patience and silence. Keep your cool, old chap. I kept telling myself, be cool, old chap, even if you have the clap. Just be cool, okay? You get to bed now and close your eyes. Have no fear of bad dreams. They are merely the vehicle by which your mind is curing itself.
(to be continued)

Wissai

Who we are

OP-ED COLUMNIST
Who You Are
By DAVID BROOKS
Published: October 21, 2011

Daniel Kahneman spent part of his childhood in Nazi-occupied Paris. Like the other Jews, he had to wear a Star of David on the outside of his clothing. One evening, when he was about 7 years old, he stayed late at a friend’s house, past the 6 p.m. curfew. He turned his sweater inside out to hide the star and tried to sneak home. A German SS trooper approached him on the street, picked him up and gave him a long, emotional hug. The soldier displayed a photo of his own son, spoke passionately about how much he missed him and gave Kahneman some money as a sentimental present. The whole time Kahneman was terrified that the SS trooper might notice the yellow star peeking out from inside his sweater.

Kahneman finally made it home, convinced that people are complicated and bizarre. He went on to become one of the world’s most influential psychologists and to win the Nobel in economic science.

Kahneman doesn’t actually tell that childhood story in his forthcoming book. “Thinking, Fast and Slow” is an intellectual memoir, not a personal one. The book is, nonetheless, sure to be a major intellectual event (look for an excerpt in The Times Magazine this Sunday) because it superbly encapsulates Kahneman’s research, and the vast tide of work that has been sparked by it.

I’d like to use this column not to summarize the book but to describe why I think Kahneman and his research partner, the late Amos Tversky, will be remembered hundreds of years from now, and how their work helped instigate a cultural shift that is already producing astounding results.

Before Kahneman and Tversky, people who thought about social problems and human behavior tended to assume that we are mostly rational agents. They assumed that people have control over the most important parts of their own thinking. They assumed that people are basically sensible utility-maximizers and that when they depart from reason it’s because some passion like fear or love has distorted their judgment.

Kahneman and Tversky conducted experiments. They proved that actual human behavior often deviates from the old models and that the flaws are not just in the passions but in the machinery of cognition. They demonstrated that people rely on unconscious biases and rules of thumb to navigate the world, for good and ill. Many of these biases have become famous: priming, framing, loss-aversion.

Kahneman reports on some delightful recent illustrations from other researchers. Pro golfers putt more accurately from all distances when putting for par than when putting for birdie because they fear the bogie more than they desire the birdie. Israeli parole boards grant parole to about 35 percent of the prisoners they see, except when they hear a case in the hour just after mealtime. In those cases, they grant parole 65 percent of the time. Shoppers will buy many more cans of soup if you put a sign atop the display that reads “Limit 12 per customer.”

Kahneman and Tversky were not given to broad claims. But the work they and others did led to the reappreciation of several old big ideas:

We are dual process thinkers. We have two interrelated systems running in our heads. One is slow, deliberate and arduous (our conscious reasoning). The other is fast, associative, automatic and supple (our unconscious pattern recognition). There is now a complex debate over the relative strengths and weaknesses of these two systems. In popular terms, think of it as the debate between “Moneyball” (look at the data) and “Blink” (go with your intuition).

We are not blank slates. All humans seem to share similar sets of biases. There is such a thing as universal human nature. The trick is to understand the universals and how tightly or loosely they tie us down.

We are players in a game we don’t understand. Most of our own thinking is below awareness. Fifty years ago, people may have assumed we are captains of our own ships, but, in fact, our behavior is often aroused by context in ways we can’t see. Our biases frequently cause us to want the wrong things. Our perceptions and memories are slippery, especially about our own mental states. Our free will is bounded. We have much less control over ourselves than we thought.

This research yielded a different vision of human nature and a different set of debates. The work of Kahneman and Tversky was a crucial pivot point in the way we see ourselves.

They also figured out ways to navigate around our shortcomings. Kahneman champions the idea of “adversarial collaboration” — when studying something, work with people you disagree with. Tversky had a wise maxim: “Let us take what the terrain gives.” Don’t overreach. Understand what your circumstances are offering.

Many people are exploring the inner wilderness. Kahneman and Tversky are like the Lewis and Clark of the mind.

In the silence and stillness of somnolence

I always have greatest thoughts when being in the bathroom or right before falling asleep. The lyrics of a Spanish language song on the Internet were absolutely beautiful. I was tempted to copy them and then did the translation, but I was tired and lazy. Besides, I was afraid I would be too worked up to fall asleep. Male birds sing to attract potential mates. Dogs and wolves howl. Humans sing and and more ingeniously they enhance their voice by the musical instruments in order to convey the mood. Sounds seem to affect organisms. Here I am. I am writing these words silently, but if you read them correctly, you will discern a certain musicality in them. What I meant to say was that you would understand what I couldn't tell you face to face.

-How's so? You don't strike me as a bashful fellow.
-But I am.
-I don't think so.
- Stop being so fucking sure of your assessments!
-Whoa, you have a temper.
-You're so goddamned right. You're pissing me off, do you that? Here I am, about to open my heart to you so you can get see what's inside, what's been hidden from others. Then you had to ruin everything by acting so knowing, so perceptive about me. What's the fuck you really know about me, huh? We only know each other for one lousy week.
-So, why did you want to tell me about your heart and your soul, huh?
-Fuck you! See you in hell.
- Hey, come back here. I was only kidding. I like you. I really do. A lot.

So, I came back to her and haven't left since.

( to be continued)

Hello, Out There

Your grandpa has a new toy. He's staying up in the wee hours to play with it even though he has an appointment early in the morning. The toy is wonderful. He should have purchased it long ago.

Anyway, he chuckled when noticed that after two years on the scene he "attracted" another follower of his blog, which makes it a grand total of two! At the grand old age of 62 and on his birthday no less, he suddenly realized that that love could be visualized by an older couple walking along the beach, while the tide tickled and tackled and tangled their ankles.  The couple have never forgotten that love demands a willingness to share and an acceptance of what happens to each other. Love is a brave choice. It is not something for the faint of heart or the immature. Maybe that is why one does not always come to know what love really is until they have reached old age and or matured. Love is a commitment and will never be fully realized until one learns that it is only realized by determination, persistence, and resolve. 

Okay, your grandpa didn't actually write all the words of the preceding paragraph. It came from a woman, somebody who was crazy and foolhardy enough to nurture some lingering affection for him. The words sound nice and eloquent and heartfelt, but the delivery and actualization of the sentiments portrayed by the words is an issue. He has painfully realized that love is really a delusion and highly conditional. Another woman self-righteously recently admonished him that he has been stupidly attracted to cunning, calculating, and selfish women. What does she think he is? A fool and a masochist? Nah, he is neither. He is simply too lazy and too kind to say No.

Last night, another realization dawned upon him. The bitches forgot him or stayed away from him because they thought they're better than he was. Fair enough. He did the same thing to those bitches who didn't measure up to his standards. Life is a chasing game. Meanwhile, we get lonely and frustrated and we eventually die. What the fuck! Don't be so uptight. Lighten up. And don't get so hung up with love and sex. Usually they bring you nothing but pain, loss of money, and diseases. Love is a delusion. And sex is boring and dirty and animalistic. Come to think of it, nothing beats artistic creations. They are lasting and they do bring joy and satisfaction. The preceding musings didn't mean your grandpa never had a deep, caring love or went through an intense sex session where the carnal pleasurers overwhelmed his sessions and threatened to cause a heart-attack for overexcitement and stimulation. So, he knew what the pleasures involving the flesh and the pleasant illusions and delusions brought on by the belief that he was loved. But, he also knew, from multiple experiences, the highs from artistic feelings and achievements are incredibly satisfying and ego-validating.
(to be continued)

You were a Farce and maybe a Fart, too

You were a Farce and maybe a Fart, too.
Or maybe it was I, not you.
At any rate, the day came and went
Without a sound, nary a cry
From you. Shame! Shame! On me and my little heart.
I henceforth would let it die and would never give it a jumpstart.
Thanks for a lesson!
Love is a delusion.
Money is real.
I cannot get food without money
Unless I want to steal.
I am too proud to do so
So long, farewell, I've got to go.
Adios, goodbye.
I no longer give a damn if you cry.
You're cheap.
I am discarding you on a heap
Of mistakes and errors and wishes
That all smell like dead fishes.

Roberto Wissai
The day after

(to be continued)

Music and Memories

Music is playing on iPod. I'm listening to it through the earpiece. The high fidelity of sound is bringing back long-repressed memories of a love that shipwrecked a long time. I no longer love her, but the pain is forever palpable when certain songs are played. And they are being played right now. Love was short. Pain is forever.

You called me at three am

You called me at three
In the freaking morning.
I said, "Allo, bueno. Como estas, bonita?"

You said, "Did I wake you up?"

What kind of question is that?
You think I do nothing but stay awake waiting for your call?
But anyway, why do you call?
Haven't heard from you for months and years.
I thought you were dead.

I can't sleep. I am lonely. And I miss you.

Miss me? For real? You were the one that played hard to get!

I know. I was stupid. I heard you had a girlfriend and you looked happy and younger.

You heard it wrong. I am a married man.

Then who is the woman who hovers over you when you play cards?

That's my landlady, my pawnbroker, my bodyguard, my lucky angel.

I don't give a damn who she is.
I was stupid. I could have you, but I was too proud
To let you know I liked you a lot.

Escuchame, bonita. It's three in the morning.
I need to sleep.
Your timing is something else.
Adios. Lo siento mucho.
She is just a friend, like you.
All my friends are women, you know that.
I am nobody.
No power. No fame. No money.
Don't cry.
Love is an illusion.

Roberto Wissai

I used to run with the hunted

I used to run with the hunted.
You think it was fun, huh?
No, sir. It was not.
I was scared shitless.
I hated the feeling of being the prey.
I was angry, too. More scared than angry.
I wanted to live first. The angry part came later.
Now I own two handguns and have not killed anybody yet.
Not that I am afraid, but because I am smart enough to see the futility of killing, except in defense.

I used to be very poor.
Never had much to eat.
Hungry all the time.
I knew humiliation and anxiety
Because of no money.
And then I worked and saved and became a millionaire.
Temporarily.
I blew most of my money in stocks, gambling, and women.
No drugs, though. Hated to be a slave to chemicals.
Not even to nicotine.
Now I live from hand to mouth.

But I still retain my good looks.
Plus, I work out.
That's why women of all ages are flocking to me.
I used to love very much a girl named Laura,
But she dumped me because I was poor.
Now I no longer know what love is all about.
A woman called me asshole and motherfucker because I wrote
A "dear Jane" letter to her.
I thought she loved me a lot.
Now I know she does not.
Then there was a woman who
Was very rich and smart.
Somehow she made it known she liked me,
But she was too old and uneducated to my taste.
Then another old woman was also after me.
She talked dirty and made passes at me.
I kept calling her "Auntie" to keep het at bay.
Last night, another woman called me out of state,
Asking me to visit her.
I said, "What for? I am a married man."
She sighed, "Don't be cruel. I miss you. I am tired of just listening to your sexy voice.
I want to see your face and your body without clothes on."
I sighed also, "I have news for you, mi amiga. I can't get it up anymore.
I'm chronically impotent."
She hissed at me, "Don't you lie to me!"

Why didn't these women come to me when I was young and lonely and able and willing and available, when I thought I knew what
Love was all about?
Why do I feel lonely and empty on my birthday?

Roberto Wissai

Death by cancer

A Voice, Still Vibrant, Reflects on Mortality
By CHARLES McGRATH
Published: October 9, 2011

 
HOUSTON — Christopher Hitchens, probably the country’s most famous unbeliever, received the Freethinker of the Year Award at the annual convention of the Atheist Alliance of America here on Saturday. Mr. Hitchens was flattered by the honor, he said a few days beforehand, but also a little abashed. “I think being an atheist is something you are, not something you do,” he explained, adding: “I’m not sure we need to be honored. We don’t need positive reinforcement. On the other hand, we do need to stick up for ourselves, especially in a place like Texas, where they have laws, I think, that if you don’t believe in Jesus Christ you can’t run for sheriff.”

Sunday Book Review: ‘Arguably: Essays’ by Christopher Hitchens (September 11, 2011)


Mr. Hitchens, a prolific essayist and the author of “God Is Not Great: How Religion Poisons Everything,” discovered in June 2010 that he had Stage 4 esophageal cancer. He has lately curtailed his once busy schedule of public appearances, but he made an exception for the Atheist Alliance — or “the Triple A,” as he called it — partly because the occasion coincided almost to the day with his move 30 years ago from his native England to the United States. He was already in Houston, as it happened, because he had come here for treatment at the MD Anderson Cancer Center, where he has turned his 12th-floor room into a temporary library and headquarters.

Mr. Hitchens is gaunt these days, no longer barrel-chested. His voice is softer than it used to be, and for the second time since he began treatment, he has lost most of his hair. Once such an enthusiastic smoker that he would light up in the shower, he gave up cigarettes a couple of years ago. Even more inconceivable to many of his friends, Mr. Hitchens, who used to thrive on whiskey the way a bee thrives on nectar, hasn’t had a drink since July, when a feeding tube was installed in his stomach. “That’s the most depressing aspect,” he said. “The taste is gone. I don’t even want to. It’s incredible what you can get used to.”

But in most other respects Mr. Hitchens is undiminished, preferring to see himself as living with cancer, not dying from it. He still holds forth in dazzlingly clever and erudite paragraphs, pausing only to catch a breath or let a punch line resonate, and though he says his legendary productivity has fallen off a little since his illness, he still writes faster than most people talk. Last week he stayed up until 1 in the morning to finish an article for Vanity Fair, working on a laptop on his bedside table.

Writing seems to come almost as naturally as speech does to Mr. Hitchens, and he consciously associates the two. “If you can talk, you can write,” he said. “You have to be careful to keep your speech as immaculate as possible. That’s what I’m most afraid of. I’m terrified of losing my voice.” He added: “Writing is something I do for a living, all right — it’s my livelihood. But it’s also my life. I couldn’t live without it.”

Mr. Hitchens’s newest book, published last month, is “Arguably,” a paving-stone-sized volume consisting mostly of essays finished since his last big collection, “Love, Poverty and War,” which came out in 2004. The range of subjects is typically Hitchensian. There are essays — miniature pamphlets, almost — on political subjects and especially on the danger posed to the West by Islamic terrorism and totalitarianism, a subject that has preoccupied Mr. Hitchens since 2001. But there are just as many on literary figures; there’s a paean to oral sex, and there are little rants about unruly wine waiters, clichés and the misuse of “fuel” as a verb. The book’s epigraph is from Henry James’s novel “The Ambassadors”: “Live all you can: It’s a mistake not to.” And in an introduction Mr. Hitchens writes: “Some of these articles were written with the full consciousness that they might be my very last. Sobering in one way and exhilarating in another, this practice can obviously never become perfected.”

In his hospital room he suggested that an awareness of mortality was useful for a writer but ideally it should remain latent. “I try not to dwell on it,” he said, “except that once in a while I say, O.K., I’m not going to make that joke, I’m not going to go for that chortle. Or if I have to choose between two subjects, I won’t choose the boring one.”

He added, talking about an essay on Philip Larkin that made it into “Arguably”: “I knew the collection was going to come out even if I did not, and I was very pleased when I finished that one, because of the way it ends: ‘Our almost-instinct almost true:/ What will survive of us is love.’ I remember thinking, if that’s the last piece I write, that will do me.” After a moment he went on: “The influence of Larkin is much greater than I thought. He’s perfect for people who are thinking about death. You’ve got that old-line Calvinist pessimism and modern, acid cynicism — a very good combo. He’s not liking what he sees, and not pretending to.”

His main regret at the moment, Mr. Hitchens said, was that while he was keeping up with his many deadlines — for Slate, The Atlantic and Vanity Fair — he didn’t have the energy to also work on a book. He had recently come up with some new ideas about his hero, George Orwell, for example — among them that Orwell might have had Asperger’s — and he said he ought to include them in a revised edition of his 2002 book, “Why Orwell Matters.” He had also thought of writing a book about dying. “It could be called ‘What to Expect When You’re Expecting,’ ” he said, laughing.
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Sunday Book Review: ‘Arguably: Essays’ by Christopher Hitchens (September 11, 2011)
Times Topic: Christopher Hitchens
Turning serious, he said, “I’ve had some dark nights of the soul, of course, but giving in to depression would be a sellout, a defeat.” He added: “I don’t know why I got so sick. Maybe it was the smokes, or maybe it’s genes. My father died of the same thing. It’s pointless getting into remorse.”

On balance, he reflected, the past year has been a pretty good one. He won a National Magazine Award, published “Arguably,” debated Tony Blair in front of a huge audience and added two states to the list of those he has visited. “I lack only the Dakotas and Nebraska,” he said, “though I may not get there unless someone comes up with some ethanol-based cancer treatment in Omaha.”

Mr. Hitchens has an extensive support network that includes his wife, Carol Blue, and his great friends James Fenton and Martin Amis. Mr. Amis is known for being cool and acerbic, but as he kissed and embraced Mr. Hitchens last week, visiting on the way to a literary festival in Mexico, his affection for his friend was unmistakable. “Hitch’s buoyancy is amazing,” he said later. “He has this great love of life, which I rather envy, because I think I may be deficient in that respect. It’s an odd thing to say, but he’s almost like a Tibetan monk. It’s as if he’d become religious.”

Sunday's Storied Surfeits and Surceases

So, how are you? Ever since your shocking "Dear Jane" letter arrived, I have been living in a twilight zone of anger, pain, and bitterness.

(to be continued)