Mortality

by Christopher Hitchens

My so far uncancerous throat, let me rush to assure my Christian correspondent above, is not at all the only organ with which I have blasphemed.

The man who prays is the one who thinks that god has arranged matters all wrong, but who also thinks that he can instruct god how to put them right.

And what do I want back? In the most beautiful apposition of two of the simplest words in our language: the freedom of speech.

My husband is an impossible act to follow. And yet, now I must follow him. I have been forced to have the last word.