It's Friday and I'm inaugurating the weekend with a glass of wine. I've been spending some time with my beast from November, also tentatively know as Novel. He is like Nibbler in Futurama, small, dangerous, and only very occasionally talkative. It's still nice.
My brain is trying to sabotage me, I'm sorry, but I was trying to say that I just finished Hitchens' Arguably. After slogging through it, I already miss it. I miss the voice of it. Hitchens does indeed remind me of Orwell, which would have pleased him, in that you never doubt that he has the courage of his opinions, and that he expresses them well. It occurs to me that this is why I love Orwell; that and the fact that he had such a great moral compass, such discernment. He was right about so much. I seek that out in writers - reliability, trustworthiness. Really, it's warped, but I'm such a natural agreer-with-things that I feel like it's important to find a good person to agree with. That way I don't have to think.
I don't especially always agree with Hitchens, but this is not new. I enjoy his writing, and like the storytelling class that I am taking, it is leading me to some discoveries of the blatantly obvious - that showing, not telling makes for a more engaged author as well as audience; and that while I love English and have spent much time with it, I have much more to learn about it. Much to aspire to. That is, after all, the trouble with comfort reading - it doesn't give the reader much ambition, I appreciate the little nudges to exit the comfort zone.