Christopher Hitchens, a young man still only thirty-eight, seems, on the face of it, to belong to a rare species. From the glossies purling the rich and famous like Vanity Fair and Tatler to the dour pink adornments of the newsstands like The Nation and The New Statesman, from the liberal Observer to the Tory Spectator, from affectedly literary quarterlies like Raritan and Grand Street to suburban dailies like Newsday, Hitchens bestrides the Atlantic, if not as a colossus, then at least as someone who’s always to be found wherever there’s a good party going in London, New York, or Washington.

There is something even more remarkable about Hitchens’s elevation. Though other Englishmen have come to the United States and have either written about it in tones of indignation and outrage or domiciled...

 

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