Chicago
I was fascinated by the letters between Christopher Hitchens and Katha Pollitt ["Exchange," Dec. 16]. There was a throwaway reference in Hitchens's piece that caught my attention. It was a reference to Gore Vidal, at whom he threw a rabbit punch, among others. I was suddenly reminded of a moment in the late, late, late of the evening when Hitch and I got smashed. It was just a couple of years ago.
      He was in Chicago in re his excellent Kissinger book. During those blurry moments at my house, and very delightful they were, he confided that in some quarters he was regarded as the successor to Gore Vidal as America's preeminent man of letters. I've a hunch that Vidal may have a comment on that, especially now.
      My point is a simple one: vanity. It's probably the least of our seven deadly sins; all of us have a touch of it, more or less. In some cases, more than less. Saddam Hussein is not the subject of this note; nor the nature of our approach toward the mass murderer. Chris has his opinion; The Nation's editors have theirs. It is the manner in which he has behaved toward those who differ with him: his ad hominem assaults on their intelligence and integrity. It is his vulgarity of language, so unlike the guy I knew, that knocked me for a loop.
      I have always admired Hitchens's insights, elegance of style and sharpness of wit. I still do. But the turn he has taken - the sharp one - is more in the direction of Becky than of Orwell. I'm afraid that his psyche is now more possessed of vanity than of fairness.
      I am somewhat embarrassed in revealing a conversation that took place under the influence of booze. It is something of a foul blow. Yet I am merely pointing out that below-the-belt punching is a game that two can play. It's a nasty game, kid.
                  STUDS TERKEL

PS: Chris, I miss your stuff in The Nation very much. It discombobulates me that your stalwart Orwellian self has become aligned with the wanton boy swatting flies. Remember the line from King Lear: "As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods;/ They kill us for their sport." That a wanton boy, at this moment in history, is the most powerful man in the world is an absurd fact. It's a scenario that can have been written only by that master of outrageous humor W.C. Fields. It grieves me that one as gifted as you has chosen to play second banana to the wanton boy in a burlesque skit that's not very funny. Come back, Chris; the martini is waiting. On second thought, I withdraw the invitation. Difficulties might ensue. We'd reflect, of course, on the wanton boy's appointment of Kissinger as truth-seeker. But as we mellowed with a drink or two, we'd probably reminisce about our dear old friend Jessica Mitford and what she'd make of things today; and of you. Five gets you ten she'd have said, "Christopher Hitchens, poor boy, since his conversion, has been transmorgrified from a witty observer of the human comedy to a bloody bore, seated at the far-right end of the bar." As you may surmise, Kiddo, it would wind up as a somewhat less than pleasant visit. I'd find the memory of Mitford much better company than the presence of Hitchens. Thus, at this moment, I'm drinking alone, hoisting one to Jessica (Decca, as we called her) and her dreams; and mine; and young Christopher's.
S.T.