Writers armed with finer words and sweeter sentences will make greater tributes to Christopher Hitchens than this writer could ever conjure up. Suffice to say that every word on this page is posited yearning for but a shade of his eloquence and charm, his devotion to the acidic phrase, to iconoclasm and – probably above all – to truth and the primacy of the individual. “[O]ne should be suspicious of hero worship, and have it under control,” he said in 2010. Today, for me, that will be too difficult. It is no soppy stretch of moist-eyed worship to say that my writing exists because of his, because of what he fought for – and because of him. RIP.