“
My chief consolation in this year of living dyingly has been the presence of friends.
- Christopher Hitchens, who died today at 62.
Those words echoed back when I read Christopher Buckley’s remembrance just now:
During the last hour I spent with Christopher, in the Critical Care Unit at M. D. Anderson, he struggled to read a thick volume of P. G. Wodehouse letters. He scribbled some notes on a blank page in spidery handwriting. He wrote “Pelham Grenville” and asked me, in a faint, raspy voice, “Name. What was the name?” At first I didn’t quite understand, but then, recalling P.G.’s nickname, suggested “Plum?” Christopher nodded yes, and wrote it down.
I took comfort that, during our last time together, I was able to provide him with at least that.
