That day has come. Christopher Hitchens, that monumental man of letters and instructive, almost edifying contrarian, is dead.

I've spent most of the evening reading the deservedly generous tributes that have appeared in the immediacy of Hitchens death. The finest, as it was with 9/11, was from Ian Mcewan. Endearing, warm, sensitive, a fine summation of a life lived well from a dear friend. Quite moving.

In some ways, Hitch was the Keith Richards of writing; prodigious talent, unstinting hard work (surprised I say that about the louche Stones guitarist? The ease and fluidity that he shows every time he plays did n't come without work), the love for what they do, that utter zest for life, the drinking obviously, but even down to their shared determination to live life at both ends and fain sleep.

If there ever is a Mount Rushmore of essayists and belle-lettrists then save the western aspect, the one that absorbs the bounty of the sun, for Hitch. I'll miss him.