Sorta writer, sorta photographer, sorta jokester perfecting the art of saying nothing at all in as many words as possible.

I'm snarky. Learn to deal with it.

See the Aboot Moi page for more information.

 

Before I was diagnosed with esophageal cancer a year and a half ago, I rather jauntily told the readers of my memoirs that when faced with extinction I wanted to be fully conscious and awake, in order to “do” death in the active and not the passive sense. And I do, still, try to nurture that little flame of curiosity and defiance: willing to play out the string to the end and wishing to be spared nothing that properly belongs to a life span. However, one thing that grave illness does is to make you examine familiar principles and seemingly reliable sayings. And there’s one that I find I am not saying with quite the same conviction as I once used to: In particular, I have slightly stopped issuing the announcement that “Whatever doesn’t kill me makes me stronger.

Christopher Hitchens Takes on Nietzsche: Am I Really Stronger?

This essay is worth reading, although it will sadden you in the light of recent events.

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