Christopher Hitchens is the greatest living essayist in the English language.

I looked at Mum and realized -- twang! -- that she was telling an untruth. A big untruth. And I remember thinking in that instant how thrilling and grown-up it must be to say something so completely untrue, as opposed to the little amateur fibs I was already practiced at -- horrid little apprentice sinner that I was --like the ones about you'd already said your prayers or washed under the fingernails. Yes, I was impressed. I too must learn to say these gorgeous untruths. Imaginary kings and queens would be my houseguests when I was older.

Oil they would buy from anyone. From Satan.

Who needs evidence when you've got the Internet?

One realization does dawn upon the death of the second parent, namely that you've now moved into the green room to the River Styx. You're next.

That's the beauty of argument, if you argue correctly, you're never wrong.

Reading any collection of a man's quotations is like eating the ingredients that go into a stew instead of cooking them together in the pot. You eat all the carrots, then all the potatoes, then the meat. You won't go away hungry, but it's not quite satisfying. Only a biography, or autobiography, gives you the hot meal.