Miss Manners And the Big C
Miss Manners And the Big C By Christopher Hitchens E ver since I was felled in mid-book tour this summer, I have adored and seized all chances to play catch-up and to keep as many engagements as I can. Debating and lecturing are part of the breath of life to me, and I take deep drafts whenever and wherever possible. I also truly enjoy the face time with you, dear reader, whether or not you bring a receipt for a shiny new copy of my memoirs. But here is what happened while I was waiting to sign copies at an event in Manhattan a few weeks ago. Picture, if you will, me sitting at my table, approached by a motherly-looking woman (a key constituent of my demographic): She: I was so sorry to hear you had been ill. Me: Thank you for saying so. She: A cousin of mine had cancer. Me: Oh, I am sorry to hear that. She: [ As the line of customers lengthens behind her. ] Yes, in his liver. Me: That’s never good. She: But it went away, after the doctors had told him
