A poem by Omar Khayyam - Never before has scepticism sounded so beautiful.

The bird of life is singing on the bough
His two eternal notes of "I and Thou"—
O! hearken well, for soon the song sings through,
And, would we hear it, we must hear it now.

The bird of life is singing in the sun,
Short is his song, nor only just begun,—
A call, a trill, a rapture, then—so soon!—
A silence, and the song is done—is done.

Yea! What is man that deems himself divine?
Man is a flagon, and his soul the wine;
Man is a reed, his soul the sound therein;
Man is a lantern, and his soul the shine.

Would you be happy! hearken, then, the way:
Heed not To-morrow, heed not Yesterday;
The magic words of life are Here and Now—
O fools, that after some to-morrow stray!

Were I a Sultan, say what greater bliss
Were mine to summon to my side than this,—
Dear gleaming face, far brighter than the moon!
O Love! and this immortalizing kiss.

To all of us the thought of heaven is dear—
Why not be sure of it and make it here?
No doubt there is a heaven yonder too,
But 'tis so far away—and you are near.

Men talk of heaven,—there is no heaven but here;
Men talk of hell,—there is no hell but here;
Men of hereafters talk, and future lives,—
O love, there is no other life—but here.

Look not above, there is no answer there;
Pray not, for no one listens to your prayer;
Near is as near to God as any Far,
And Here is just the same deceit as There.

But here are wine and beautiful young girls,
Be wise and hide your sorrows in their curls,
Dive as you will in life's mysterious sea,
You shall not bring us any better pearls.

Allah, perchance, the secret word might spell;
If Allah be, He keeps His secret well;
What He hath hidden, who shall hope to find?
Shall God His secret to a maggot tell?

So since with all my passion and my skill,
The world's mysterious meaning mocks me still,
Shall I not piously believe that I
Am kept in darkness by the heavenly will?

The Koran! well, come put me to the test—
Lovely old book in hideous error drest—
Believe me, I can quote the Koran too,
The unbeliever knows his Koran best.

And do you think that unto such as you,
A maggot-minded, starved, fanatic crew,
God gave the Secret, and denied it me?—
Well, well, what matters it! believe that too.

Old Khayyám, say you, is a debauchee;
If only you were half so good as he!
He sins no sins but gentle drunkenness,
Great-hearted mirth, and kind adultery.

But yours the cold heart, and the murderous tongue,
The wintry soul that hates to hear a song,
The close-shut fist, the mean and measuring eye,
And all the little poisoned ways of wrong.

So I be written in the Book of Love,
I have no care about that book above;
Erase my name, or write it, as you please—
So I be written in the Book of Love.

Christopher Hitchens - A tribute unworthy...

Where do you start? Where do you start, in attempting to write (!) a tribute to a literary and intellectual giant? Do you borrow a quote from Shakespeare or Wilde? Do you attempt to make a comparison between the man you are honouring and other masters in similar fields? Or do you, as the old ridiculous expression goes, write "from the heart"?

Well, I shan't do either. I am just not worthy to write a tribute to Christopher Hitchens, nor do I possess the eloquence and linguistic talent it would require to do such a tribute justice. But I will still attempt to write one, just because I couldn't look myself in the mirror if I didn't.

You see, my dear reader, Christopher Hitchens is one of those rare human beings that comes around only once in any generation, if you're lucky. Someone who refuses to accepts the norms. Someone who doesn't stand up for his cause because it is the right thing to do, but because he inhabits and lives by all those principles that make the cause right in the first place. A man who doesn't stand up against oppression or the rule of majority because it is the brave thing to do, but because he wouldn't deem himself worthy of the air he breathes if he didn't.

Hitchens has at times spoken of his regret of not having fought in a just war, like his father or George Orwell, an inspiration of his, once had. This is the only time in my life I will ever be able to write this sentence: How wrong you are, Mr. Hitchens! You have fought against that most unholy of wars, The Holy Wars. You have been a general in the fight against religious dictatorship, fascism, oppression, despotism, subjugation and tyranny. You have been a commander for those of us who wanted to fight, but lacked the weapons and ammunitions to take the beast of religion on. And you have been the inspiration for our courage. Don't ever doubt it or degrade it.

I always thought that if I ever had the ability to write a book, my first one would be titled: "Why Hitchens matters". I used to think of what I would say to Christopher if I would ever have the chance to see him in real life. My first initial thought was perhaps the best one, and the one I would opt for: "It's a privilege to be alive in the same era as you, Sir."

Last night, I saw Anderson Coopers interview with the cancer-sick Hitchens. And I broke down and wept. For the first time in many years. I didn't even know how much the man had meant to me, and how much he had given me, whether it'd be verbal ammunition, rhetorical strategy or, probably most importantly, unquenchable, uncompromising, unequivocal sense of duty to stand up for what I believe in. And how do you write a tribute to a person who has given you such a gift?

Christopher Hitchens, you have been my Orwell, my Spinoza, my Jefferson. And I am as grateful to you for your achievements as you are to them. And I hope with all my heart science will defeat the ruthless alien inhabiting your body. The world is a better place with you in it.

Yours truly,
Darius Aryan