I’m not responsible for penning these words. This isn’t to say that somebody else is typing, or that I am being dictated to; no, these are words of my own, in an order I myself have composed, written with my sole intent. Nevertheless, I am not responsible for penning these words.
As anybody who specialises in the field will be enthusiastic to tell you, the study of the physical sciences is not exactly an undertaking which is graced with unexacting accessibility. Interesting and attracting as it may seem to the likes of me, a self-identified ‘science enthusiast’, I don’t doubt for a moment that I would be briskly floored by the overwhelming difficulty and arduousness of pursuing an academic career in the subject if I ever attempted to do so.
In 2010, Christopher Eric Hitchens was diagnosed with cancer of the oesophagus, and until his death eighteen months later, he “wrote on politics and culture, astonishing readers with his capacity for superior work even in extremis”, as it is worded in the blurb of Mortality; a soberingly candid summary of this extraordinary man’s intrepid attempts to comprehend and come to terms with the diagnoses of a particularly cruel disease which was vehemently attempting to bring him to his premature demise.
Cosmic Skeptic 