Andrew Sullivan remembers his friend and fellow transplanted Englishman.

See Slate’s full tribute to the life of Christopher Hitchens. Read Slate’s complete collection of Christopher Hitchens' columns.

I could sense it coming. But I couldn't write anything beforehand and I cannot write anything worthy of him now. So I just sat down an hour ago when I heard the news—Aaron told me as he clicked on Gawker—and sat a while and got up to write and then blubbered a bit and, staring at the screen, read through some emails from him.

I'd asked him last year to write a letter to the Immigration Services sponsoring me to finally become a permanent resident of the United States. Who better than my fellow Englishman immigrant of the last 25 years? A while later, he emailed:

“Safely in the U.S. mail. I managed to say that your faith had allowed you to extend a warm hand to so many of your fellow men, and then remolded that bit to make it sound a touch less close to the heart's desire.    

Brunch? Sunday? Smooch Hitch”

I responded,

“lol. many many many thanks. an honor. brunch sounds great. we tend not to be conscious till around noon, tho. xx a” 

He replied:

“Dearest Andrew I always think of Sunday lunch as beginning at about 2.30 ("a lavish and ruminative feast", as Waugh says about elevenses). Want to come here?”

Yes, I do, Hitch. Yes, I do.