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For most of his 40-year career, Christopher Hitchens's notoriety has been confined to highbrow journalistic, literary and political circles. In the last 15 years, he has been familiar to readers of Vanity Fair and the Atlantic, and to viewers of the American current affairs shows that invite him on to say outrageous things in stylish phrases. His aptitude for the iconoclastic flourish—describing Princess Diana and Mother Teresa at their deaths, for example, as, respectively, "a simpering Bambi narcissist and a thieving fanatical Albanian dwarf"—sustained his currency as an intellectual shock troop of the left. Then, with his support for the invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq, and for George W Bush's re-election in 2004, the left itself became a target of his polemics. But whichever side he took, he continued to file what were essentially minority reports to a specialist audience. Only God was able to promote him beyond such factional interests by providing the subject of a bestseller. While Hitchens has authored 16 books, including works on Henry Kissinger, Bill Clinton, the Elgin marbles, George Orwell, Thomas Paine and Thomas Jefferson, his assault on religion in God is not Great was the first occasion for which a publisher had arranged a serious US book tour.

Now his proselytising atheism has granted him something like the status of a household name. But why does this insolently charismatic, upper middle-class Englishman seem to attract, and repel, so many people? It may be something about the way in which he combines a raffish, old-fashioned intellectual showmanship with an eye for the big story. His current battle against faith is the biggest of his career—it is the earliest argument he remembers having as a child, and the one that will be with him to the end.

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Alexander Cockburn, a former colleague on the Nation, published a piece in his newsletter describing him as a "lying, self-serving, fat-assed, chain-smoking, drunken, opportunistic, cynical contrarian." Several ex-friends declined to discuss the matter with me at all. Robin Blackburn, a big figure of the British far left for 40 years, refused more in sorrow than anger, seeing the recent positions Hitchens has taken as a kind of illness: "I hope he gets better soon."

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"So what are you doing calling yourself a socialist?" he asks. "All you're doing is making sure that people don't confuse you with a liberal—which I'd always considered a position of lily-livered weakness. But that makes it an affectation. So I felt it fall away. I didn't repudiate it, I didn't get poisoned by it, I didn't hate it and I didn't have a Damascene moment about it. But I did notice that those who do think they've got a critique of capitalism turn out to be reactionaries. They prefer feudalism or agrarianism; they're pre-capitalists. Marxism at least has a theory of development and innovation. And global capitalism now seems to be the only thing that is revolutionary. That's my Marxist way of looking at it."

As a night with Hitchens threatens to break into morning, theories of how the neoconservative strain emerged from schisms within New York's anti-Stalinist left, become increasingly labyrinthine. "Does this mean anything to you?" he asks at one point. "It must sound like the dribblings of someone reminiscing about being governor-general of the Punjab."