Speccie The Last Word by 10th July
 

Now this looks interesting. I shall be fascinated to see what you make of it. And what I make of it. I don't, alas, have anything I prepared earlier. Congratulations to Lucy for a competition fresh and intriguing!

No. 2806: the last word

Hemingway experimented with 47 different endings to A Farewell to Arms. You are invited to provide an alternative ending to a well-known novel or poem (up to 150 words of prose or verse up to 16 lines). Please specify novel or poem and email entries to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 10 July.

Or so Hemingway said, and he never bullshitted, did he? (That said, it's a fine ending – 'It was like saying goodbye to a statue...')

Well, let's start the ball rolling. We have people here who know Italian and French. Aid would be gratefully received. I decided to go easy on the Sanskrit.

Ending of The Waste Land

I stood outside the door
Pissing, with old Ezra swaying by me
Shall we at least set our dress in order?
Modern masters falling down falling down falling down
La donna e mobile qual piuma al vento
E pericoloso sporghesi – O swallow swallow
Plus de Bordeaux! A l'enfer Burgundy
These empty crates spell out our rack and ruin
Why then Ile fite you. Bring on the dancing girls.
Damned if I don't. Damned if I do.
Randy. Randy. Randy.

Too obvious, but...
 

'Waiting For Godot'

VLADIMIR: Well? Shall we go?

ESTRAGON: Yes, let's go.

They do not move.

Enter Godot.

GODOT: Sorry I’m late, fellers. Traffic was bloody murder on the South Circular. Have I missed much?

Curtain.

47 endings for ‘Endgame’

And to end up with? We ... remain. No. I ... remain. No. (Pause) They ... depart. No. The dog ... departs. (Brief laugh) No. I shall ... leave. No. I can’t ... leave. No. (Pause) Have you ... left? No. You can’t ... leave. No. (Long pause)

There must be something better to end up with. A ... story? No. A ... fart? There are no more farts. A ... biscuit? No. (Long pause)

A ... bicycle wheel? Don’t speak to me of bicycle wheels! (Pause) Unless you wish to. (Pause) It’s all the same to me. (Pause) Or different. No. (Long pause)

Start again ... from the beginning! (Brief laugh) Too late for a new beginning. (Pause) What’s required is an ending. No. (Pause) Endings need ... words. (Pause) Preferably the right words. (Pause) Although the wrong words would do at a pinch. No. (Long pause)

Too late for an ending. No. (Pause) There are no more endings. (Long pause)

CURTAIN

Damn! I've just seen that the subject specifies 'novel or poem'!

P.S. Rob, I've also just seen your Godot, but I promise I hadn't peeked.

Gift of the Magi

"I sold my watch to buy you this set of brushes for your beautiful hair," Jim said.

"Oh, my sweet! To think how close I came to selling my hair in order to buy you a gold chain for your watch!"

"That would have been ironic," Jim replied, the spirit of the Magi descending upon him. "I'm glad you didn't."

The Darkling Thrush


So little cause for carolings
... Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
... Afar or nigh around,
That I could think that lucky thrush
... Had scored a spliff of weed
And had enjoyed the sort of rush
... That I as well might need.

Hardy is turning in his grave. Which is the right idea, is it not?

I have always found it suspicious that Wordsworth stared for ages at the Highland lass, as she bent down.

But then, surprised, I stood and stared
When o’er the sickle bending
The maiden showed that she was bare
Beneath her Highland clothing.
And though the song she sang was still
A sound to tease the strongest will,
Far greater trials in that field
Arose from what the maid revealed.

The picture in my heart I bore
For vacant moments in my bed.
And though I saw the maid no more
Her beauty lingers in my head.
At first I hear her soft refrain
And then I see her bend again,
And dare I say what pleasures fill
The throbbing heart of naughty Will?

Cometh the hour, cometh the guffaw. Oh, Roger, how I needed that!

My guffaw comes from Marcus, but that just goes to show, doesn't it?

I enjoyed them both, John, but Ann probably hadn't seen Marcus's piece - she and he both posted at 9:51.

(1) Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll.
…
One, two! One, two! And through and through
Its talons slashed and wide maw gnashed!
It left him dead, and with his head
To munch on, back it dashed.

“And hast thou slain my beamish boy?”
He quoke in terror as it neared,
Its nostrils bent on their home-scent:
“’Tis just as I had feared!”

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Were gathered up and swallowed whole:
Next courses? Potage Borogoves,
And the Mome Raths Casserole.


[‘He quoke’ is no typo but a spelling intended to combine ‘quaked’ and ‘spoke’.]

Excellent, Graham! I'm having trouble thinking of a piece suitable for the treatment, but you've hit on a good one.

Very nice, Graham. I've been trying a 'Snark' myself but can't yet get it to work. In the meantime I offer this:

AND did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England’s mountains green?
And was the Holy Lamb of God
On England’s pleasant pastures seen?

It’s likely that the answer’s ‘no’,
Or so I would have thought. JC’s
Agenda would have been too full
To go on jollies overseas.

A trip to Britain in those days
Was pretty hard. They hadn’t yet
Invented package holidays,
Bureaux de change or EasyJet.


Still needs a polish and probably a fourth stanza.

It's good Rob, but Blake's done the entire first stanza for you. It won't beat Bill G. that way.

.

The Mariner shuts up at last;
His eye is bleak and rheumy;
His senile stance, his countenance
Impenetrably gloomy.

The wedding-guest is sorely pressed,
And irked by pointless chatter.
‘Look here, old chap, this rambling crap
Won’t fill a single platter.

I’m making lunch for quite a bunch;
The guests are getting stroppy.
I’ve heard your story, sometimes gory,
Sometimes rather soppy;

Your tale was fun, but I must run -
The cooks are at a loss.
I’m needed there to help prepare
The roasted Albatross.’

Oh wonderful, Brian.

VANITY FAIR

The money was paid and Becky’s character established.

Colonel Dobbin, glad of his share, paid off the little Ranee of Shagpur with whom he had co-habited in India while waiting for Emmy’s father to die, for who would not have found that gentleman a horrible charge on his funds.

Sir Pitt took a stroke on learning of Rawdon’s KCMG, though His Excellency only lasted months longer, leaving Becky the Crawley fortune, title and status as a widow of Empire. Young Rawdon and George are become Prinny’s louche hangers-on in Bath, competing for the favours of Lady Lade, while Emmy has found the Colonel fonder of his Punjabi housemaids and dull enough that she now understands why George became a rake out of pure boredom.

Ah! Vanitas Vanitatum! Which of us is fairly treated in this world? Come readers, let us sack all these puppets….. for my ink has run out!

Dorothy Sayer's Translation of Dante's Inferno

In Soho there’s a pub - an underground,
xxAs far from Oxford’s spires, as Dante’s deep -
xxNot fit for sight but giving off such sound,

That Harriet and Peter could not keep
xxFrom following its clamour’s Gallic fall,
xxWhose dying strain made Bunter’s shirtfront creep.

That was the place my cast and I have all
xxLeft for the literary world and hence
xxI’ve dragged us up and, heeding Virgil’s call,

I’ve laboured at translating every tense
xxOf that most famous Hell – and now all bars
xxAre shut! Yet Purgatory beckons! Hence

I’ll leave that pair in Hell. Go, kiss my arse!

Vanitas vanitatum, Nigel

Indeed - thanks for that, Marcus, I hadn't noticed my typo. Including all the entries here of course!

“It's a Snark!” was the sound that first came to their ears,
And seemed almost too good to be true.
The pronouncement was greeted with clapping and cheers
From the weary, demoralised crew.

“But can you be sure?” called the Bellman. “It’s dark,
And they’re hard to distinguish by day.
Remember a Boojum looks just like a Snark,
But can make a man vanish away.”

“I think,” said the Baker, “I’m probably right,
For it smells pretty Snarkish to me;
A blend of Disraeli and Turkish Delight
With a hint of the Sargasso Sea.”

And as he expounded upon his belief
He emerged with the prize he’d acquired,
And everyone let out a sigh of relief,
For the Snark was a Snark, it transpired.

Rob, what a treat!
You have captured the original flavour - I should say, aroma! - perfectly.

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud by William Wordsworth
 

…
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie,
I count the royalties I’ve earned
By writing of mere flow’rs that die,
Which (trodden underfoot) are spurned;
And then my heart with pleasure fills –
Cold gold lasts, unlike daffodils!

Thanks for your enthusiasm, Graham. I hope Lucy shares it.

If... by Kipling

If you can bear to sit through breakfast telly
Despite the fact its thoroughly inane,
If you can eat the nasty bits of jelly
They put inside pork pies and not complain,
If you can stand a mobile phone that plays a
Disturbing and abrasive bit of rap,
If you don’t want to take a cutthroat razor
To paintings that are manifestly crap,

And if you think a hat shaped like a panda
Is quite all right for adult winter wear,
And if you’re always happy to withstand a
Vacation courtesy of RyanAir,
And if you can abide a baby’s crying,
Or reckon doing hoovering is fun,
I couldn't really justify denying
That you’re a better man than me, my son.

Highly entertaining, Rob.

A couple of points:

- This isn't really a new ending, but a reworking.

- Are you sure that "coruscating" is the word you want? (I ask because I once confused it with "excoriating" myself.)

Quite right, Brian. Funny, I always thought it meant something quite different.

A reworking rather than an alternative ending? Perhaps. But if so I've only reworked the last two stanzas. I reckon I'll give it a whirl.

A Shropshire Lad (LXII) , by A. E. Housman
 

Terence, malt is not enough;
The poet’s trade is mighty tough,
And other substances appear
More powerful than Ludlow beer.

Before your middle years are nigh,
You’ll find your Muse by getting high;
Begin with hash and wacky weed,
Then graduate to coke and speed.

‘Tis said that life is sweet and short,
So brace yourself and take a snort;
And nothing’s like an acid trip
To make your readers think you’re hip.

But, Terence pay attention, close,
To dodge a fatal overdose;
Avoid the premature demise
Of all those other Shropshire guys.

Very nice, Douglas. I don't think the great man would have approved, somehow, but I do.

When cherry blossom's all around,
Like summer snow upon the ground,
There's nothing, lad, that's half as fine
As shooting a poetic line.

A.E. Housman

Moby-Dick by Herman Melville
 

…

I was then, but slowly, drawn towards the closing vortex. When I reached it, it had subsided to a creamy pool. Round and round, then, and ever contracting towards the button-like black bubble at the axis of that slowly wheeling circle, like another Ixion I did revolve. Till, gaining that vital centre, the black bubble upward burst; and now, liberated,

rising, the empty coffin floated near as the whirlpool dissipated.
My heart leapt as that box was overturned, disclosing panting heads: Queequeg and Starbuck, supporting Ahab! Queequeg’s harpoon had severed ropes that lately bound our Captain, upon Moby-Dick’s flank, nigh unto death.
Breathed utterance lacked depth to express our relief as several others of the Pequod’s crew broke surface, each grasping some spar or cask to buoy them; and we foregathered.
“Ah, men… men,” Ahab hoarsely spoke, “I sorely burdened ye. Will ye forgive my madness? –‘tis passed. If we live, let us no more vex the white whale, nor his kin; ‘tis cruel folly, and unblessed. Shall we make a pact?”
Rescued after three days adrift, we now quest afresh- campaigning till bloody whaling’s forsworn wholly. All ye mystified of Nantucket, hear how Ahab’s wondrous change was wrought! And we few only escaped together to tell thee.

A. E. Housman on G. M. Hopkin’s "Pied Beauty"
 

whoops ... posted in wrong place.

Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
There rose a rollicking royal cheer;
And they called for kegs of beer,
All the knights at Camelot:
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, "She has a lovely face;”
She said, “Mine’s a vodka, Ace,”
The Lady of Shalott.

"My name is OZYMANDIAS, King of Kings.
Look on my works ye Mighty, and despair!
Although my statue crumbles in decay
And sinks into disgraceful disrepair,
Believe me I was hot shit in my day."

And then I woke up and found it was all a dream.
- James Joyce Finnegans' Wake