[John Whitworth]

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.

[basil ransome-davies]

Hemingway experimented with 47 different endings to A Farewell to Arms.

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...')

[John Whitworth]

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.

[Rob Stuart]

'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.

[Brian Allgar]

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.

[Roger Slater]

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."

[Roger Slater]

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.

[John Whitworth]

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

[Marcus Sevat]

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?

[Ann Drysdale]

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