The serious writer always knew there would be a last story but when the time was near, he felt ill-prepared.
One day, after settling in his favourite chair by the window but turned away from it, he told a visiting friend: “It's well arranged that you don't know which of the many will be your last: your last piss, your last time being touched by someone, the last warm cup of coffee in the morning. The last chat with a friend. The last supper. You enjoy all of these in the most present of tenses, carried by the hope that there may be another one, and then another and so on. And since we are an ingeniously lazy and trusting species, we take the routine to be a principle and we shrink it on the occasion of its repeated occurrence without further thought.”
The friend lit a pipe and said: “I think I see where you're coming from. I understand death is on your mind.”
The serious writer shifted his weight in his chair and looked at the pipe with longing. Having stopped smoking years ago, he now afforded himself only the second hand experience. He made a mental note regarding the loss of certain pleasures over time.
“The older I get”, he said, “the less I appreciate the fact that one of my stories will come round and not leave, (like a hot beverage going entropically from scorching to lukewarm to cold), and then what? Become an epitaph?” He chuckled.
“You know that Koschinsky has begun to write your obituary already, I hear. That's outstanding”, his friend said and found himself obliged to clarify: “Given Koschinsky's reputation as a critic these days, of course.”
“I have not only heard it, I suggested it to Koschinsky”, said the serious writer. “I thought: why not take the initiative in final affairs while I can?” He crossed his legs, laid one hand on top of the other, rubbing them so as to feel the knobbly bits.
“I have recently disregarded my bodily needs terribly. Come to think of it, I also have not listened to my inner voice lately. I don't know why. Perhaps because otherwise I won't write that last story ― I'm afraid to leave an unfinished opus behind, you know?”, he said and his friend nodded, churning out blueish clouds.
The serious writer said lightly, “I have always been a great fan of the auto-da-fé as a way of maintaining a certain degree of control beyond the grave while at the same time keeping your fans giddy and guessing until Judgement Day: ‘Did he or did he not…?', ‘What if he had…?', ‘Could this have been…?', ‘We wonder if he…', and so on — it keeps me young I think. But the difficulty with burning your stuff in reference to the possibility of your death is two-fold: you don't know if you're wasting your time because you might be alive for another X years; and it makes you think of your own death”.
“It would be a terrible crime to do that. I don't think your readers or your critics could ever forgive you after your death,” said his friend. He didn't seem to notice his own tactlessness.
“Well”, said the serious writer, serious again, “as you know, I abhor both waste and thoughts of death. Hence I only carry the idea of an auto-da-fé around with me, together with a small canister of gasoline and a matchbox. Rather like the plan for a certain prayer and a rosary, which I never touch. I don't know if I fantasise that I might burn not only my work but myself, but I am certainly stocked up just in case.”
The friend shook his head gently, trying to disperse the thought, and waved his hands, or so it seemed to the writer, because the fumes had become so thick now that he was separated from his visitor by a grey wall of smoke. He went on voicing his thoughts aloud, as was his habit even when he was alone.
“The stories I will write before that last one will be as prayerful as anything I have ever penned: the characters will be mild and philosophical, apt to hold life's whole in appropriate balance, with an even demeanour gracing my own age, like a study of butterflies at the end of their long, ardous journey. These not quite last stories shall, I think, test my very existence by throwing up many questions that had plagued me for a lifetime of serious writing, like the question of whether we determine our fate or are determined by it.”
He heard his friend mumble something across from him and took it as approval to continue.
“One of these stories will be about a man who sat across me once on an underground train: his right arm hung limply as if he'd had a stroke and he looked at me open-eyed and yet guarding his self behind his condition. He had to lurch forward three times (as if performing a secret ritual) in order to shift his centre of mass and get up at all, ignoring me throughout this maneuver and finally smiling — unless it was not a smile but a strained grimace. I wonder: did this man feel that he chose his partial paralysis by making a silent wish between clenched teeth, or by dreaming it in advance? Perhaps he felt that he'd been dealt a bad card, not quite the last one, by some god not merciful, overlooking him, with respect only for the fabric of everything but not this particular man's happiness?”
The serious writer realised in that moment how the word ‘happiness' betrayed its own meaning, because in reality it boiled down to mundane things like chicken soup, which he then dressed up as something less plain than farts and farewells. But he was not ready to interrupt himself quite yet and continued:
“Or is this man, let us call him Max (a good, solid, reliable name for this type) like me, refusing to take sides on this question of questions, perhaps, again like me, writing for his passage between the Scylla of providence and the Charybdis of randomness? A passage not to anywhere, a time filler, an artful avoidance?”
“You tell me, my friend,“ he invited the other. There was no answer, only the sound of the floor boards creaking.
“Here's another question that bothers me — no less than the first: how much of us is unique and how much part of a grand collective of souls? When we breathe in and out, do we choose our own rhythm or do we enact an unconscious concert? Do we only imagine that we create our own thoughts but actually just sculpt an identity out of one and the same shared material? Is our whole concept of individuality just nonsense?”
He broke off because he felt exhausted all of a sudden. His ideas, his questions all seemed unclear and somehow impure to him. As if there was a truth behind the words, but the more words he piled upon one another, the less visible was this truth. He put his hands over his face and felt their soft insides now on his temples and the bones around his eye socket. On his cheeks, the palms pressed down on his the beard. He felt himself.
“What a powerful illusion the self is, especially for me, with my oeuvre, my life's work, which I, in the hubris of the great individualist who also happens to be a snob (a most convenient combination against the power of the collective) trace back to myself: me, me again, me also, me-me, meee — these are only some of the variations on the person at the centre of my consciousness, who is really just a persona and does not contain my soul, though the fingerprints of my soul are certainly all over it.”
He felt himself to be alone. Sometimes, for some people, the Me broke down almost completely, very close to disappearing without dying altogether, he thought and closed his eyes.
He wanted to write another story in this one-of-the-last-stories category about a man, always only called ‘the patient', who emerged from a car accident as a vegetable, his brain shut down until, after five long years, he suddenly began to respond to questions again and finally awoke, but as a different person. Perhaps his coma had been a form of cocoon, a phase he had to undergo in deep sleep in order to become who he needed to be. Perhaps he wasn't really asleep but communicated with non-human beings differently throughout those years. Perhaps he forgot all about it and, having rejoined humanity in its customary upright shape, could no longer understand the language of trees and interpret the trembling of the sides of his intensive care bed as he had when comatose — as the thought pattern of Earth itself.
The serious writer was aware of a paradox at the heart of his art: his inner world, the place of the strongest stories, was infinite, but it was also embedded in — if this was possible! — an even more infinite universe of all things to write about. It was like seeing the Grand Canyon from outer space — a huge gorge that looked like a thin trickle, impossible to miss, hard to hit.
“But my last story will not be about art or finding myself”, the serious writer said and opened his eyes. The air was clear again but his friend had left and robbed the writer of his audience.
“My last story will be about love”, he said bravely.
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I wrote this after I heard of J D Salinger's death.
My wife says that her telling me about David Lodge's novel "Therapy" must have influenced me, even though I cannot unearth the memory as such. Only He knows what else set this off.
My recitation (10:11 min) is at
http://bit.ly/13R8Jpe
More tidbits from the serious writer's life at http://bit.ly/13R8tqh
[Update: published at Atticus Review]
[Update: FF was a pseudonym of Marcus Speh. This piece is part of his collection of short fiction forthcoming from MadHat Press, "Thank You For Your Sperm".]
the serious reader reads the serious writer's last story, and, in the manner of the late chekov, strokes his beard, fires a match, lifts it to his pipe, and nods.
yes, he says.
the the last line of the last story, for the last time. yes.
what a lovely comment, gary, thanks ever so much. seriously.
star it, he said--
Great piece, Finnegan. It works well.
A pleasure to read.
Excellent! I look forward to the stories of the Serious Writer that will follow after this last one.
Great piece.
I love the yearning, the philosophy, the posturing, and finally the courage commit to the subject of love. Hard for a serious male writer, isn't it? What with all those injunctions and garlic necklaces against sentimentality. But I'm afraid, too, for your serious writer. Like Kafka's Poseidon, will he just write of love at the last minute when the world is about to end, just like Kafka's Poseidon will finally visit the world oceans at the last minute when all his administrative work is done?
thanks sam, carol, gabriel and thomas - after the forum discussion on longer pieces, i especially appreciate you giving this a read!
beate, thank you for the close reading and for that brilliant alignment with kafka's 'poseidon', which i had not read: now i owe you that story - comic genius - and that last line took my breath away.
beate - "garlic necklaces against sentimentality"? made me laugh...it's so true, too! except for me of course, i am a mush bucket wrapped in lacrymal gauze from wounded tip to torn toe.
Fabulous piece.. especially loved listening to your podcast of it too.
A wonderful tribute to Salinger.
Tasty right down to the last nub. I like that you don't mind putting in the work to get to where you are going--and you are smart enough as a writer to enjoy the journey--makes it quite enjoyable for the reader. Thanks, DP
thank you heather! alas, after editing this piece quite extensively in places, i need to record another podcast...quite a feat for the untrained at this story length. will take your comment as encouragement.
ah, perfect last line, Finnegan
are you going to publish a collection of your serious writer stories? i think you ought to
thank you so much, kathy. i just put a recitation online, too: http://bit.ly/bAlEKU - enjoy. about a collection: been thinking about that - or a novel format. i'm a slow decider.
Beautiful, Finnegan. That last conversation with one's self (or nearly so, as I see the guest as a metaphor for death or the world left behind) that journeys through stories we've still to write.
Yes, this needs to be bound in book form with its brothers.
susan, i think you might be right about that grim visitor. thanks for the encouragement, as always.
I believe I'm sharing your flash-point, at the moment, Finnegan. this really got to me. i like how the relationship between the men grounds this rather existential piece and holds it in place as fiction--
This is fun. Reminds me of the dialogues between Kundera and Professor A, his real/fictional friend in the novel Immortality.
Wonderful, Finnegan. Always love your philosophical side, and this piece does not let up from beginning to end. Star.
susan - thank you & well observed: 1st version of this did not have the friend in it & it was too ungrounded/heady.
gina - thanks & also for the link to kundera: must check this out.
kim: i indulged that side but i'm glad you're glad i did!
I love this, Flawnt. Your voice reading it is perfection.
When I read your stories, I never tire. I always want more, want to give myself to the piece.
May we all continue to pile words on top of each other for a long time.
Great fun. May we all wake from the coma to understand the thought pattern of Earth itself. And then speak of love, yes.
katrina, never sure about the reading: the quavering! for me: voice is so frail compared to the solid page. so special thanks for that - and for your comment on my work - made me feel all fuzzy and warm inside!
thanks barry - also for picking out that particular sentence, which was important to me, too.
Nothing to add. Liked sitting with the three of you (the serious writer, the friend and the narrator, or is it four?)by my own cozy window with the snow outside. Excellent last line, but you know that.
Paragraph TWO is one of the most powerful I have read in AGES!!!!! I so love the layered innards of intellect cooked within this tasty morsel...I nearly wept at the third to last paragraph and the paradox peppering the piece.
wow, thank you johnsie. what a wonderful comment.
...and thanks derek: multiple personages - what else is there when we're alone, which we are, even when surrounded by many.
“Or is this man, let us call him Max (a good, solid, reliable name for this type) like me, refusing to take sides on this question of questions, perhaps, again like me, writing for his passage between the Scylla of providence and the Charybdis of randomness? A passage not to anywhere, a time filler, an artful avoidance?”
If there were but a single theme for me to hang my thoughts upon about this piece Finnegan - this would be the single theme for me to hang my thoughts upon...And because of this Finnegan, I believe my friend, you have created a story about Love.
Love in all details, and Love everlasting.
thank you hazar for your generous comment! love indeed and not too little.
This is rather brilliant, Ff. The stories within the story, the even detachment of the language broken by how personal it gets throughout. Stunning.
thank you ajay for the close reading and the support. that's a beautiful review, too.
This is my third time trying to comment on your story. First I lost comments by giving it a fav and then system shut down. So sorry for saying this in a much less refined way than first 2 times--I love this story and your reading of it is fantastic. It is interesting from beginning to end and very beautifully written--a wonderful tribute to JD Salinger
thank you very much bobbi - i appreciate it as i appreciate your persistence with the interface! when this happens to me, i am usually irate and tend to blame (in this order): god, the system, the author. so thanks for not laying the blame at my unworthy feet!
I was getting pretty angry--I blamed my computer. I turned it off and went outside. I didn't want to have anything to do with it. I planned to stay off computer all day. But then, I felt compelled to get a comment through. I turned my computer off and on and off and on (this is an example of my computer skills but it worked--I hope it does again). This is a measure of how much I loved your story.
I can't find words to comment on your brilliant story, so I will give you a fav and leave it at that. You already know what a great writer you are
thank you estelle, i appreciate your wonderful compliment with a curtsy.
bobbi, thank you! the only way you can exorcise these demons is by writing about your struggle. you will have a very, very large grateful audience, i dare say!
This is brilliant, funny, a tour-de-force. I love the serious writer, and if he were here, I would pinch his cheeks!
Quite an achievement. A beautifully constructed fictional account of the myriad of questions we all face, whether we write or not. And so compact a view of such expansive elements. This is a real tour de force!
thank you marcelle and miles. i'll pass the pinch on to the old man, bless his pen. a myriad of questions indeed - and no ready made answered, thank god.
This work is rich with philosophy and just great writing. Quite powerful, even more so if it serves as a tribute to Salinger or spurred by his death.
thank you christian for reading, commenting and for the star. i'm glad you enjoyed the philosophy between the lines. it's my cotton candy ;-)
I have been away for a bit, but always look forward to your stories. “rubbing them so as to feel the knobbly bits.” Is a great line. The knobbly bits. Only thing I noticed was in “One day, after settling in his favourite chair by the window but turned away from it, he told a visiting friend…” Is “but” the best choice of word to place there? Then again, whatta I know? I like corned beef hash on toast…stay well.
michael, thanks for your own knobbly bits...i see what you're saying about the 'but' in that place. i meant to transport the writer's ambivalence: you put a chair by the window for light, to look out (at ppl) etc. but when you turn it away, you also turn your back to the world, literally. i also like corned beef hash on toast, you see.