As a writer, I’ve always been fascinated by so-called “famous last words,” but not the pronouncements made heading into battle or climbing the gallows steps. In those situations the speaker has prepared, is aware of what is likely to come, and has given their words some forethought as “famous last words.” Lines spoken at times like these are spoken for posterity, and are likely to contain not a small amount of “spin” for the history books.
No, the final utterances that intrigue me are those made suddenly, spontaneously, where the speaker may not be fully cognizant of her surroundings or the situation. At times these last words are puzzling, but while they are possibly no more than the product of a dying brain, they can be quite beautiful. In other cases, however, I believe we can glimpse the true nature of the speaker’s personality. Was she angry? Was he compassionate? Were the last words of love or of rebuke? Last words—when you don’t know they’re last words—can be the most meaningful, the most significant.
Here are four examples of last quotes; the first two are enigmatic, more evocative than illuminating, while the second two pretty much define the person who spoke them. (more…)
Is writing keeping me from writing?
To be honest, I started this blog because I want your money. That’s not the only reason, but it’s definitely in the mix.
n time, he knew, his transgression would be forgiven (though not forgotten, for during their thirty tumultuous years, his wife had proven the tenacious nature of her memory when it came to remembered wrongs), but oh, in those first raw moments when his sleeping, animal mind awoke to action, its raging mouth spewing vowel-filled vomit and its sharp-clawed arms flailing the air with a strength that quite overwhelmed his usually reasonable demeanor, while his shrieking brain was infused by a single thought–Damn you!–and his only goal was to win, to beat down any who had the stupefying arrogance to question his authority, he was transformed by the heat of his frustration and anger from his normal self into a god–not the loving God of Creation, possessed of boundless serenity and knowledge, but one of the ancient gods, in whom everything human was magnified and every act saturated with earthly emotion–and though the rational part of his mind recoiled at the anguish he sculpted, his chiseled words striking her features with cold, steely precision, he could not suppress (and in truth, actually reveled in) the pounding exultation he felt as each tear tracked down her wizened cheek, a flood of salt water pressed from a frozen stone.
The spruce stood tall, a shadowed cone against the cold and dawning morn, a giant sentinel overlooking the crossroads along my route to work. The bus rocked like a ship in rough seas as it rattled into the intersection, fatigued metal complaining, whirring heater blasting air like a blow-dryer, but as we passed the ancient spruce, above the din, I heard music.
Kurt R.A. Giambastiani 