'So,
what would you put on your gravestone?' said Ferzackerley,
returning from the bar with a couple more IPAs.
'I'd probably run with something
like Keats,' said the Author.
It was a suitably apocalyptic
night to consider epitaphs: flashes of lightning were rapidly
followed by deafening bangs and sudden bursts of slashing rain that
sent the homeward crowds dashing past the windows of the Oscar Wilde.
It was the first time the Author
had felt really stuck for a structure for his daily short story.
Ferzackerley had quizzed him from time to time on progress and it had
been satisfactory enough, although only a few of the stories so far
had left him really satisfied.
'They're getting a bit dark aren't
they?' said Ferzackerley. 'Horror stories then epitaphs. So let me
get this right. Today it's got to be about something on a gravestone,
or an obituary? And bonus points for a long sentence? Well, you're
not going to be scouting around cemeteries on a night like this.
Can't you just use a famous headstone?' He was fumbling with his
phone. 'Here are a few epitaphs I like,' he said, pulling up some
images.
DEAR FREND FOR IESUS SAKE
FORBEARE,
TO DIGG THE DUST ENCLOASED
HEERE,
BLESTE BE YE MAN TY SPARES THES
STONES,
AND
CURST BE HE TY MOVES MY BONES.
'That sounds a bit banal and
illiterate,' said the Author. Nothing about the qualities of the
deceased. Whose is it?'
'Shakespeare's.'
'Oh.'
'How about this then?'
I'M A WRITER
BUT
NOBODY'S PERFECT
'I
wouldn't mind Nobody's
perfect
for my epitaph. I once sponsored a cinema seat and you had to give
your favourite line from a movie. That was mine – the final line
from Some Like It
Hot.'
'So
this is Billy Wilder's headstone.'
'There you go. Best movie ever
made in my view. What's your best film?'
'Don't get distracted, stick to
your theme.'
'I seem to remember that Jack
Lemmon, perhaps not wanting to be outdone by his good friend Billy,
simply had a final marquee title.'
JACK LEMMON
IN
'And of course there he was, in
the grave below.'
'On the other hand there are the
bitter and twisted ones. Like this.'
MAY ETERNAL DAMNATION BE UPON
THOSE
IN WHALING
PORT WHO, WITHOUT KNOWING ME,
HAVE MALICIOUSLY VILIFIED ME.
MAY THE CURSE OF GOD
BE UPON THEM AND THEIRS.
'Nasty. Sounds a bit like what
Trump would put on his.'
'This was some cat lady
apparently. The good citizens of Whaling Port report that everything
has been fine and dandy there ever since she died – the curse isn't
working.'
The Author was starting to despair
of his task. 'The interesting epitaphs seem to be either jokey or
vicious.'
'Not all of them.'
'Anyway, how do you sum up a life
in a sentence?'
'You don't. You make a joke, or
bear a grudge, or, well – some are deliberately bathetic.'
'Like Spike Milligan's?
I TOLD YOU I WAS ILL
And that brings me back to Keats.'
'What was that again?'
The
Author explained. Keats
had died of consumption at the age of 25 in Rome and was buried there
at the Protestant cemetery. His wish had been that his stone would
bear the words
HERE
LIES ONE WHOSE NAME WAS WRIT IN WATER
Above
it was to be carved a Greek lyre with four of its eight strings
broken to demonstrate how his genius was cut off by death before its
maturity. However his friends added a lot of other guff.
'Somewhat pretentious.'
'But nevertheless true,' said the
Author. 'I wonder what he would have achieved if he had lived. He
hung out with all the famous poets of his time – Shelley, Southey,
Wordsworth – and they recognised his great potential.' He took a
swig of his drink. 'Actually I wouldn't have an epitaph at all, or
even a memorial. Just scatter my ashes on my favourite beach when
I'm gone.'
Ferzackerley was continuing to
flip through his phone. 'Actually there are some that are very
moving. Look at this.'
NEVER AGAIN NEVER FORGET
6 July 1943 22 June 1988
A GAY VIETNAM VETERAN.
WHEN I WAS IN THE MILITARY
THEY GAVE ME A MEDAL FOR
KILLING TWO MEN
AND A DISCHARGE FOR LOVING ONE.
'That's in the Congressional
cemetery in Washington. Leonard Matlovich was the first American
soldier to come out publicly, and fought to keep his job in the army.
A brave pioneer. It does sum up his life in a sentence, in a way,
and also stands as a rebuke to the present and a challenge to the
future.'
'You know, that is actually a
short story right there.' The Author slumped forward over his drink.
'Very moving. I could never equal that.'
They both paused for thought for a
minute.
'So what are you going to do for
this challenge?'
The Author finished his beer and
looked out into the darkness. The rain was diminishing and it was
time to go home. 'I don't know. Maybe something about all these
epitaphs we've been talking about,' he said.
'That's not really a short story
though is it? It doesn't have an ending – a – what do you call
it?'
'A resolution. You're probably
right. Maybe I could finish with something like:
That night the Author went home
and, feeling inspired, wrote a brilliant story about epitaphs and
headstones and obituaries; and about his conversations with his good
friend Ferzackerley, who many years later, on hearing the sad news of
the death of the great man, had remembered what the now famous Author
had said and, standing up to the publishers and literary executors
and all the other hangers on, decided he must honour the wishes of
his best mate, and so he went back through all his writings to find
the story that proved the last wishes of the Author, and persuaded
all his friends to fly out to his favourite tropical beach where they
lit a great bonfire – like the one that the friends of Shelley had
lit to immolate his corpse on a lonely Tuscan beach: not that
Ferzackerley was going to do anything so dramatic, as he'd already
had his corpse quietly dealt with at the crematorium in Golders Green
– and they had a great time dancing around the fire; celebrating
the life and achievements of the great Author; sharing the many happy
memories they had of him; and scattering his ashes over the clear
tropical waters of a coral sea and all the time knowing that those
memories of him would stay with them as long as they lived and would
be the ultimate memorial.
How would that be?' said the
Author.
'Well, it's not really a
resolution,' said Ferzackerley. 'But at least it's a long sentence.'
For a final instalment in the meta drama go here
For a final instalment in the meta drama go here
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