When Steve Jobs died, his last words were, “Oh wow. Oh wow. Oh
wow.” Jobs, a famed perfectionist and detail guy who figured he had
a pretty good shot at immortality but wanted to seal the deal,
clearly had thought about his last words. And, just as he wished,
they’ve been quoted a lot.
Jobs came up with an excellent exit line — unless, of
course, those at his bedside misheard him and he actually said, “Oh
ow. Oh ow. Oh ow.” That might make more sense, under the
circumstances, but Steve Jobs was not a man to leave his farewell
words to chance when he devised the neatly crafted “oh wow”
version; even those missing punctuation marks (no pesky commas)
reveal Jobs’s efficient, user-friendly hand.
It made me realize that, even although I’ve got a will and
a trust, a medical directive, long-term care insurance and a
resting place selected, I have neglected to devise any final words.
For most people, it might not matter, but for a writer this is a
crucial oversight that cries out to be corrected.
On his death bed, Pancho Villa reportedly protested,
“Don’t let it end like this. Tell them I said something.” Not just
something, but something memorable. Pancho, presumably a
busy guy right up to the end, had forgotten to devise a great
parting line, although the quotation he devised on the spot is
pretty good, considering the urgency of the moment and all. Julius
Caesar’s “Et tu, Brute?” isn’t bad either for a guy who’s being
stabbed to death.
I don’t trust myself to make up something pithy on my
death bed, so I’ve been mulling over a few possible last words that
I thought I might sort of test-market. Many of history’s most
famous last lines sound suspiciously calculated, like Oscar
Wilde’s, “Either that wallpaper goes or I do,” and when Alice
Toklas asked Gertrude Stein, “What is the answer?,” Gertrude asked
her, “What is the question?” Emily Dickinson said, “I must go on.
The fog is rising.” Nathan Hale’s hallowed gallows farewell is hard
to top: “I only regret that I have but one life to give for my
country.” That line is far too rich to believe it fell
extemporaneously from the lips of someone on the verge of being
hung.
It’s permissible to write a clever advance epitaph, like
W.C. Fields’s “Everything else considered, I’d rather be in
Philadelphia,” or Dorothy Parker’s “Excuse my dust,” or the famous
British actor who said, “Dying is easy, comedy is hard” — all of
which were carefully worked out ahead of time, perhaps with the aid
of a writer — a service that funeral homes might want to provide
in our social networking age. It seems a shame to die without being
able to share your very last line on Twitter and
Facebook.
The tough part about a final line is that it needs to
sound memorable but also spontaneous, and you also want to make
sure that nobody gets it wrong. Lincoln was unable to utter his own
last words, but when Abe died, Edwin Stanton said at his bedside,
“Now he belongs to the ages” — although it may have been “Now he
belongs to the angels.” Historians are still wrangling over what
was actually said.
I want to make sure that my own last words are not garbled
and have a shot of getting reprinted in one of those collections of
famous last lines. Since I’m not famous enough to guarantee a place
in an anthology of parting words, I badly need to come up with
something so terrific that no editor can possibly pass it up. This
will, after all, be my last published work and I need to make it
pithy as hell.
Some alleged parting words of major figures fall a little
flat, like Winston Churchill’s disappointing, “I am bored with it
all,” or Conrad Hilton’s “Leave the shower curtain on the inside of
the tub,” or Timothy Leary’s vague “Why not? Yeah…,” or Louisa May
Alcott’s “Is it not meningitis?” James Joyce said, “Does nobody
understand?” You would think Joyce might have devised something
juicier. But at least all of those lines sound authentic, like Lady
Astor’s great tagline, as her family gathered around: “Am I dying
or is this my birthday?” If I can’t come up with something on my
own, I may just steal that.
I’m still working on a farewell line but here are a few I
thought I’d run by friends and family: “It was fun while it
lasted,” “I hate to leave the party before it’s over,” “If there is
a God, I look forward to our meeting — I’ve heard so much about
him,” “I forgot to pack a toothbrush,” “Much as I hate to travel,
this could be an interesting trip,” “Did I miss my deadline?,” or
maybe just a simple, “OK, I’m outta here.”
Those are just working last lines, you understand, but if
you have a particular favorite, let me know. I plan to select three
finalists before making a choice. My big worry is that I’ll be so
groggy when the time comes, with everyone waiting for me to come up
with something witty or profound, I won’t have the presence of mind
to remember my official last words and may only be able to croak
out something like, “What time is it?” or, “I’d like a sip of
water,” or, “Is it just me or does it seem cold in here?” Those
won’t do at all.
To guard against a banal farewell, I plan to include my
exit line in a press release that can be read to the media upon my
demise. If no reporters are present, which is fairly likely, a paid
death notice could include my final words. It’s pretty embarrassing
for a professional writer not to have a compelling last line ready
to go when he does.
Karl Marx may have had the last word on last words, in
answer to a housekeeper who urged him to give her a memorable
parting line for posterity: “Go on, get out,” Marx shouted. “Last
words are for fools who haven’t said enough.” Nice work,
Karl.
