I recently read a book whose end baffled me. That I reached its end speaks well for the book – I’m a finicky reader. My bafflement left me annoyed at the author. Why had he made me this book, I grumbled; what was he trying to say?
The book’s name isn’t my point here; it may have satisfied you, which would invalidate this meditation. My curiosity curls around the function of an ending. We expect the conclusion of a work of art that exists in time to conclude, that is, bring to a close the issues raised by the activity. In music the issues are aural; in stories, moral. Does the big bad wolf prevail or the three little piggies? How would this maker steer us through a world of wolves and pigs?
Every story is a fable in disguise more or less. A story cannot just be, it must direct, otherwise why spend our time? The implicit consolation of any story is there exists a way out of the murk of our moment, a lesson from which we might benefit. Parables, fables, exempla and their descendants all drive to some ta-dum. When they don’t, we squirm.
Modernity increasingly masked that consoling Therefore. If life has no meaning, why should a work of art? To impose a happy ending on an iffy tale was deemed dishonest. How many actual tales have happy endings? Isn’t any ending happy/sad at best? Isn’t the very concept of a conclusion a lie?
However valid intellectually, this ending dissatisfies emotionally. Samuel Beckett’s play Waiting for Godot is a masterpiece, no question; but any experience of it leaves us dangling unpleasantly, as if a trap door had opened underfoot. Here’s its famous conclusion – if you can call it that:
ESTRAGON:
Wait! (He moves away from Vladimir.) I sometimes wonder if we wouldn't have been better off alone, each one for himself. (He crosses the stage and sits down on the mound.) We weren't made for the same road.
VLADIMIR:
(without anger). It's not certain.
ESTRAGON:No, nothing is certain.(Vladimir slowly crosses the stage and sits down beside Estragon.)
VLADIMIR:
We can still part, if you think it would be better.
ESTRAGON:
It's not worthwhile now.
(Silence.)
VLADIMIR:
No, it's not worthwhile now.
(Silence.)
ESTRAGON:
Well, shall we go?
VLADIMIR:
Yes, let's go.
(They do not move.)
Is this funny? Well, yeh, sort of. Sad? That too. Unsettling? You bet – nobody normal enjoys feeling lost. Is Beckett’s non-ending true to life? Assuredly. Gratifying, consoling? Not in the least.
Religion has supplied happy endings for mankind since the dawn of storytelling. The bad in life is rectified in a fantastic beyond. We’re glad to hear it, even if we don’t buy it. Today’s rapid erosion of religious affiliation deprives us of that comfort. Face it, fella, happy endings are bullshit – deal with it.
I believe in happy endings. By happy I mean we haven’t wasted our time trudging through existence: there’s a point to all this tsuris. Even if a happy ending’s delusive, we owe it to one another to wrap it like a bandage for temporary relief. A lie to assuage differs in kind from a lie to mislead. I’m grateful to be told I haven’t aged though I know I have.
Our obligation to each other is to lift our spirits best we can, not to grind our noses in the obvious horrors of being: not to lie, but to dole out truth in therapeutic doses. Art’s obligation too. Hideousness is no achievement; ugly is easy. Genius in art finds its way through yikes to amen.