Famous Last Words
A Geezer’s Notebook, By Jim Foster
I have a book in my vast library (all borrowed and never returned) of great goodbyes spoken or written by famous people. Some are dreary passages taken from a letter one lover sent to his ex explaining why he suddenly became celibate — at least until the rash cleared up. Others are tragic lines penned by weeping poets after the love of their life took off with a circus geek.
Poets get dumped on a lot. And we know why. If Lord Byron had spent more time romancing instead of trying to find a word to rhyme with bloomers, he wouldn’t have been reading Dear John letters while lesser men who couldn’t come up with anything snappier than roses are red, violets are blue got all the action.
Unfortunately, poets often take an abnormally long time to say goodbye. In Grade 11, we had to read poem after poem about some poor sap’s heart breaking in twain until we were ready to fly to England and finish the job. Teenagers trapped in an English class know exactly why the poets of yesteryear were left standing at the altar. They couldn’t stop yapping. Humphrey Bogart sent Ingrid packing with a simple “Here’s looking at you, kid”. Robert Browning said much the same thing, but it took him 14 pages.
But I digress: the goodbyes I found fascinating were the last lines famous people said as they were dying. I used to lie awake for hours thinking of a zinger to throw out just when the warden threw the switch.
Caesar (Julius, not Sid) was supposed to have said goodbye in just 3 words, “Et tu, Brute” when Brutus and his pals jumped him and turned him into a wind instrument. But did he really say that? Wouldn’t you think he might have been just a little more upset? After all, the cads not only did him in; they ruined the new toga he paid two bronze pieces for at the Sally Ann Thrift Store. I think Shakespeare made up the “Et Tu, Brute” line.
Sidney Carton, the drunk in A Tale of Two Cities, rescued Charles Darnay from the guillotine and gallantly took his place under the blade. Sidney uttered the greatest line in English Literature. It is a far, far better thing that I do now, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.
But is that really what Sid would say as he stood on the scaffold? Sure it was easy for Charles Dickens to write it that way. He was in a pub in London. Charlie’s head wasn’t going to end up rolling around in a wicker basket.
I’m sure we would all like to go out saying something noble like that. But I’m afraid I would have chickened out at the last minute.
Be honest now, what would you have said, had it been you, not Sidney, listening to the drums roll and watching Madame Defarge knit a snood for her husband? I know what my last words would have been.
“Ah, garcons. I think you’re making a big mistake here. The guy you want is Chuck Darnay. That’s D as in dumbass, which I am for volunteering, A as in Agoral, which is the last thing I’ll need if you cut my head off, R like in rutabaga, N as in Knumb-skull. The K is silent, but you’re French so what would you know? A as in . . . Look chaps, I have to run along; I left a kettle boiling on the hearth . . . You want me to put my head where? Are you crazy? I . . “ WHOMP!
I would like to be remembered for doing something brave when I’m on my way out, but I suspect the hero the world will talk about for centuries won’t be me. I’m sure everyone saw the movie Titanic where Leonardo di Cappuccino gallantly freezes to death to save Kate Winslet. That wouldn’t have been old Jimbo. I would have been the guy with the moustache who hid in the lifeboat disguised as a little old lady.
At the Charge of the Light Brigade, the poem wouldn’t have been about the valiant 600. There would have been just 599 charging boldly into the guns. According to a missing verse, a Private Foster was seen riding hell-bent for election the other way. Apparently he suddenly remembered a dental appointment; its 75 bucks for a no-show.
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