Camera. Neon-lights. Action.

Tarantino’s Once Upon a Time in Hollywood came alive for me with one notably poignant scene. It was twilight in tinsel town when suddenly, on cue, the neon-lights lit up one by one. Neons, it seems to me, are shorthand for Americana – along with hot dogs, Cadilacs, Wurlitzer jukeboxes and Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks. Among the early evening’s electrical illuminations one sign, in particular, caught my eye: the Vine cinema’s hoarding for Romeo and Juliet (in its eighth month). This would have been Franco Zeffirelli’s Academy Award nominated 1968 version. The inclusion of the Vine would not have been a random decision from Mr Tarantino. Located on the intersection of Hollywood Boulevard and Vine Street – the cinema shares its location with the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Fame and infamy being a major motivating factor for this idiosyncratic and audaciously brilliant director.

The Sirens are singing still, Weinstein.

Detail from The Sirens, John Longstaff (1892)

In ancient Greek mythology the song of the sirens lured sailors, tempted by lustful curiosity, onto a rocky shore where they either perished or, if they survived, subsequently died of starvation.

The sirens came to exist, so the story goes, because as companions of young Persephone, whose abduction and rape they had failed to prevent, they were transformed into a hybrid of bird and woman as punishment.

Margaret Atwood’s 1974 poem, Siren Song, proposes that, rather than simply being a song that couldn’t be resisted, “This song is a cry for help.”

Watching the accused movie mogul, Harvey Weinstein, enter court for the first day of his trial clutching feebly to his walking frame I couldn’t help but ponder if the voices of all the women willing to stand against him are the modern day equivalent of the sirens. Their united chorus resonating irresistibly as a powerful call for retribution. Their song dragging, rather than luring, men onto the fateful rocks of the justice system.

The End is Near

The easiest two words in writing

I’m very close to completing the first draft of a manuscript for a novel. Within the next fortnight, after 14 months of grafting, I expect to write those two powerful words: The End. Then the real work will begin. The editing and polishing. Firstly, though, I’ll leave the draft untouched for a month. Let a little water under the bridge so I’ll be able to read it anew with some degree of objectivity.

I’m aware of a growing pressure to frame the ending just right. I want the reader to feel rewarded for staying the journey – that the story has been resolved in a satisfying, thought-provoking way. I know there’ll be a twist in the tale. The challenge is to ensure the unexpected ending is, nonetheless, entirely plausible. It may not be something the reader necessarily saw coming but it’s imperative that it fits. It must also feel connected somehow with the opening sentence of the story. It’s appropriate that I sweat on the conclusion, after all the ending of a great story is so often the part that stays with you. When I’ve finished reading a novel I like to keep it close at hand so I can re-read the ending a few times at my leisure.

Here’s how Cormac McCarthy ends Blood Meridian, recognised as his masterpiece and a longstanding favourite of mine. Having dragged the reader on a blood-soaked odyssey through the borderlands of Southwestern United States circa 1850, McCarthy leaves us in the company of the book’s villain – the hairless man-child they call the judge. The ending, ironically, feels like it could have been the opening of the story.

‘He never sleeps. He says that he will never die. He dances in light and in shadow and he is a great favourite. He never sleeps, the judge. He is dancing, dancing. He says that he will never die.’

Blood Meridian, Cormac McCarthy.

Here to follow are a few famous endings that linger with you long after the last page has been turned and the book closed. They could be called endings that endure.

“The creatures outside looked from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again; but already it was impossible to say which was which.”

Animal Farm, George Orwell

“I wrote at the start that this was a record of hate, and walking there beside Henry towards the evening glass of beer, I found the one prayer that seemed to serve the winter mood: O God, You’ve done enough, You’ve robbed me of enough, I’m too tired and old to learn to love, leave me alone forever.”

The End of the Affair, Graham Greene

“I lingered round them, under that benign sky; watched the moths fluttering among the heath, and hare-bells; listened to the soft wind breathing through the grass; and wondered how anyone could ever imagine unquiet slumbers, for the sleepers in that quiet earth.”

Wuthering Heights, Emily Bronte

“He turned away to give them time to pull themselves together; and waited, allowing his eyes to rest on the trim cruiser in the distance.”

Lord of the Flies, William Golding

“She looked up and across the barn, and her lips came together and smiled mysteriously.”

The Grapes of Wrath, John Steinbeck

“My personal rollercoaster. Not so much a rollercoaster – a rollercoaster’s too smooth – a yo-yo rather – a jerking, spinning toy in the hands of a maladroit child, more like, trying too hard, too impatiently eager to learn how to operate his new yo-yo.”

Any Human Heart, William Boyd

If you’ve managed to make it to the end of this short blog and enjoyed the brilliance of the renowned endings I’ve referenced you’ll appreciate the challenge I’ve put myself under in even deigning to share a page with such exalted company.