Home > 2013, Thoughts, Writing > In Which I Once Again Speak of Boring Things

In Which I Once Again Speak of Boring Things

The sun is shining on Minnesota. It sends beams of light and warmth from the depths of space on a quest to light our way and warm our faces, those beams are filtered through the atmosphere, through clouds that cast such a heavenly glow to the skies above and through leaves ever green that dance upon the wind and create shadows that never rest in the same place twice.

Taking a brief walk to bask in this phenomena, while mildly uncomfortable, is recommended, as I assure you it is good for the soul. Wave to your neighbors, stop along the way to watch a squirrel scurry up the side of a tree. Close your eyes and tilt your head upward every so often, so as to allow the rays to reach your face more easily. You will not regret it.

I visited the “I Write Like:” analyzer today. I entered three samples of my writing, and these were the results:

When I write of our place in the universe, it resembles Arthur C. Clarke.

When I write of people becoming zombies, it resembles Cory Doctorow.

And when I write a boring blog entry about nothing in particular, it resembles David Foster Wallace.

Allegedly.

I am okay with all of this.

Here is a list of famous last words of some well known authors.

Ernest Hemingway: “Goodnight my kitten.” Spoken to his wife before he killed himself.

Jane Austen: “I want nothing but death.” In response to her sister, Cassandra, who was asking her if she wanted anything.

J.M Barrie: “I can’t sleep.”

L. Frank Baum: “Now I can cross the shifting sands.”

Edgar Allan Poe: “Lord help my poor soul.”

Thomas Hobbes: “I am about to take my last voyage, a great leap into the dark,”

Alfred Jarry: “I am dying…please, bring me a toothpick.”

Hunter S. Thompson: “Relax — this won’t hurt.”

Henrik Ibsen: “On the contrary!”

Anton Chekhov: “I haven’t had champagne for a long time.”

Mark Twain: “Good bye. If we meet—” Spoken to his daughter Clara.

Louisa May Alcott: “Is it not meningitis?” Alcott did not have meningitis, though she believed it to be so. She died from mercury poison.

Jean Cocteau: “Since the day of my birth, my death began its walk. It is walking towards me, without hurrying.”

Washington Irving: “I have to set my pillows one more night, when will this end already?”

Leo Tolstoy: “But the peasants…how do the peasants die?”

Hans Christian Andersen: “Don’t ask me how I am! I understand nothing more.”

Charles Dickens: “On the ground!” He suffered a stroke outside his home and was asking to be laid on the ground.

H.G. Wells: “Go away! I’m all right.” He didn’t know he was dying.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe: “More light.”

W.C. Fields: “Goddamn the whole fucking world and everyone in it except you, Carlotta!” “Carlotta” was Carlotta Monti, actress and his mistress.

Voltaire: “Now, now, my good man, this is no time for making enemies.” When asked by a priest to renounce Satan.

Dylan Thomas: “I’ve had 18 straight whiskies…I think that’s the record.”

George Bernard Shaw: “Dying is easy, comedy is hard.”

Henry David Thoreau: “Moose…Indian.”

James Joyce: “Does nobody understand?”

I’ll leave you with that, as I go off to ponder what my final utterance in this plane of existence will be. I’ll also me making hot dogs for dinner.

Hopefully my last words will not involve hot dogs.

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