I so much enjoyed this piece, and yet it seems odd, in a discussion of endings, to draw Patrick O’Brian, who gave us two fascinating lives to follow over the course of 20 volumes, into the same framework as authors faced with ending a single book. O’Brian may have left his characters dangling in the final, unfinished manuscript, but should we not celebrate him as a master of endings, who at the conclusion of volume after volume, artfully paused the lives of his two main characters in a way that satisfied readers, and yet left them longing to know more?
In literature I suppose a "poignant, untimely death" can represent closure. But in life an untimely death is forever the opposite. In writing the obituary of my first husband who died in middle age, I felt at least part of the purpose of the work was to make whole, that which was unfinished.
This is interesting, but I have to note that there is a whole category of literature which the Science Fiction Encyclopedia describes as "sequels by other hands." https://sf-encyclopedia.com/entry/sequels_by_other_hands Sometimes this is someone like Brandon Sanderson wrapping up the Wheel of Time series after Robert Jordan's passing, with the blessings of his family and working from his notes. Then you have Garrett P Serviss's unauthorized and crude but exciting and fun sequel to HG Wells' War of the Worlds. In Serviss's sequel, Thomas Edison invents a spaceship, a spacesuit and a death ray and takes the fight back to Mars. I guess the trick is to write - before you die - characters that will live forever. Like Sherlock Holmes - whom Arthur Conan Doyle tried to kill off by throwing him off a cliff but was forced to bring him back to life. And now Sherlock will live forever in copyright-uninhibited sequels by other hands.
Well yes, but that’s just what happens when, as inevitably happens, you don’t actually get to live forever, and your writing is left unfinished. A hybrid work is certainly interesting for the reader, but for the writer, the dead one? …
Now there's the whole issue of a creator's "moral rights." This is different from copyright, which protect's the creator's finances. Moral rights protect their reputation. I once witnessed an argument in an art class, almost a fight breaking out: if an artist makes a painting and then sells it, does the buyer have a right - who now owns the physical object - to dab a big red blot in the middle, or to even destroy the painting? Most people saw such an act with horror, an abominable, an insult to the creator's hand. Others were more pragmatic. If you paint something for a book cover, the publisher who buys the reproduction rights has the right to put an ugly graphic border around your masterpiece or even cover the best bits with big ugly letters announcing - gasp - the book's title and author. (This has happened to me.) A guy once came up to me at a convention and asked me if it was OK if he bought my painting because he wanted to hang it up in his porn shop. I guess yes, not because I needed the money but based on the idea that I want my work to leave the nest, go out in the world and have their own adventures. I also didn't mind having a funny story to tell. I guess my point is: if a creator does their job well, their creations will break free of their creators, living on after their creator's death and having all sorts of wonderful adventures the creator wouldn't envision - or would be horrified to learn about. That's the risk we take creating things, but also the joy.
I so much enjoyed this piece, and yet it seems odd, in a discussion of endings, to draw Patrick O’Brian, who gave us two fascinating lives to follow over the course of 20 volumes, into the same framework as authors faced with ending a single book. O’Brian may have left his characters dangling in the final, unfinished manuscript, but should we not celebrate him as a master of endings, who at the conclusion of volume after volume, artfully paused the lives of his two main characters in a way that satisfied readers and left them longing to know more?
In the modern era of movies, sequels do well in the box office even when they're widely regarded as terrible. Perhaps it's the desire to know the end of the characters' stories.
I so much enjoyed this piece, and yet it seems odd, in a discussion of endings, to draw Patrick O’Brian, who gave us two fascinating lives to follow over the course of 20 volumes, into the same framework as authors faced with ending a single book. O’Brian may have left his characters dangling in the final, unfinished manuscript, but should we not celebrate him as a master of endings, who at the conclusion of volume after volume, artfully paused the lives of his two main characters in a way that satisfied readers, and yet left them longing to know more?
In literature I suppose a "poignant, untimely death" can represent closure. But in life an untimely death is forever the opposite. In writing the obituary of my first husband who died in middle age, I felt at least part of the purpose of the work was to make whole, that which was unfinished.
I agree. I prefer the Victorian approach to ending a narrative arc. Untimely death is more than poignant; it's tragic.
Interesting perspective, original and articulate.
Good stuff, Claire :)
This is interesting, but I have to note that there is a whole category of literature which the Science Fiction Encyclopedia describes as "sequels by other hands." https://sf-encyclopedia.com/entry/sequels_by_other_hands Sometimes this is someone like Brandon Sanderson wrapping up the Wheel of Time series after Robert Jordan's passing, with the blessings of his family and working from his notes. Then you have Garrett P Serviss's unauthorized and crude but exciting and fun sequel to HG Wells' War of the Worlds. In Serviss's sequel, Thomas Edison invents a spaceship, a spacesuit and a death ray and takes the fight back to Mars. I guess the trick is to write - before you die - characters that will live forever. Like Sherlock Holmes - whom Arthur Conan Doyle tried to kill off by throwing him off a cliff but was forced to bring him back to life. And now Sherlock will live forever in copyright-uninhibited sequels by other hands.
Well yes, but that’s just what happens when, as inevitably happens, you don’t actually get to live forever, and your writing is left unfinished. A hybrid work is certainly interesting for the reader, but for the writer, the dead one? …
Now there's the whole issue of a creator's "moral rights." This is different from copyright, which protect's the creator's finances. Moral rights protect their reputation. I once witnessed an argument in an art class, almost a fight breaking out: if an artist makes a painting and then sells it, does the buyer have a right - who now owns the physical object - to dab a big red blot in the middle, or to even destroy the painting? Most people saw such an act with horror, an abominable, an insult to the creator's hand. Others were more pragmatic. If you paint something for a book cover, the publisher who buys the reproduction rights has the right to put an ugly graphic border around your masterpiece or even cover the best bits with big ugly letters announcing - gasp - the book's title and author. (This has happened to me.) A guy once came up to me at a convention and asked me if it was OK if he bought my painting because he wanted to hang it up in his porn shop. I guess yes, not because I needed the money but based on the idea that I want my work to leave the nest, go out in the world and have their own adventures. I also didn't mind having a funny story to tell. I guess my point is: if a creator does their job well, their creations will break free of their creators, living on after their creator's death and having all sorts of wonderful adventures the creator wouldn't envision - or would be horrified to learn about. That's the risk we take creating things, but also the joy.
I so much enjoyed this piece, and yet it seems odd, in a discussion of endings, to draw Patrick O’Brian, who gave us two fascinating lives to follow over the course of 20 volumes, into the same framework as authors faced with ending a single book. O’Brian may have left his characters dangling in the final, unfinished manuscript, but should we not celebrate him as a master of endings, who at the conclusion of volume after volume, artfully paused the lives of his two main characters in a way that satisfied readers and left them longing to know more?
In the modern era of movies, sequels do well in the box office even when they're widely regarded as terrible. Perhaps it's the desire to know the end of the characters' stories.