The Last Straw: I see that a new book on the great English artist, J.M.W. Turner, has cast doubt on what exactly his dying words were. For a century and a half it has been thought that he breathed his last with the remark "the sun is God", an apt conclusion for a man who devoted his life to painting the effects of light.
Now, however, a biographer suggests he may have meant "the son is God", indicating a death-bed embrace of Christianity.
Rarely can two interpretations of a man's final thoughts have been so contradictory. Obviously, the fact that he was a painter rather than a writer blinded him to the potential sun/son confusion. If you can't avoid using such terms orally, you must make their meaning clear, as Brendan Behan did with his reputed last words, to a medical nun taking his pulse: "Bless you, sister - may all your sons be bishops." That's the advantage of a literary training.
But the Turner example is a cautionary tale for any famous person wishing to leave wise words for posterity. The moral appears to be that, as well as the usual priest or doctor, you should have a PR consultant in attendance at the end, to ensure your message gets out. He'll probably insist that you issue it in advance with a time embargo, and that you die on a quiet news day to ensure maximum press coverage. But it might still be worth it.
Now that the revisionists have gone after Turner, other cases may have to be reopened. One of the great traditional examples of a noble death has been that of the Roman orator, Cicero, who reportedly bent his neck for the executioner's sword and with his last word said simply: "Strike". This has always been considered an example of courage, but surely it's only a matter of time before historians suggest that it was a pathetic attempt to incite industrial action by the executioners' union.
Similarly, Sir Walter Raleigh is said to have urged his hesitant axeman: "Strike, man, strike." But Sir Walter is credited with introducing potatoes and tobacco to England, so his last words could have been an attempt to introduce the wildcat work stoppage.
Third time unlucky. And in a related vein, surely Marie Antoinette's "pardonnez-moi, monsieur" was a last-minute appeal for clemency, rather than - as claimed - an apology to the executioner after she stepped on his foot?
Some people didn't leave interpretation to chance. The US writer, William Saroyan, phoned the Associated Press with his farewell thoughts, to the effect that he knew death was inevitable, "but I've always believed an exception would be made in my case". And an even more moving example of faith in journalism was provided by the Mexican revolutionary, Pancho Villa. Gunned down and dying, he couldn't think of anything witty or profound to say (understandably enough: I have the same problem whenever I have to sign a greetings card). So he pleaded with the journalists present: "Don't let it end like this - tell them I said something." Whereas, of course, the treacherous bastards reported the actual words he used.
By contrast, others have left a whole series of last sayings, all witty or profound. When the French satirist, Rabelais, was on his deathbed, he seems to have had a bigger writing team than Bob Hope. He expired variously with the words: (1) "Bring down the curtain, the farce is played out"; (2) "I go to seek the great perhaps", and (3) "I owe much; I have nothing; the rest I leave to the poor." All he was missing was an editor.
An example of the benefits of good editing is provided by the US civil war general, John Sedgwick. As you may know, Sedgwick still holds the world record for wittiest last words, established in 1864 when, admonishing his troops for dodging enemy bullets, he said: "They couldn't hit an elephant at this dist . . ." Disappointingly, his biography suggests that not only did he finish the sentence but that he said it twice. Then, in response to a soldier's insistence about the general wisdom of ducking, he laughed and replied: "All right, my man, go to your place." Only then was he shot. But if there was ever a case for reporters cleaning up the quotes, this was surely it.
As for J.M.W. Turner, if he has been misunderstood by posterity, his ghost might derive consolation from the fate of Karl Marx on his deathbed. Pressed by the housekeeper for some valedictory wisdom, the great philosopher vehemently refused and ordered her out of the room. "Go on, get out - last words are for fools who haven't said enough," he said; a profound thought with which, cruelly, he expired.
