Exit Lines

Men talk their way through life, but the best remembered words they utter are often their last. The mystery of death seems to touch the most commonplace sayings with power and portent. Edifying compilations of last words were highly valued in the days when people spoke of "making a good death." The latest such anthology throws edification to the winds. In his Dictionary of Last Words (Philosophical Library;$5), Editor Edward S. Le Comte includes the irrelevancies of delirium as well as the measured phrases of "holy dying." He has culled such sources as Baedeker's The United States, newspapers and TIME, as well as the standard biographies, for his 1,664 quotations. The result is not as random as it first seems. There are patterns in the way men meet their private end-of-the-world.

Some ride grandly through the dark door with banners flying and speeches set. Saints often talk as though they were going home. "Lord, now is the time to arise and go!" said St. Teresa of Avila. "The good time which I welcome, which is Thy will; the hour when I must leave my exile, and my soul shall enjoy the fulfillment of all her desire!" St. John the Evangelist was also eager to leave: "Thou hast invited me to Thy table, Lord; and behold I come, thanking Thee for having invited me, for Thou knowest that I have desired it with all my heart." "Welcome, Sister Death," said St. Francis of Assisi.

Some are dragged through the door asking for just a little more time. Mussolini (to his executioner): "But . . . but . . . Mr. Colonel." Pope Alexander VI: "I come. It is right. Wait a moment." When a parson told Ethan Allen (a religious man who took Fort Ticonderoga "in the name of the great Jehovah and the Continental Congress") that the angels were waiting for him, Allen exploded: "Waiting, are they? Waiting, are they? Well, God damn 'em, let 'em wait."

Some are resigned or bewildered. Beethoven had asked for wine; when it finally came he said: "Too bad! Too bad! It's too late!" As the plane in which he was riding was about to crash, George C. Atcheson Jr., diplomatic aide to General MacArthur, said: "Well, it can't be helped." Tolstoy: "I do not understand what I have to do." Thomas Arnold, headmaster of Rugby: "Ah, very well."

Some manage jokes. Said Grammarian Dominique Bouhours: "I am about to--or I am going to--die; either expression is used." Asked how high he could lift his arm, the Rev. Henry Ward Beecher said: "Well, high enough to hit you, doctor."

Some think of others. Said Queen Marie Antoinette, after she stepped by accident on her executioner's foot: "Monsieur, I beg your pardon." "Let not poor Nelly starve," said Charles II of his mistress, Nell Gwyn. And George M. Cohan's last words were of his wife: "Look after Agnes." But few have left behind them last words as filled with dignity and grace as those of an Indian chief named Crowfoot, leader of the Blackfoot Confederacy: "A little while and I will be gone from among you, whither I cannot tell. From nowhere we come, into nowhere we go. What is life? It is a flash of a firefly in the night. It is a breath of a buffalo in the winter time. It is as the little shadow that runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset."

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