What Is The Ending Of The Best Short Stories Of William Somerset Maugham Explained?

Walter de la Mare's stories often linger in that eerie twilight between reality and fantasy, and 'Best Stories' is no exception. The endings aren't just conclusions—they're like waking from a dream where you're not entirely sure what was real. Take 'Seaton's Aunt,' for instance. That final scene where the narrator escapes her oppressive presence, only to later question whether she was ever truly alive or just a specter of guilt and memory? Chills. De la Mare doesn't hand you answers; he gives you a puzzle that rattles in your mind for days. Then there's 'The Riddle,' where children vanish into a seemingly magical wardrobe. The ending implies they've crossed into another world, but the adults dismiss it as imagination. That duality—wonder versus cold rationality—is classic de la Mare. His endings often feel like a door left slightly ajar, inviting you to peek through but never fully step inside. It's why I keep rereading them; each time, I notice some new shadow lurking in the prose.

Reading 'Twelve Modern Short Stories' feels like unwrapping a box of literary chocolates—each piece has its own flavor, and the endings hit differently. My favorite was the one about the aging painter who finally burns his unsold canvases, only to realize the act itself was his masterpiece. It left me staring at the ceiling for hours, wondering about the art we destroy and the things we cling to. Another standout was the surreal tale where a man wakes up speaking a language no one understands, and the ending isn’t about deciphering it but about the silence that follows. The collection doesn’t tie up neatly; some endings are abrupt, others linger like a slow fade-out in a song. It’s the kind of book where you flip back to reread the last lines, just to savor the ambiguity. What’s clever is how the stories mirror each other thematically—loneliness, reinvention, the weight of choices—without ever repeating a structure. The final story, about a librarian cataloging forgotten books, ends with her adding her own diary to the shelves. It’s a quiet metaphor for how stories outlive us, and it made me want to scribble something down immediately. If you crave tidy resolutions, this isn’t it, but the messy, thought-provoking endings are what make the collection unforgettable.

The ending of 'The Complete Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway' isn't a single unified conclusion since it's a collection of his works spanning decades. But if we're talking about the final story in most editions, it's 'The Old Man at the Bridge,' a poignant piece set during the Spanish Civil War. It leaves you with this quiet devastation—an old man resigned to his fate, sitting by a bridge as death looms. Hemingway doesn't wrap it up neatly; it's just this raw moment of human fragility. What sticks with me is how he captures futility without melodrama. After binge-reading the whole collection, that last story lingers like a punch to the gut. Honestly, the beauty of Hemingway's shorts is their incompleteness. Stories like 'Hills Like White Elephants' or 'A Clean, Well-Lighted Place' just... stop, mid-breath. It’s like overhearing a conversation you’ll never get the ending to. That’s his genius—trusting readers to sit with the discomfort. My favorite might still be 'The Snows of Kilimanjaro,' though. That one’s a knife twist of regret, and it haunts me way more than the actual ending of the book.

Guy de Maupassant's 'The Tales' isn't a single story but a collection, so endings vary wildly—each one punches you in the gut differently. Take 'The Necklace,' for instance. That final twist where Mathilde learns the necklace was fake all along? Brutal. It’s not just about irony; it’s about how her vanity and self-inflicted suffering were utterly pointless. Maupassant loves exposing human folly with a smirk. Then there’s 'Boule de Suif,' where the prostitute is the only honorable one, yet gets shunned by the very people she saved. The ending leaves you fuming at their hypocrisy. His stories often end abruptly, like life—no tidy morals, just raw truth. Sometimes it’s a knife-twist ('The Horla'), other times a slow burn ('The Piece of String'). What unites them? A refusal to comfort the reader.

The ending of 'The Collected Stories of Guy de Maupassant' isn't a single narrative conclusion since it's an anthology of his short stories. Each tale wraps up uniquely, often with Maupassant's signature twist or bleak realism. Take 'The Necklace,' for instance—it devastates with its ironic reveal about the borrowed jewelry. Or 'Boule de Suif,' where the protagonist's kindness is repaid with cruelty. His endings linger because they slice deep into human nature, leaving you unsettled yet fascinated. What I love is how he refuses tidy resolutions. Life isn’t neat, and neither are his stories. Even in lighter pieces like 'The Horla,' the ambiguity chills you. Maupassant doesn’t handhold; he throws you into the abyss and lets you grapple with it. That’s why his work stays with me—it’s raw, unflinching, and deeply human.

Chekhov's endings are like those quiet moments just before dawn—subtle, inevitable, and often leaving you with more questions than answers. Take 'The Lady with the Dog,' for instance. Gurov and Anna's affair doesn’t conclude with some grand resolution; instead, they’re trapped in this painful limbo of love and societal constraints. The story ends mid-reflection, with Chekhov hinting that their real struggle is only beginning. It’s not about tying up loose ends but capturing life’s unresolved tensions. In 'The Cherry Orchard,' the finale is equally poignant. The sound of the axe cutting down the orchard mirrors the inevitability of change, yet Ranevskaya’s departure feels almost passive. Chekhov masterfully blends tragedy and farce—like the misplaced galoshes in the final scene—to show how humans stumble through loss. His endings don’t scream; they whisper, leaving echoes that linger long after the last page.

The beauty of anthologies like 'The Best American Short Stories 2018' is that they don’t have a single ending—each story wraps up in its own way, leaving a mosaic of emotions and takeaways. As someone who devoured this collection, I can say the closing pieces linger like echoes. Lauren Groff’s 'The Midnight Zone,' for instance, ends with this haunting quietude after a mother and her sons survive a terrifying ordeal in a remote cabin—it’s less about resolution and more about the fragility of safety. Then there’s Jamel Brinkley’s 'A Family,' where a man’s unresolved grief simmers beneath everyday interactions, leaving you with this ache for connections that never quite mend. The anthology’s 'end' isn’t a finale but a reminder of how short stories can punch you in the gut or cradle you softly, sometimes in the same breath. What sticks with me isn’t just the individual endings but how editor Roxane Gay curated them to converse with each other. The last story, Alice Sola Kim’s 'One Small Step,' reimagines a dystopian moon colony with a girl’s desperate bid for freedom—ending on a note of defiant hope. It’s a clever contrast to earlier, heavier pieces. Anthologies like this are like a playlist; the final track leaves a mood, but the real magic is how all the stories rearrange your thoughts afterward. I still catch myself replaying certain endings months later, like postcards from different worlds.

The ending of 'Miss Marple: The Complete Short Stories' isn't a single conclusion but a collection of resolutions across various tales. Each story wraps up with Miss Marple's signature blend of intuition and keen observation, often revealing the culprit in a quiet yet satisfying way. My favorite is how 'The Tuesday Club Murders' ties up—it’s not just about the crime but the way she exposes human nature’s flaws. The endings aren’t grandiose; they’re like a cup of tea settling after a storm—comforting and just right. What stands out is how Agatha Christie doesn’t rely on action but on psychological unraveling. In 'The Thumbmark of St. Peter,' for instance, the resolution hinges on a tiny detail everyone overlooks. That’s classic Marple: the mundane hiding the monumental. The collection’s charm lies in its consistency—every story feels like a fireside chat with a clever aunt who’s seen it all.