Reading de la Mare feels like holding a handful of smoke—just when you think you've grasped it, the meaning slips away. His endings thrive on ambiguity. In 'Out of the Deep,' the protagonist hears a voice from the sea, possibly supernatural, possibly madness. The story ends without resolution, leaving you to wonder if the horror was external or within. That's his genius: he trusts readers to sit with discomfort. My favorite, 'All Hallows,' ends with a church literally crumbling as ancient forces reawaken. No tidy moral, just sublime unease.
What I adore about de la Mare's endings is how they mirror childhood fears—the kind that linger after the lights go out. 'The Creatures' ends with a man realizing the 'monsters' he feared were actually his own repressed emotions given form. It's psychological horror at its finest, wrapped in gorgeous prose. The final lines often feel like a whisper you almost didn't catch, leaving you to question everything that came before. His stories don't end so much as dissolve, like mist at dawn.
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.
De la Mare's endings are like half-remembered melodies. In 'Miss Jemima,' the titular character's quiet demise is overshadowed by the indifference of others—a commentary on loneliness that stings because it's so understated. There's no grand finale, just the ache of something beautiful and sad slipping away unnoticed. That subtlety is what makes his work timeless; the endings stay with you precisely because they refuse to shout.
2026-02-24 19:00:57
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There's a fascinating depth to Maugham's endings—they often linger like the aftertaste of a strong drink, subtle but impossible to ignore. Take 'The Lotus Eater,' for instance, where a man abandons his life for an idyllic existence on Capri, only to face the consequences of his escapism. The ending isn’t just about his downfall; it’s a quiet meditation on the illusion of permanent happiness. Maugham doesn’t moralize but lets the irony seep in naturally. His stories rarely tie up neatly—characters like Dr. Audlin in 'The Alien Corn' grapple with unfulfilled desires, leaving you pondering long after the last page. The beauty is in how he captures life’s ambiguities, making endings feel less like conclusions and more like glimpses into unresolved human conditions.
Another standout is 'The Letter,' where a woman’s calculated revenge unravels with chilling precision. The twist isn’t just in the revelation but in how Maugham frames her moral decay as almost inevitable. His endings often reflect his background as a playwright—sharp, dialogue-driven, and rich with subtext. Even in lighter tales like 'The Three Fat Women of Antibes,' the humor masks a deeper commentary on vanity and self-deception. Maugham’s genius lies in making endings feel both surprising and inevitable, as if life itself had written them.
I've always been fascinated by how Edgar Allan Poe's works linger in the mind long after reading. 'The Complete Stories and Poems' isn't a single narrative, but the final pieces often leave readers with that signature Poe vibe—dark, unresolved, and haunting. Take 'The Conqueror Worm,' for instance. It ends with this chilling theatrical metaphor where humanity's fate is just a play for unseen, indifferent watchers. Then there's 'The Fall of the House of Usher,' where the literal collapse of the mansion mirrors the psychological disintegration of its inhabitants.
What sticks with me isn’t a tidy resolution, but the way Poe’s endings amplify unease. 'The Tell-Tale Heart' ends mid-confession, leaving the narrator’s fate to our imagination, while 'Annabel Lee' closes with the speaker clinging to love beyond death. It’s less about ‘what happens’ and more about the emotional aftershocks—those endings don’t fade; they fester.