Ambiguous Endings
Years ago, I was at my college library when I ran into a friend, named George. George was a painter. He was returning a book on a famous artist (I can’t remember the name). I asked to see the book and he showed me a few of his favorite paintings.
“What do they mean?” I said.
George gave me a big smile. “Whatever you want. You put your own interpretation on the painting.”
I remember my frustration. I didn’t know why, but his answer never sat right. It was years later, years of staring at paintings in total misunderstanding when I realized why I felt this way. I realized that I wanted a painting to mean something. In fact, I wanted every bit of art to mean something. I wanted the artist to tell me something that I didn’t know.
Isn’t that the point of art? To show me a new perspective? I didn’t want the artist to tell me that it’s up to me. I can do that on my own without looking at a painting.
And what does this have to do with writing?
I think the same problem in painting applies to what are called “ambiguous endings” in stories. The ambiguous ending is the author’s way of allowing us to put our own interpretation on the story. When we finish the last sentence, we each will have our own unique view of what just happened.
In reality, what I think happens is that we turn back to the beginning and flip through each page, searching for the cause that brought the conclusion of the story, only to find cause and effect ending with nothing more than a strange ending. It’s like quantum superposition, where, before measurement, an electron or other subatomic particle exists in this weird ethereal state of all measurements being equal. We never know the outcome. And we feel cheated that we spent this time only to have our hopes dashed by an empty ending. It makes me wonder if the writer is afraid to stand out in front of other people and say, “This is what I think.” Are we now just quantum superpositions?
But life is uncertain, you say. Life is just like an ambiguous ending needing one’s own interpretation. First, I and most other people don’t believe that idea and I think it’s quickly fading into the history books under “20th Century Philosophy”. Second, why the hell do I want to read about that? I want someone to at least attempt put structure to our lives and to try to figure out a reason for this whole damned situation called Life In The Universe As We Know It.
Especially with science fiction. For God’s sake, SF is out there on the cutting edge and one of its noble goals is to search for our place in the universe. Putting an ambiguous ending on the story doesn’t help with that at all. In fact, I would say it is laziness, pure and simple.
I need SF that–makes my eyes pop and my jaw drop and my mouth try to say “Wow!” but I’m too stunned to speak–the moment I reach the last sentence. Nowhere in that is a furrowed brow that says, “Huh?”
