THE TWENTY-EIGHTH PAGE

The late Chilean writer José Donoso once claimed during a lecture at the University of Iowa that the essence of a novel was revealed in the last word of the work. Generations of his students have turned this conceit into a popular after dinner parlor game. The books in the host library come tipsily tumbling down as even the most far-fetched extractions take on definitive meanings. The innocent author’s hidden impulses are made demonstrably clear, perhaps even to the author, himself.

This, too, is an excellent work-avoidance technique akin to Hemingway’s legendary pencil sharpening exercises preceding his writing for the day. The feckless writer can scan his bookshelves for many hours and actually convince himself that he is aiding his work by contemplating the last pages of the masters. Pathetic work if he’s on page twenty.

An astonishing number of novels end with the word “home,” so I was appalled when I realized that my own humble effort ended with that word. I could not escape it; no other word would do. I was stuck with it, as had so been so many others. I thought it beautifully conjured up the happy couple walking hand in hand into the sunset. Again, I blush in revealing that this was the inevitable course taken by my tale.

Life is cliché. Is there nothing new under the setting sun?