4/11/20

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I’m going to try and write these looser pieces when I am so inclined.

We don’t need to discuss the obvious. But even before the mind-numbing onrush of March and the coronavirus catastrophe, I wasn’t reading much. My mind was on hiatus, or suffering a kind of shallowing out. It’s a thing that happens to me from time to time.

(In describing this sensation I almost unconsciously purloined, wholesale, a presiding metaphor of Cyril Connolly’s, that of the rock pool that fills and drains with the tides; it only sounded familiar to me once I had finished roughing it out, and was ready to start the refining process; and then I remembered where I had been furnished with the image to begin with.)

It happens to me from time to time: my brain becomes flat and shallow, my interface such that I can engage only superficially with things, and almost by necessity with several things at once; thus when I’m in a mood like this, I tend to watch a lot of different TV shows, play a lot of different games, start many different books in random seizures of intent that fizzle out, so that I make minor ingress into three, four, five novels, possibly never to finish any of them at all, ever, and certainly not then.

Now, however, I feel like I’m transitioning into the opposite brain-state, which I envision artlessly as a narrow channel or fissure shooting into the earth, filled with cold, dark, reaching, unsounded water. This is the mood for obsessive pursuit of single things, which is why, probably, I’ve been absolutely tear-assing through a reread of Moby Dick.

(By the way, the “obsessive pursuit” is not a conscious reference to Ahab pursuing Moby Dick; anyway the book is about, arguably more about, so much more than Ahab’s obsession; actually in this current reading I’m kind of astonished at how little Ahab there really is, and re-impressed by Ishmael, who is probably actually the best, most memorable creation in the whole book.)

I’ve written, briefly, about the way Moby Dick made me feel the first time I read it. Sometimes I worry that I don’t have much of a memory. That is, on the surface level of my mind, I can’t remember with any sort of exacting clarity much of my life; very few scenes return to me with the stage-managed clarity that we are told, or somehow otherwise come to expect, the big moments in our life should/to have.

But I remember in inalienable gravure this one night when I was reading Moby Dick, on the couch in the walkway lounge between the two honors dorms at Kent. It was late, I didn’t live in those dorms but my girlfriend at the time did, and I would loiter in the semi-public spaces of Johnson Hall while I waited for her to get back from whatever journalism things she was doing.

(I’ve always dated people who are busier than me).

Nothing prepares you for Art’s first intrusion into your life. It falls on you like a delicious curse, marking you with a savage discontent for the rest of your life. Delicious, because nothing compares to it. For some, maybe lots of people, that intrusion never comes; and to try and communicate the feeling to them is like attempting to convey the texture of your particular depression to another mind outside your own: a forlorn and hopeless task, as ungraspable as Cassiopeia.

Moby Dick wasn’t the first time that Art broke into my heart like a burglar in reverse, though. That came earlier, possibly across several closely-related instances (instances that will not be related here); but, as anyone who has had that vivifying communion with Art knows, you’re always afterwards looking for things that sensation again; and, for me at least, those Agains come seldomly, and maybe, eventually, evaporate altogether; I still get much profound pleasure from literature, but it’s not ever these days ecstatic and bright like it was those first times.

But that time when I read Moby Dick. I was probably about halfway through the book at the time, and found myself vibrating with that feeling again. In fact, if anything, it was clearer then, nearer, than it had been before; I was pinned to the couch in the lounge; I think of that night as a stormy one, not because it was actually storming out (was it?) but because reading those words on those pages, that night, was like hurtling to the rim of the cosmos to touch, barepalmed, Lightning’s livid brand. And when you’re that close to the dynamo, you know – you know – that Art and Life are somehow one and the same, or inextricably linked like two separate strands of the ancient root the gyres reality together. Life is motion with an endless craving for Art. Art is the aether that underpins every meaningful instance in Life.

Last month, I finished The Corner That Held Them by Sylvia Townsend Warner, a wonderful book that was precisely not what I needed during the mindstate I found myself in at the onset of this coronavirus pandemic. Was it too perfect? Too wise? Too…something? No, it was just itself, and, simply, not what I needed at that particular moment. Upon finishing it I picked up Moby Dick on a whim, and within a few days I knew I was reading it again For Real.

It turned my mind deep again, or corresponded to a deepening that was happening already, a pervading leaden heavy obsessiveness that is conducive to two things: swinging anxiety around my head like a flail and, evidently, reading Moby Dick at a reckless pace. At my normal rate, it would take me about a month to finish it; at my current clip I’ll have finished the whole thing in about two weeks.

“Does it hold up” seems like a deeply irrelevant question, but yes it very much does. It isn’t able to do to me now what it did to me then, but that’s no fault of the book. I’m finding it so rich, deep, and variegated, so almost inexpressibly gloriously weird. It’s the easiest book in the world for me to read, right now. I can finish thirty pages in about as many minutes.

I wonder what I’ll read next. I feel like my current horror-soaked mood wants me to gravitate towards the Big Ones, the unqualified masterpieces. I want to deeply inhabit and feel oh so small in the Big Churches of Literature. I’ve been considering Anna Karenina.

[Image: Moby Dick illustration by Rockwell Kent]

My Favorite Chapter of Moby-Dick

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Today is Herman Melville’s 200th birthday. Melville, of course, wrote Moby-Dick, which is probably the best single piece of American art ever created, and quite possibly the best novel ever written in English. In the years since I read it, nothing else has quite approached its sweep, its lambent strangeness, the bright white cosmic godlike fingers of its prose, grasping and bringing up the deep-down viscera of reality like fistfuls of fat gold coins.

I remember lots of favorite passages from books, but I don’t remember where I was when I read most of them; I do remember where I was when I read chapter 96 of Moby-Dick, “The Try-Works.” It was in Johnson Hall at KSU, on the upper floor lounge between Johnson and Stopher. The lounge had big windows looking down on the hill that slopes gently towards the edge of campus and Main Street. I wasn’t an Honors student and didn’t live in Johnson, but my then-girlfriend did, and I was waiting for her to get back from something, I don’t remember what. It was dark and when I looked up from Moby-Dick toward the windows, what I mostly saw was the reflection of the brightly-lit room behind me, laid on the glass like a silkscreen: a second, wavering, diaphanous,  not correct counterimage, interposing.

I was laying on the couch, reading Moby-Dick, mostly oblivious to the comings-and-goings of the Honors students in transit to evening plans, friends’ dorms, to their cars for weekends at home, because I was galvanized by Melville’s book in that sheer, full-body way that only happens a handful of times in your life if you’re lucky; it was like something blue and electric and lancelike was pinning me to the couch, right through a secret heart I was only dimly aware I had.

That memory might be incorrect. For sure, I read Moby-Dick in that lounge that night, but it may have been another chapter that moved me. The book is full of incomparable stuff. It’s a briny trove. But the “Try-Works” has always been my favorite chapter and that night has always been my strongest recollection of reading Moby-Dick, and these two figments have been welded together in my head for years, and it’s a memory now whether or not it ever happened exactly so.

Here’s the chapter in full, thanks to Gutenberg:

Besides her hoisted boats, an American whaler is outwardly distinguished by her try-works. She presents the curious anomaly of the most solid masonry joining with oak and hemp in constituting the completed ship. It is as if from the open field a brick-kiln were transported to her planks.

The try-works are planted between the foremast and mainmast, the most roomy part of the deck. The timbers beneath are of a peculiar strength, fitted to sustain the weight of an almost solid mass of brick and mortar, some ten feet by eight square, and five in height. The foundation does not penetrate the deck, but the masonry is firmly secured to the surface by ponderous knees of iron bracing it on all sides, and screwing it down to the timbers. On the flanks it is cased with wood, and at top completely covered by a large, sloping, battened hatchway. Removing this hatch we expose the great try-pots, two in number, and each of several barrels’ capacity. When not in use, they are kept remarkably clean. Sometimes they are polished with soapstone and sand, till they shine within like silver punch-bowls. During the night-watches some cynical old sailors will crawl into them and coil themselves away there for a nap. While employed in polishing them—one man in each pot, side by side—many confidential communications are carried on, over the iron lips. It is a place also for profound mathematical meditation. It was in the left hand try-pot of the Pequod, with the soapstone diligently circling round me, that I was first indirectly struck by the remarkable fact, that in geometry all bodies gliding along the cycloid, my soapstone for example, will descend from any point in precisely the same time.

Removing the fire-board from the front of the try-works, the bare masonry of that side is exposed, penetrated by the two iron mouths of the furnaces, directly underneath the pots. These mouths are fitted with heavy doors of iron. The intense heat of the fire is prevented from communicating itself to the deck, by means of a shallow reservoir extending under the entire inclosed surface of the works. By a tunnel inserted at the rear, this reservoir is kept replenished with water as fast as it evaporates. There are no external chimneys; they open direct from the rear wall. And here let us go back for a moment.

It was about nine o’clock at night that the Pequod’s try-works were first started on this present voyage. It belonged to Stubb to oversee the business.

“All ready there? Off hatch, then, and start her. You cook, fire the works.” This was an easy thing, for the carpenter had been thrusting his shavings into the furnace throughout the passage. Here be it said that in a whaling voyage the first fire in the try-works has to be fed for a time with wood. After that no wood is used, except as a means of quick ignition to the staple fuel. In a word, after being tried out, the crisp, shrivelled blubber, now called scraps or fritters, still contains considerable of its unctuous properties. These fritters feed the flames. Like a plethoric burning martyr, or a self-consuming misanthrope, once ignited, the whale supplies his own fuel and burns by his own body. Would that he consumed his own smoke! for his smoke is horrible to inhale, and inhale it you must, and not only that, but you must live in it for the time. It has an unspeakable, wild, Hindoo odor about it, such as may lurk in the vicinity of funereal pyres. It smells like the left wing of the day of judgment; it is an argument for the pit.

By midnight the works were in full operation. We were clear from the carcase; sail had been made; the wind was freshening; the wild ocean darkness was intense. But that darkness was licked up by the fierce flames, which at intervals forked forth from the sooty flues, and illuminated every lofty rope in the rigging, as with the famed Greek fire. The burning ship drove on, as if remorselessly commissioned to some vengeful deed. So the pitch and sulphur-freighted brigs of the bold Hydriote, Canaris, issuing from their midnight harbors, with broad sheets of flame for sails, bore down upon the Turkish frigates, and folded them in conflagrations.

The hatch, removed from the top of the works, now afforded a wide hearth in front of them. Standing on this were the Tartarean shapes of the pagan harpooneers, always the whale-ship’s stokers. With huge pronged poles they pitched hissing masses of blubber into the scalding pots, or stirred up the fires beneath, till the snaky flames darted, curling, out of the doors to catch them by the feet. The smoke rolled away in sullen heaps. To every pitch of the ship there was a pitch of the boiling oil, which seemed all eagerness to leap into their faces. Opposite the mouth of the works, on the further side of the wide wooden hearth, was the windlass. This served for a sea-sofa. Here lounged the watch, when not otherwise employed, looking into the red heat of the fire, till their eyes felt scorched in their heads. Their tawny features, now all begrimed with smoke and sweat, their matted beards, and the contrasting barbaric brilliancy of their teeth, all these were strangely revealed in the capricious emblazonings of the works. As they narrated to each other their unholy adventures, their tales of terror told in words of mirth; as their uncivilized laughter forked upwards out of them, like the flames from the furnace; as to and fro, in their front, the harpooneers wildly gesticulated with their huge pronged forks and dippers; as the wind howled on, and the sea leaped, and the ship groaned and dived, and yet steadfastly shot her red hell further and further into the blackness of the sea and the night, and scornfully champed the white bone in her mouth, and viciously spat round her on all sides; then the rushing Pequod, freighted with savages, and laden with fire, and burning a corpse, and plunging into that blackness of darkness, seemed the material counterpart of her monomaniac commander’s soul.

So seemed it to me, as I stood at her helm, and for long hours silently guided the way of this fire-ship on the sea. Wrapped, for that interval, in darkness myself, I but the better saw the redness, the madness, the ghastliness of others. The continual sight of the fiend shapes before me, capering half in smoke and half in fire, these at last begat kindred visions in my soul, so soon as I began to yield to that unaccountable drowsiness which ever would come over me at a midnight helm.

But that night, in particular, a strange (and ever since inexplicable) thing occurred to me. Starting from a brief standing sleep, I was horribly conscious of something fatally wrong. The jaw-bone tiller smote my side, which leaned against it; in my ears was the low hum of sails, just beginning to shake in the wind; I thought my eyes were open; I was half conscious of putting my fingers to the lids and mechanically stretching them still further apart. But, spite of all this, I could see no compass before me to steer by; though it seemed but a minute since I had been watching the card, by the steady binnacle lamp illuminating it. Nothing seemed before me but a jet gloom, now and then made ghastly by flashes of redness. Uppermost was the impression, that whatever swift, rushing thing I stood on was not so much bound to any haven ahead as rushing from all havens astern. A stark, bewildered feeling, as of death, came over me. Convulsively my hands grasped the tiller, but with the crazy conceit that the tiller was, somehow, in some enchanted way, inverted. My God! what is the matter with me? thought I. Lo! in my brief sleep I had turned myself about, and was fronting the ship’s stern, with my back to her prow and the compass. In an instant I faced back, just in time to prevent the vessel from flying up into the wind, and very probably capsizing her. How glad and how grateful the relief from this unnatural hallucination of the night, and the fatal contingency of being brought by the lee!

Look not too long in the face of the fire, O man! Never dream with thy hand on the helm! Turn not thy back to the compass; accept the first hint of the hitching tiller; believe not the artificial fire, when its redness makes all things look ghastly. To-morrow, in the natural sun, the skies will be bright; those who glared like devils in the forking flames, the morn will show in far other, at least gentler, relief; the glorious, golden, glad sun, the only true lamp—all others but liars!

Nevertheless the sun hides not Virginia’s Dismal Swamp, nor Rome’s accursed Campagna, nor wide Sahara, nor all the millions of miles of deserts and of griefs beneath the moon. The sun hides not the ocean, which is the dark side of this earth, and which is two thirds of this earth. So, therefore, that mortal man who hath more of joy than sorrow in him, that mortal man cannot be true—not true, or undeveloped. With books the same. The truest of all men was the Man of Sorrows, and the truest of all books is Solomon’s, and Ecclesiastes is the fine hammered steel of woe. “All is vanity.” ALL. This wilful world hath not got hold of unchristian Solomon’s wisdom yet. But he who dodges hospitals and jails, and walks fast crossing graveyards, and would rather talk of operas than hell; calls Cowper, Young, Pascal, Rousseau, poor devils all of sick men; and throughout a care-free lifetime swears by Rabelais as passing wise, and therefore jolly;—not that man is fitted to sit down on tomb-stones, and break the green damp mould with unfathomably wondrous Solomon.

But even Solomon, he says, “the man that wandereth out of the way of understanding shall remain” (i.e., even while living) “in the congregation of the dead.” Give not thyself up, then, to fire, lest it invert thee, deaden thee; as for the time it did me. There is a wisdom that is woe; but there is a woe that is madness. And there is a Catskill eagle in some souls that can alike dive down into the blackest gorges, and soar out of them again and become invisible in the sunny spaces. And even if he for ever flies within the gorge, that gorge is in the mountains; so that even in his lowest swoop the mountain eagle is still higher than other birds upon the plain, even though they soar.

If you decide to buy Moby-Dick on the strength of this post, please consider purchasing it from a local used or new bookstore, or from an independent bookstore’s online storefront.