As with last week, just in case anyone is following along, I did a quick post about the Ulysses audio book (Episodes 13-15).
I’m delighted that I’m picking up so many details that I missed the first time though. Although I’m not sure if it really changes my opinion of the book, it shows that there were even more carefully thought out details than I first realized.
It’s here.
Hi Ulyssesians. I know the read is technically over, but after finishing the book, I wanted to give it a go on audio book. I’m about half way done with the disc set. You can see my post about it here.
Hello all. It’s Paul from Moby Dick. I would have loved to be posting here for Ulysses, but I assumed my work load would be too crazy for the summer, so I deferred). But since I had the Zombies spotlight, I couldn’t give up without saying a few things here.
I’ve been wanting to comment on everyone’s posts thus far, but I have in fact been quite busy. So, I’m incorporating some thoughts here (the rest of this is crossposted on my site too), and I hope to go back and re-read what everyone else has said too.
Begin crosspost:
This is my third time reading Ulysses. The first time I was a freshman or sophomore in college and I signed up for a James Joyce class because, get this, the Canadian band Triumph had released a CD called Thunder 7 which was supposedly based on the 100-letter words in Joyce’s Finnegans Wake(which I had bought and found impenetrable). Our teacher was intense and tried to scare everyone off (which worked for some, but not me). The class was hard (first asignment : read The Odyssey over the weekend for a quiz on Monday). I enjoyed Dubliners and Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man, but I thought Ulysses was pretty daunting.
I read it again when I re-took the class with the same teacher (not for credit this time, but because I wanted to, imagine that). And that time I learned to really appreciate what Ulysses had going on for it. I was also inspired by it to try and write challenging fiction, paying careful attention to every single word, and even possibly using different writing styles in the same book. (The world appreciates that that never panned out).
But so the careful attention thing: Joyce spent seven years working onUlysses. Every single word was charged with meaning. He even made up his own words. And it’s very apparent that he was the inspiration for countless modern authors (for beter or worse).
I’m excited to pick the book up again. In part, because it was ranked number 1 on the MLA list of books, but also because for twenty-some years I’ve felt the book was fantastic. And I wanted to see if I would enjoy it without guided instruction.
I was curious about which edition to read. Since my class, when there was only really one edition available, many many editions have been published. There’s a great discussion about this at Infinite Zombies, and I considered getting the third one Judd mentions. But when I consulted with my old professor, he said the Gabler edition is still the best, so I went with that one. And that edition is littered with all the notes I took from class and from the supplemental resources.
I decided not to read the supplemental resources this time (although I can;t help but look at my notes), to see what I can get from the story AS A STORY.
I remember a bunch from the class, but one thing that I distinctly remember is that to get everything out of Ulysses, you need to understand Catholicism (the mass in particular), The Odyssey, European history–especially Irish history, and popular Irish culture circa 1920. It also helps to know Latin. And these are all things that Joyce would have known and his audience probably would have known. Every year we move away from its publication, means we know less about what he was writing about. But that’s all the little details and jokes and blashpehmies. I wanted to see (with some background, which certainly gives me an advantage) if I could enjoy the story without all the help.
My proper post begins at my site. Click here for more. And thanks for reading.
I had originally planned to call this “Death and All His Friends” which seemed so clever and eerily appropriate. And then I realized it was the title of a Coldplay album and decided that all my street cred would be lost (even though I do like the disc).
I was also considering talking about omens in the book, but that has been well covered by Daryl (I do have some specific omens in this post). And finally I considered revisiting religion since Ahab has the audacity to baptize his harpoon in Satan’s name (and there’s a Starbuck as Jesus motif going on). But really what could be more right than death?
I had noticed throughout the book that there was very little death (except for the whales of course). This is despite the opening scene in the church with all of the grave markers and Ishmael slowly reading them all. In fact, despite Pip’s falling over and Queequeg’s “fatal illness” no one had died at all aboard the Pequod.
Then in this final week’s reading–which was really fantastic. I can’t get over how gripped I was by the build up and the whole chase sequence–death starts to poke its head out of the waters.
The first death is very cryptic, and possibly not even real (?). In Chapter 126 (The Life-Buoy) we learn of one of the crew (who, strangely, remains unnamed) who fell overboard:
At sun-rise this man went from his hammock to his mast-head at the fore…he had not been long at his perch, when a cry was heard – a cry and a rushing – and looking up, they saw a falling phantom in the air; and looking down, a little tossed heap of white bubbles in the blue of the sea.
The life-buoy – a long slender cask – was dropped from the stern, where it always hung obedient to a cunning spring; but no hand rose to seize it…and the studded iron- bound cask followed the sailor to the bottom.
And thus the first man of the Pequod that mounted the mast to look out for the White Whale, on the White Whale’s own peculiar ground; that man was swallowed up in the deep (516).
And from that anonymous death, things really escalate.
Of course, there is the obvious omen (I couldn’t resist) of using a coffin as a life-buoy, but the very next encounter is with The Rachel. Unlike all of the other ships that the Pequod has encountered (all with varying degrees of success) none has suffered a fate as wrenching as this one: the captain’s own 12-year-old boy is lost at sea, and he had to choose his other son’s life over this one. And the Rachel has been looking for him (and his boat) for a day already…it’s hopeless. That whole boat’s crew is dead.
This visit is followed by a visit from The Delight. The Delight has encountered the White Whale and has suffered terribly for it
“I bury but one of five stout men, who were alive only yesterday; but were dead ere night. Only that one I bury; the rest were buried before they died; you sail upon their tomb” (532).
As ships near the white whale, death cannot be far. (In fact the most successful ship, the Bachelor–which was laden with sperm–didn’t even think the White Whale was real). Then, just to rub it in a little, as the Pequod sails away from The Delight, she is
not quick enough to escape the sound of the splash that the corpse soon made as it struck the sea; not so quick, indeed, but that some of the flying bubbles might have sprinkled her hull with their ghostly baptism (532).
Given this portent, and the seeming snowball of deaths, the actual Pequod deaths do not come fast and furious. On the first day of the chase, everyone is spared. On the second day of the chase, only Fedallah is killed [must…not…mention…prophecies]. This wounds Ahab terribly, but he manages to press on.
Of course, on that third day everyone dies, so I guess the trickle became a gusher. But it’s fascinating to see how delicately Melville handles this mass death. Even in that last scene when the Pequod sinks, only a few crewmen are mentioned by name–and Tashtego is still engaged in an activity when the boat goes down: “Tashtego’s mast-head hammer remained suspended in his hand” (563). No one is said to suffer (Pip suffered far more on the page during his ordeals), and it ends very quickly.
What I found most interesting is that as a reader, I was picking up on all of the omens, the prophecies, the greater and greater deaths, and yet, like Ahab I read nothing into them. I was sure that the ending…well, what? I didn’t think it could be a happy ending (whatever that might mean), I wasn’t even sure if I thought Ahab would be victorious (I wasn’t holding my breath for him). And yet, I never imagined that the whole ship would sink.
And even though this ending happens remarkably quickly (the ending scene is the last three pages of a 469 page book (the Norton edition)), it doesn’t feel like what my friends and I have called The Star Trek ending–[Five minutes till the end of the show, Captain, shall we release the dilithium crystal and huzzah!–we’re all safe (I like Star Trek (especially TNG) but it’s funny how many of their shows end like this)]. Obviously, Moby Dick doesn’t have that ending because in everyone dies, but what I mean is, the ending feels like a natural, almost inevitable end. I was shocked–completely shocked–when I read that everyone died. And yet in retrospect it is the only reasonable outcome.
I am still really surprised that Queequeg dies. I realize there’s no way to save him and have it be believable, but still. It’s also weird how little is made of Queequeg going down too. [Can you imagine is he somehow managed to get Ishmael and Queequeg rescued on the coffin together–it’s sequel city baby!].
I mentioned in my other post how beautiful I think the Epilogue is, and I will do so here as well. It’s tidy and elegant and unlike many epilogues which sort of tidy up loose threads a little too neatly, this one pulls together various ideas (the coffin, The Rachel) and uses them to give Ishmael a fully believable rescue.
When you reach the end, you realize that this story is something of a eulogy; a whale tale told to someone about the death of his shipmates. This gives the entire book an angle that didn’t exist before. Were I the kind of person who did this sort of thing (I’m not) I would re-read the book with this new information in mind to try to see if the book reads differently knowing the outcome.
I am really very pleased for having read this book. And I’ve more than very pleased to have been able to write these posts here. I hope they’ve been interesting. Thanks for reading.
I’m reading the Norton Critical Edition of Moby-Dick. The edition includes the occasional footnote (and I’m pleased to say very occasional, I didn’t want to get too bogged down in the footers here) which has explained some of the more esoteric words that Melville used. (These are not the footnotes that Melville has included, although those are here too).
What struck me particularly this week was the euphemisms that Melville/Ishmael uses. It’s especially funny given how gruesomely explicit he is about so much of the whale. But I guess even back in 1851 some bodily functions were more acceptable than others.
Someone told me that they hadn’t read Moby-Dick, but they knew it was all subtext about sex anyhow. On my post from last week, Daryl and I were having a discussion about the not-so-subtle sexual speak in Chapter 78 (Cistern and Buckets) when: “Towards the end, Tashtego has to ram his long pole harder and harder, and deeper and deeper into the Tun” (340). But, unless Melville decided that he could write a sex story because of a double entendre about sperm (which I don’t think for a second), I don’t see a lot of sex in the book. Perhaps they were exaggerating.
But back to language.
Melville himself addresses one issue of word usage in Chapter 87 (The Grand Armada) in his footnote. Ishmael says that when whales reach a certain sense of inertia, they are gallied.
To gally, or gallow, is to frighten excessively – to confound with fright. It is an old Saxon word. It occurs once in Shakespeare: – “The wrathful skies Gallow the very wanderers of the dark And make them keep their caves.” To common language, the word is now completely obsolete. When the polite landsman first hears it from the gaunt Nantucketer, he is apt to set it down as one of the whaleman’s self-derived savageries. Much the same is it with many other sinewy Saxonisms of this sort, which emigrated to New-England rocks with the noble brawn of the old English emigrants in the time of the Commonwealth. Thus, some of the best and furthest-descended English words – the etymological Howards and Percys – are now democratised, nay, plebeianised – so to speak – in the New World (389).
While this isn’t set out as a Melville manifesto to use obscure words or anything, it is interesting that Melville does use words that are in common discourse (we already saw Melville define Gam (in the body of the text) in Chapter 53 (The Gam):
GAM. Noun – A social meeting of two (or more) Whale-ships, generally on a cruising- ground; when, after exchanging hails, they exchange visits by boats’ crews: the two captains remaining, for the time, on board of one ship, and the two chief mates on the other (239).
But these are the two major definitions that Melville supplies. The other words that I enjoyed were thrown into the text with little fanfare. Some words were probably in common usage in 1851, and are out of favor now. Mr. Norton Critical saw fit to footnote a few in this week’s reading though, and they prove to be scandalous!
The first one comes in Chapter 88 (Schools and Schoolmasters). Ishmael says that the male whale in “charge” of a harem is called a “schoolmaster”
His title, schoolmaster, would very naturally seem derived from the name bestowed upon the harem itself, but some have surmised that the man who first thus entitled this sort of Ottoman whale, must have read the memoirs of Vidocq, and informed himself what sort of a country-schoolmaster* that famous Frenchman was in his younger days, and what was the nature of those occult lessons he inculcated into some of his pupils (392).
* My edition lists this country-schoolmaster note as: “The sort who would seduce the young girls in his charge” (330, Norton). [Naughty!] This of course, references the other of Melville’s own notes from Chapter 87:
The Sperm Whale, as with all other species of the Leviathan, but unlike most other fish, breeds indifferently at all seasons (389).
But it’s not all sex in this week’s readings, there’s also fouler stuff. This particular sentence was so euphemistic, that without the note, I would have never guessed its true intent:
Stubb was struck by a shower of outcries and anathemas proceeding from the Captain’s round-house abaft; and looking in that direction saw a fiery face thrust from behind the door, which was held ajar from within. This was the tormented surgeon, who, after in vain remonstrating against the proceedings of the day, had betaken himself to the Captain’s round-house (cabinet he called it) to avoid the pest; but still, could not help yelling out his entreaties and indignations at times (403).
It’s not even just the strange terms (round-house & cabinet) that are confounding, it’s the whole context. We know that they are talking about the horrible smell of the dead whale. But the exclamations and indignations do nothing to reveal this rather simple note:
*The Captain’s privy. As Bernard Mosher explains, the surgeon prefers the odor of the “cabinet” to that of the blasted whale (339, Norton). [Ew!]
Moving on to more of this substance, Chapter 92 (Ambergris) has two footnotes. The first one is totally obvious from context, but I have to wonder if the item in question was so very common at the time.
How to cure such a dyspepsia it were hard to say, unless by administering three or four boat loads of Brandreth’s pills*, and then running out of harm’s way, as laborers do in blasting rocks (407).
Norton notes: *a laxative (343, Norton). But it’s pretty funny even if you don’t recognize the brand name.
A Google search turns up this charming poster for a Brandreth item. Heh, there’s also an article from April 1, 1860 in The New York Times, entitled, “Brandreth’s Pills are Excellent Purgative.”
Speaking of this, we get this amusing line about the origins of perfume:
And likewise call to mind that saying of Paracelsus about what it is* that maketh the best musk (407).
Norton: * “What it is” is excrement (343, Norton).
Paracelsus does have quite a bit to say about musk, by the way. In The Hermetic and Alchemical Writings of Paracelsus by Arthur Edward Waite, musk comes up 11 times! The most relevant would be: “Hence it happens that occasionally some of the excrement is mingled with the musk, because this penetrates more readily than any lily with all its operations” (61).
Moving beyond excrement, the most wonderful euphemism of the bunch calls back to Chapter 3, when Ishamel tries on Queequeg’s “poncho.” Ishamel says: I went up in it to a bit of glass stuck against the wall, and I never saw such a sight in my life. I tore myself out of it in such a hurry that I gave myself a kink in the neck (20). In Chapter 95 (The Cassock), the whole chapter is about the whale’s penis, but it is never explicitly stated at all. What you get is (and it’s hard to know where to stop this quote, so many ramifications are there:
Had you stepped on board the Pequod at a certain juncture of this post-mortemizing of the whale; and had you strolled forward nigh the windlass, pretty sure am I that you would have scanned with no small curiosity a very strange, enigmatical object, which you would have seen there, lying along lengthwise in the lee scuppers. Not the wondrous cistern in the whale’s huge head; not the prodigy of his unhinged lower jaw; not the miracle of his symmetrical tail; none of these would so surprise you, as half a glimpse of that unaccountable cone, – longer than a Kentuckian is tall, nigh a foot in diameter at the base, and jet-black as Yojo, the ebony idol of Queequeg. And an idol, indeed, it is; or, rather, in old times, its likeness was (417).
Norton very simply footnotes the word object as: the whale’s penis (350, Norton). But what I really enjoyed was the second footnote added to this section. As Ishmael explains that the mincer then wears the skin of the penis as a kind of poncho so as to make the sheets for the Bible, he comments: “What a candidate for archbishoprick” (418). Norton notes: “The unusual archaic spelling with final K emphasizes the phallic pun” (351, Norton). And that is hilarious. Who even knew it was ever spelled archbishopric?
I’m making a special note about the reference to Kentucky: “longer than a Kentuckian is tall.” This is the first of two mentions of Kentuckians and their height. This one seems to suggest that Kentuckians are tall (right?). The second comes in Chapter 105 (Does the Whale’s Magnitude Diminish?–Will He Perish?), which implies that Kentuckians are small (right?):
“Because I cannot understand how it is, that while the Egyptian mummies that were buried thousands of years before even Pliny was born, do not measure so much in their coffins as a modern Kentuckian in his socks” (456).
I knew that Melville was from New York, but I can find nothing (with minimal research of course) that ties him to Kentucky. Was there some kind of common knowledge (or joke) about the height of Kentuckians? And what on earth would British readers have made of that?
The final joke that I wanted to mention is disgusting, but not bodily. It comes in Chapter 101 (The Decanter). It’s kind of a throwaway line (as all the best jokes are), especially as it comes in a lengthy discussion of the ship’s provisions. He notes:
in short, the bread contained the only fresh fare they had (442).
Which Norton notes: “the fresh fare was maggots or weevils” (370, Norton).
As with most of the lines, it seems like such an obscure little joke that I have to wonder how many people were even meant to get it. And yet, for those in the know, this is an amusing (if disgusting) moment in an otherwise dry Chapter.
I’m not going to go on record saying that Moby-Dick is a hilarious book or anything like that. But I keep finding that careful reading (and a little assistance) really highlights some funny word play, comic vignettes and, in this case, gross-out humor.
I’m intrigued by all of the innuendo that these quotes contain. The jokes are subtle at best, obscure most of the time, and almost totally hidden at worst. I honestly don’t know what readers knew in 1851. I don’t know if these were obscure jokes for readers back then. Or indeed if these were really obvious jokes for everyone but we 21st century readers. In a text that is pretty dry most of the time, these little jokes really lighten the mood.
This post is a sort of prelude to what I assume is the all-action finale!
I keep returning to Matt’s question of who is the main character of this book. While I won’t suggest that it is Queequeg, he is rapidly shaping up to be the hero of the book.
But, like with the near-invisible Ahab, we haven’t seen much of Queequeg recently.
He doesn’t appear at all from Chapter 49 (The Hyena) until Chapter 61 (Stubb Kills a Whale) where he gets two lines. The first is a bit of wisdom about the squid: “‘When you see him ‘quid’, said the savage, honing his harpoon in the bow of his hoisted boat, ‘then you quick see him ‘parm whale.'” (281). And a nonsensical cheer: “‘Ka-la! Koo-loo!'” howled Queequeg, as if smacking his lips over a mouthful of Grenadier’s steak” (284).
And in Chapter 66 (The Shark Massacre) he almost gets his hand bitten off, but in an offhanded sort of way.
So aside from those two brief, inconsequential mentions, Queequeg is out of the action from Chapter 49 to Chapter 72. (Thanks Moby Diction! for making that easy to discover.)
It’s obvious that Queequeg is comic relief in the story. In the early chapters, his foreignness is played up for comic relief: his reaction to Ahab Ishmael in his bed (including waking up with his arm around him); getting dressed under the bed (!); spearing food with his harpoon; even his little idol Yojo is seen as a comical thing.
Sure, Ishmael befriends him and even respects him: “Queequeg was George Washington cannibalistically developed” (49), and he’s even impressed by his lineage: “There was excellent blood in his veins – royal stuff” (54). But most of his scenes to this point have been pure comedy.
But just as we’ve gotten used to Queequeg being formidable and comical, he suddenly becomes heroic. When the very man that mocks him on the boat is knocked overboard by the boom. Queequeg wastes no time in tying a rope to the boom, jumping in tho the water and rescuing the very man who mimicked him. But little is made of it, especially by Queequeg:
Was there ever such unconsciousness? He did not seem to think that he at all deserved a medal from the Humane and Magnanimous Societies. He only asked for water – fresh water – something to wipe the brine off (61).
And then it’s back to comic relief with the insanity of the Ramadan scene. And soon after, we see him sitting on the unconscious Starbuck. And of course, there are jokes about him being a cannibal and his ferocious appetite when the harpooners go down to feast: “Queequeg, he had a mortal, barbaric smack of the lip in eating – an ugly sound enough – so much so, that the trembling Dough-Boy almost looked to see whether any marks of teeth lurked in his own lean arms.” (149).
But then, when the action recommences, Queequeg is right there. When they spot their first whale it is Queequeg who throws the first harpoon (missing, sadly). But he is essential to the chase.
Then we get the zany scene from this week’s reading. Queequeg balances on a whale like a log roller while tied to Ishmael with the monkey rope.
The whale be it observed, lies almost entirely submerged, excepting the immediate parts operated upon. So down there, some ten feet below the level of the deck, the poor harpooneer flounders about, half on the whale and half in the water, as the vast mass revolves like a tread-mill beneath him. On the occasion in question. Queequeg figured in the Highland costume – a shirt and socks – in which to my eyes, at least, he appeared to uncommon advantage (317).
This is all in aid of stripping the skin and blubber off the whale. Despite this comic scene, Queequeg is risking his life (sharks are all around him) for the good of the boat. And then, Ishmael underscores the scene with sentiment: “Queequeg was my own inseparable twin brother” (317).
But then Queequeg proves himself once again. In Chapter 78 (Cistern and Buckets), Tashtego falls into the whale’s head (ew) and which then falls into the water. And, mirroring the earlier scene: “The next, a loud splash announced that my brave Queequeg had dived to the rescue….and soon after, Queequeg was seen boldly striking out with one hand, and with the other clutching the long hair of the Indian” (341).
I don’t want to get too ponderous about this, but there is even the sense, in Queequeg’s recounting of the story that Queeuqeg not only saved Tashtego but gives him a new life:
And thus, through the courage and great skill in obstetrics of Queequeg, the deliverance, or rather, delivery of Tashtego, was successfully accomplished (342).
In all that I have heard about Moby Dick, I don’t know what happens to Queequeg. But thus far in the book, while others may have proven themselves in different ways, Queequeg is unquestionably the most heroic and selfless. And, since my first post was about religion, I’m willing to say that with these attributes, Queequeg is proving to be the most Christian.
Of course, I’m not sure where Melville is going with that exactly.
I’m now very curious to see how the Queequeg story gets wrapped up.
This week’s reading made me think a lot about Others.
The first chapter (The Whiteness of the Whale) sets up some very broad (and, yes, some offensive) dichotomies: “though this pre-eminence in it applies to the human race itself, giving the white man ideal mastership over every dusky tribe” (185). And yet, it also sets the tone for dealing with Others.
It seems like this section of the book shows more encounters with Others than any area of the book (aside from the opening scenes, of course). And in this section we learn how to deal with Others. In fact, the entire chapter The Gam discusses the protocol for when two ships encounter each other. He even defines this alien word for us:
GAM. Noun – A social meeting of two (or more) Whale-ships, generally on a cruising- ground; when, after exchanging hails, they exchange visits by boats’ crews: the two captains remaining, for the time, on board of one ship, and the two chief mates on the other (239).
And he uses a wonderful metaphor for us lubbers.
If two strangers crossing the Pine Barrens in New York State, or the equally desolate Salisbury Plain in England; if casually encountering each other in such inhospitable wilds, these twain, for the life of them, cannot well avoid a mutual salutation; and stopping for a moment to interchange the news; and, perhaps, sitting down for a while and resting in concert: then, how much more natural that upon the illimitable Pine Barrens and Salisbury Plains of the sea, two whaling vessels descrying each other at the ends of the earth… should not only interchange hails, but come into still closer, more friendly and sociable contact (237).
In fact, even ships from different countries welcome each other provided they can communicate:
Nor would difference of country make any very essential difference; that is, so long as both parties speak one language, as is the case with Americans and English. (237).
Of course, according to Ishmael, it is the whalers who are the sociable ones; that other ships are somewhat less gregarious:
So, then, we see that of all ships separately sailing the sea, the whalers have most reason to be sociable – and they are so. Whereas, some merchant ships crossing each other’s wake in the mid-Atlantic, will oftentimes pass on without so much as a single word of recognition, mutually cutting each other on the high seas, like a brace of dandies in Broadway; and all the time indulging, perhaps, in finical criticism upon each other’s rig. As for Men-of-War, when they chance to meet at sea, they first go through such a string of silly bowings and scrapings, such a ducking of ensigns, that there does not seem to be much right-down hearty good-will and brotherly love about it at all. As touching Slave-ships meeting, why, they are in such a prodigious hurry, they run away from each other as soon as possible. And as for Pirates, when they chance to cross each other’s cross-bones, the first hail is – “How many skulls?” – the same way that whalers hail – “How many barrels?” And that question once answered, pirates straightway steer apart, for they are infernal villains on both sides, and don’t like to see overmuch of each other’s villanous likenesses. (238).
Given this basis, we then see that Ahab himself acts unlike other whalers. His desire on this trip is only for information about the white whale. Ahab
cared not to consort, even for five minutes, with any stranger captain, except he could contribute some of that information he so absorbingly sought (237).
This becomes most evident with The Goney. When the Pequod comes across the Goney, Ahab shouts, “Ship ahoy! Have ye seen the White Whale?” (235). Atmospheric conditions prevent any reasonable communication, but without any news of the Whale, Ahab is unwilling to pursue the matter much further.
Contrast this with The Town-Ho. They have news about the White Whale and so, “in the short gam that ensued she gave us strong news of Moby Dick” (241). Of course, this leads to a very lengthy story (which Ahab is not privy to) about a mutiny on board (and the death by Moby Dick of one of the men involved in a scuffle). We aren’t told just how long the gam lasts (although it is “short”), but during it a very lengthy story is related.
Interestingly though, Otherness does not seem to apply to race specifically. The crew is a motley assortment of men from all nations. And aside from casual comments, there appears to be nothing but trust among all of the men. The only sign of negative racial categorization comes when Fedallah and his men, who the crew had not met and were deemed stowaways, finally come aboard: “Now the advent of these outlandish strangers at such a critical instant as the lowering of the boats from the deck, this had not unreasonably awakened a sort of superstitious amazement in some of the ship’s company” (218).
But it’s clear contextually that the outrage is more about the fact that they are not known to the crew (and clearly had not participated in any of the workload–not that they are of a different race. Although there is some concern that they are from “a race notorious for a certain diabolism of subtilty, and by some honest white mariners supposed to be the paid spies and secret confidential agents on the water of the devil, their lord, whose counting-room they suppose to be elsewhere” (215).
And yet, as we saw with Queequeg the cannibal acceptance is not hard to gain if you prove yourself worthy of it: “the subordinate phantoms soon found their place among the crew, though still as it were somehow distinct from them” (229).
The only one who doesn’t fit is Fedallah: “that hair-turbaned Fedallah remained a muffled mystery to the last” (229). [Of course, what exactly he means by hair-turbaned is still something of a mystery. He’s described that way initially: “crowning his ebonness was a glistening white plaited turban, the living hair braided and coiled round and round upon his head” (215). The crew’s disapproval of Fedallah seems to be his absolute Otherness. Not just a different race or even a different ship, he seems to be a different species:
He was such a creature as civilized, domestic people in the temperate zone only see in their dreams…when the memory of the first man was a distinct recollection, and all men his descendants, unknowing whence he came, eyed each other as real phantoms…[when] the angels indeed consorted with the daughters of men, the devils also, add the uncanonical Rabbins, indulged in mundane amours. (230)
Will he ever be embraced by the crew? Is that even a concern of the book? Or will his Otherness prove too insurmountable.
The book so far gives plenty of evidence that racism was alive and well, even if only because of a profound lack of understanding among people. And yet, once the whalers head out to sea, Otherness seems to slip away altogether, provided you have joined the crew (or any crew) under proper circumstances. I have to wonder if this all-inclusiveness was seen as shocking to 19th-century readers.
One of the more interesting aspects of the book so far is how little we have seen of Captain Ahab. Last week, Matt asked “Who is the main character of Moby-Dick? Is it Ishmael, Ahab, or the whale?” It’s a question I’ve never really considered before. I mean, the sort of easy summary of the book is “Ahab chases whale” and yet clearly the story is Ishmael’s. And, since I haven’t finished the book yet, it’s hard to say who the main character is.
Now, at this point it would be foolish to discount Ahab’ role in the story, for we haven’t gotten even half way through yet. However, we’ve seen barely anything of this fearsome Captain thus far. But even if he isn’t the main character (to be determined), his role in the story is pretty essential, so what gives with the lack of the Captain?
I think that Melville is deliberately building tension about Ahab. After 100 or so pages, we’re pretty invested in Ishmael. His tone is one of a friend, a fellow traveler whom we might meet and who would tell us this story (including wanting us to be completely filled in on every detail of the trip. And so, Melville uses a kind of slow reveal, keeping the Captain under wraps with just a few glimpses and portents about the man.
I may have gotten a bit carried away with some of the longer quotes (apologies), but after not seeing the man for a quarter of the book, getting this much detail is pretty powerful.
At first he is mentioned almost fearfully; Ishmael says he normally wouldn’t sail on a vessel without meeting its captain (sound advice, I would think). And, of course, Ishmael is told that the Captain is more or less crazy, but is recovering nicely.
But our first look of real menace about Ahab comes from Elijah (the prophet), who warns Ishmael about going on board the ship.
Even as the they set out (in a chapter called Ahab), Ishmael notes, “For several days after leaving Nantucket, nothing above hatches was seen of Captain Ahab” (119).* Our fears for him are assuaged when he reveals that it is not uncommon for the main captain to not really command the ship in the beginning of a voyage, that he’ll deal with the whale part, but the mates can run the first lengths.
And then Ahab appears, almost out of nowhere, and we get this amazing description:
He looked like a man cut away from the stake, when the fire has overrunningly wasted all the limbs without consuming them, or taking away one particle from their compacted aged robustness. His whole high, broad form, seemed made of solid bronze, and shaped in an unalterable mould, like Cellini’s cast Perseus. Threading its way out from among his grey hairs, and continuing right down one side of his tawny scorched face and neck, till it disappeared in his clothing, you saw a slender rod-like mark, lividly whitish. It resembled that perpendicular seam sometimes made in the straight, lofty trunk of a great tree, when the upper lightning tearingly darts down it, and without wrenching a single twig, peels and grooves out the bark from top to bottom, ere running off into the soil, leaving the tree still greenly alive, but branded. Whether that mark was born with him, or whether it was the scar left by some desperate wound, no one could certainly say. (120-121).
Ishmael is slowly blown away by him:
So powerfully did the whole grim aspect of Ahab affect me, and the livid brand which streaked it, that for the first few moments I hardly noted that not a little of this overbearing grimness was owing to the barbaric white leg upon which he partly stood. It had previously come to me that this ivory leg had at sea been fashioned from the polished bone of the sperm whale’s jaw. (121)
And the infamous leg:
was struck with the singular posture he maintained. Upon each side of the Pequod’s quarter deck, and pretty close to the mizen shrouds, there was an auger hole, bored about half an inch or so, into the plank. His bone leg steadied in that hole; one arm elevated, and holding by a shroud; Captain Ahab stood erect, looking straight out beyond the ship’s ever-pitching prow (121).
But still he does not say a word:
Not a word he spoke; nor did his officers say aught to him; though by all their minutest gestures and expressions, they plainly showed the uneasy, if not painful, consciousness of being under a troubled master-eye (122).
Now that’s an entrance. And yet, despite all of this, we still don’t know anything about him. He’s barely spoken, he just seems to have an air of menace.
From this point, we get little snippets of Ahab. For the most part he is still silent, until he has an incident with Stubb:
Stubb, the odd second mate, came up from below, and with a certain unassured, deprecating humorousness, hinted that if Captain Ahab was pleased to walk the planks, then, no one could say nay; but there might be some way of muffling the noise; hinting something indistinctly and hesitatingly about a globe of tow, and the insertion into it, of the ivory heel. Ah! Stubb, thou did’st not know Ahab then.
“Am I a cannon-ball, Stubb,” said Ahab, “that thou wouldst wad me that fashion? But go thy ways; I had forgot. Below to thy nightly grave; where such as ye sleep between shrouds, to use ye to the filling one at last. – Down, dog, and kennel!”
Starting at the unforeseen concluding exclamation of the so suddenly scornful old man, Stubb was speechless a moment; then said excitedly, “I am not used to be spoken to that way, sir; I do but less than half like it, sir.”
“Avast!” gritted Ahab between his set teeth, and violently moving away, as if to avoid some passionate temptation.
“No, sir; not yet,” said Stubb, emboldened, “I will not tamely be called a dog, sir.”
“Then be called ten times a donkey, and a mule, and an ass, and begone, or I’ll clear the world of thee!”
As he said this, Ahab advanced upon him with such overbearing terrors in his aspect, that Stubb involuntarily retreated. (124).
But that scenes ends quietly, and we soon see the Captain and his three mates sitting down at to a civil, albeit quiet meal. But all of this silence, all of this trepidation can only lead to some kind of outburst. As if Ahab’s clomping around the deck of the ship (with his more and more insisting pacing) were some kind of anticipatory drum roll, we see that Ahab is about to let loose.
Stubb, once again, whispers (out of Ahab’s earshot this time):
“D’ye mark him, Flask?” whispered Stubb; “the chick that’s in him pecks the shell. T’will soon be out” (158).
Shortly afterward Ahab comes forth, calling all of the crew to attention. He asks them a series of silly whaling questions, sort of like a good ol’ pep rally at football game. And then he flourishes a Spanish ounce of gold–“holding up a broad bright coin to the sun”– and reveals the secret point of the voyage. (159):
whosoever of ye raises me that white-headed whale, with three holes punctured in his starboard fluke – look ye, whosoever of ye raises me that same white whale, he shall have this gold ounce, my boys! (159).
Although Starbuck is hesitant, Ahab quickly produces a hot, hard drink and all parties drink heartily (a perfect bonding moment). After a few more rallying cries, Ahab ends the scene:
Drink, ye harpooneers! drink and swear, ye men that man the deathful whaleboat’s bow – Death to Moby Dick! God hunt us all, if we do not hunt Moby Dick to his death!” The long, barbed steel goblets were lifted; and to cries and maledictions against the white whale, the spirits were simultaneously quaffed down with a hiss. (164-165).
And the captain, on this high note, quietly retires to his cabin.
Before the week’s end, Ishmael muses about Moby-Dick (who is more or less making his first appearance in the book too) and about Captain Ahab. This final chapter gives a more detailed, nuanced look into the mind of Ahab (at least as Ishmael sees it). I can’t decide if it’s entirely necessary (as it comes across as a lot of “telling” after a pretty clear “showing” but it does go someway toward cementing Ahab’s emotional complexity.
So Melville has done a pretty masterful job of building up suspense and then unveiling his master creation. We read nearly a quarter of the book before we actually see him. And if you’re reading carefully (or it’s 1851 and you’re only slightly familiar with the story), this slow build before revealing the madman at the helm is really quite effective.
I mentioned on my home post that the book was meant to be leisurely read (not crammed in a few days before a midterm!). And, if you are prepared to sit back and let the language wash over you, the pacing for the book is really masterful, especially if you had a hint of what was to come. And there’s really something striking about all of the build up before getting to this major character.
*This week, and for future weeks, I’ll be using the page numbers at this Princeton site. Sorry for the confusion
This is my first read of Moby-Dick (and my first time posting as a Zombie). I wanted to focus on religion in the first week’s read.
I don’t know very much about Melville. I am planning to do some background work on the man, but I kind of like taking the reader-response tour of MD. Of course, I think that works as a reaction to a book, I’m just not sure how valid it is when doing critical analysis (I’ll find out soon enough).
Reader-response aside, I’ll give a quick background to myself. I am not a religious person. I was raised Catholic but have since lapsed. However, I have mixed feelings about religion: I’ve seen religious people do very good things, and yet, in general, I think it is a tool for bossing people around.
So, I’m not pushing any agenda here. I’m just noting that religion plays a major part in this book, and I’m fascinated by it.
And it starts with the Extracts.
The first five Extracts are from books in the Bible. And that might tell you something.
References abound in the text proper, too. When he admits that he will sweep a deck if a captain asks him, Ishmael notes: “What does the indignity amount to, weighed, I mean, in the scales of the New Testament? Do you think the archangel Gabriel thinks anything the less of me… (15*).
In Chapter 2 we get references to Lazarus. And in Chapter Three there’s talk of blessed Saturday and Sunday night.
But once Queequeg comes in, religion really comes to the forefront.
Queequeg is, as we know, a cannibal and a seller of New Zealand heads. And yet, he is also something of a Christian (he is seen at mass after all). And yet, he is, of course, also, a pagan, a savage.
When we first meet him, we see he is tattooed head to toe. And Ishmael thinks, “he must be some abominable savage or other shipped aboard of a whaleman in the South Sea, and so landed in this Christian country” (30).
And yet, it is more with fascination than a seemingly expected horror that he watches Queequeg unveil what he at first thinks is a “black manikin … a real baby preserved in some similar manner [to the New Zealand heads]” (30). But it turns out to be a wooden idol.
Queequeg sets out to worship by setting the idol up in the fireplace. And again, it’s Ishmael’s attitude that I find fascinating: “The chimney jambs and all the bricks inside were very sooty, so that I though this fire-place made a very appropriate little shrine or chapel for his Congo idol.” 30).
Queequeg and Ishmael have a bit of a tussle over the sleeping arrangements. The landlord calms things down. The men seem okay with each other and we get this fascinating observation from Ishmael:
“Better sleep with a sober cannibal than a drunken Christian” (31).
So, just what is going on here? There is a lot of talk about the Bible and Christians, and yet, rather than trying to convert the Savage, Ishmael not only welcomes him, but thinks he may be a better companion than some other Christians.
And then comes the famous sermon. Chapter 7 focuses on the Whaleman’s Chapel. And Queequeg is there! (in another Chapter, it is revealed that Queequeg left his home land so that he could explore Christian lands). The chapel contains plaques that memorialize dead whalers. It also contains a pulpit that is mounted via side ladder found on a ship.
Father Mapple gives a lengthy account of Jonah and the Whale. Now, I admit that I haven’t read the Jonah story in years (if I ever read the whole thing at all). So, I don’t recall any of the backstory (about running from God); I assume that’s all true, and I do figure I’ll check it out one of these days). As such, I’m not sure if he is putting his own theories into Jonah’s actions (do the other shipmates really think that he is a criminal as soon as he steps on board? I think I need to investigate that further).
This sermon (which is quoted in the extracts) is completely appropriate for the whalers. And, given the deadly pursuit, it’s not surprising that there would be many whalers in the church. And yet Ishmael writes, “But Faith, like a jackal, feeds among the tombs, and even from these dead doubts, she gathers her most vital hope” (41). Religion as a desperate man’s drink?
But to me the most surprising thing is when Queequeg invites Ishmael into his own ceremony. Ishmael ponders:
I was a good Christian; born and bred in the bosom of the infallible Presbyterian Church. How then could I unite with this wild idolator in worshipping his piece of wood?
What I liked was his very open-minded resolution:
But what is worship? thought I. Do you suppose now, Ishmael, that the magnanimous God of heaven and earth- pagans and all included- can possibly be jealous of an insignificant bit of black wood? Impossible! But what is worship?- to do the will of God? that is worship. And what is the will of God?- to do to my fellow man what I would have my fellow man to do to me- that is the will of God. Now, Queequeg is my fellow man. And what do I wish that this Queequeg would do to me? Why, unite with me in my particular Presbyterian form of worship. Consequently, I must then unite with him in his; ergo, I must turn idolator. (both 54).
Moving away from Queequeg, when we get to the Pequod, Captain Bildad (and indeed many other Nantuckers was a Quaker). My knowledge of Quakers is that the are a peaceful, entirely pacifist lot, so to get this quote was very funny:
For some of these same Quakers are the most sanguinary of all sailors and whale-hunters. They are fighting Quakers; they are Quakers with a vengeance. (71).
And of course, Bildad has been studying the Scriptures, now, for the last thirty years. “How far ye got, Bildad?” Captain Peleg wants to know (73).
The last bit of religion is Queequeg’s fast, which Ishmael calls The Ramadan. Daryl’s already answered my question about this, with the logical assertion that Ishmael is just picking Ramadan because his religion is “other.” And I think that’s fair enough. Ishmael is reasonably well versed among Christian sects, but any further afield and it’s all Hindoo and Muslim to him.
[This is actually unsurprising. When Dewey created his Decimal System (in 1876), he created a section for Religion. 200 is religion. 220 is the Bible 230 is Christian theology. 240 is Christian moral and devotional theology. 250 is Christian orders & local Church. 260 is Christian Social theology. 270 is Christian church history. 280 is Christian denomination and sects and then 290 is Other and comparative religions [294 Religions of Indian origin, 295 Zoroastrianism, 296 Judaism, 297 Islam, 299 Other].]
So Queequeg’s Ramadan is played for comic effect, certainly. And yet, the joke is not really mocking. For he and Queequeg are now fast friends. And while he fervently wishes that Queequeg would fully convert (as does Captain Peleg who demands to see Queequeg’s papers: “He must show he’s converted” (83).) he still respects Queequeg as a human being and as a harpoonist (harpooner?).`
So, what to make of Ishmael? He states matter of factly,
Now, as I before hinted, I have no objection to any person’s religion, be it what it may, so long as that person does not kill or insult any other person, because that other person don’t believe it also. But when a man’s religion becomes really frantic; when it is a positive torment to him; and, in fine, makes this earth of ours an uncomfortable inn to lodge in; then I think it high time to take that individual aside and argue the point with him (81).
And he’s also quick to comment
This is the reason why most dyspeptic religionists cherish such melancholy notions about their hereafters. In one word, Queequeg, said I, rather digressively; hell is an idea first born on an undigested apple-dumpling (82).
I don’t know that I’ll be pursuing the religious thread in future posts, but I was really fascinated by this mix of Christian attitudes and yet wholly open-minded attitudes towards non-Christians. It was quite a surprise for me.
* I am using The Norton Critical Edition for my page notes. If we decide on a standard citation, I’ll update accordingly.
Infinite Zombies 