Daily Book Excerpt: Adult fiction:
Moby Dick
Reading the chapter called “The Blanket” was one of the truly profound moments of my life. I’ll never forget it. I put the book down after reading it, and lay on my bed, just thinking about my life, and my behavior, and my mistakes, and my character, and “The Blanket” just surged through me – almost showing me “the way” to live. I’ll never forget it. I remember parts of that chapter by heart. I read it often. I take out Moby Dick and read just “The Blanket”, in order to remind me, to get me back into that contemplative place of growth, and striving for self-knowledge. It also, to me, has a lot to do with forgiveness. Forgiveness of your own struggle – because we, as humans, of course, are NOT great white whales … we do NOT have a “blanket” around us at all times … but we must strive to create one. We must imitate the whale. The whale can teach us how to live, if we let it. Moby Dick is one of the few books I can think of that actually gave me some precepts on how to live. There are many books that accurately describe an experience – so much so that I forever refer back to that particular book in my mind, when such an experience comes up in my own life. The ending of Tess of the D’Urbervilles (excerpt here) has a sentence (and dammit, I can’t find it right now – I was sure it was in the last Stone Henge chapter, but I can’t find it) – and the jist of it is: that Tess has an experience of happiness and peace in that chapter, after all of her agonies – and now that she has been so beaten by life, so damaged – the happiness which comes is now so tainted with the pain that came before, that it is really the end of the road for her. My apologies to Hardy for my awkward rendering of his brilliant paragraph which I can’t find! Anyway, I have had many moments in this last rough year where I have thought of Thomas Hardy’s sentence … and it has felt true to me. When I was 25, 26, I was fit for love – meaning: optimistic, vivacious, young, a bit fearless … but I wasn’t ready. And now that I’m ready, I feel like I am no longer fit. Life has done a number on me and made me cautious, self-conscious, depressive, and fearful. If happiness came now – would my experience of it be like Tess’? I don’t know – it’s a bleak thought, and I don’t mean to get bleak before 8 in the morning … it’s just something I’ve been thinking about. How fit-ness and ready-ness often do not come at the same moment in time. And Hardy perfectly articulates that (and if I could only find the sentence … bah!!) But with “The Blanket”, Herman Melville does way way more than articulate an experience accurately: he describes to us the whale’s skin – its “blanket” that basically allows the whale to swim in the Arctic Ocean as well as the tropics … without freezing or boiling … and Melville uses the blanket as a launching-off place for a philosophical, almost spiritual rumination – and he calls out, almost in desperation, in ecstasy, to those of us who might be reading – and begs something of us. He begs us to listen, to heed, to imitate, to, above all things, go deep. It is one of those chapters that you might easily miss if you were bored with the cetology sections. But it changed my life. Not the outer aspects of my life – but the inner. I reference “The Blanket” in my mind all the time – when I am in an unfamiliar situation, feeling insecure, and like I want to flee … sometimes I’ll remind myself: “Remember what Melville said in ‘The Blanket’. Breathe … breathe …” It reminds me to keep a quiet still center for myself – even around hostile elements, or unfamiliar elements … I know who Sheila is, right? No one can take that away from me, no one can tell me who I am … but it takes work – it takes work to isolate that center, to keep it safe, to not let anyone in there who doesn’t deserve to be in there. I must strive to always be “at home”, wherever I am. Melville’s chapter is a reminder, like I said. It’s truly amazing. Soul-stirring. Reading that last paragraph of the excerpt below still has the power to bring me to tears.
Here’s an excerpt.
EXCERPT FROM Moby Dick
Assuming the blubber to be the skin of the whale; then, when this skin, as in the case of a very large Sperm Whale, will yield the bulk of one hundred barrels of oil; and, when it is considered that, in quantity, or rather weight, that oil, in its expressed state, is only three fourths, and not the entire substance of the coat; some idea may hence be had of the enormousness of that animated mass, a mere part of whose mere integument yields such a lake of liquid as that. Reckoning ten barrels to the ton, you have ten tons for the net weight of only three quarters of the stuff of the whale’s skin.
In life, the visible surface of the Sperm Whale is not the least among the many marvels he presents. Almost invariably it is all over obliquely crossed and re-crossed with numberless straight marks in thick array, something like those in the finest Italian line engravings. But these marks do not seem to be impressed upon the isinglass substance above mentioned, but seem to be seen through it, as if they were engraved upon the body itself. Nor is this all. In some instances, to the quick, observant eye, those linear marks, as in a veritable engraving, but afford the ground for far other delineations. These are hieroglyphical; that is, if you call those mysterious cyphers on the walls of pyramids hieroglyphics, then that is the proper word to use in the present connexion. By my retentive memory of the hieroglyphics upon one Sperm Whale in particular, I was much struck with a plate representing the old Indian characters chiselled on the famous hieroglyphic palisades on the banks of the Upper Mississippi. Like those mystic rocks, too, the mystic-marked whale remains undecipherable. This allusion to the Indian rocks reminds me of another thing. Besides all the other phenomena which the exterior of the Sperm Whale presents, he not seldom displays the back, and more especially his flanks, effaced in great part of the regular linear appearance, by reason of numerous rude scratches, altogether of an irregular, random aspect. I should say that those New England rocks on the sea-coast, which Agassiz imagines to bear the marks of violent scraping contact with vast floating icebergs – I should say, that those rocks must not a little resemble the Sperm Whale in this particular. It also seems to me that such scratches in the whale are probably made by hostile contact with other whales; for I have most remarked them in the large, full- grown bulls of the species.
A word or two more concerning this matter of the skin or blubber of the whale. It has already been said, that it is stript from him in long pieces, called blanket-pieces. Like most sea-terms, this one is very happy and significant. For the whale is indeed wrapt up in his blubber as in a real blanket or counterpane; or, still better, an Indian poncho slipt over his head, and skirting his extremity. It is by reason of this cosy blanketing of his body, that the whale is enabled to keep himself comfortable in all weathers, in all seas, times, and tides. What would become of a Greenland whale, say, in those shuddering, icy seas of the north, if unsupplied with his cosy surtout? True, other fish are found exceedingly brisk in those Hyperborean waters; but these, be it observed, are your cold-blooded, lungless fish, whose very bellies are refrigerators; creatures, that warm themselves under the lee of an iceberg, as a traveller in winter would bask before an inn fire; whereas, like man, the whale has lungs and warm blood. Freeze his blood, and he dies. How wonderful is it then – except after explanation – that this great monster, to whom corporeal warmth is as indispensable as it is to man; how wonderful that he should be found at home, immersed to his lips for life in those Arctic waters! where, when seamen fall overboard, they are sometimes found, months afterwards, perpendicularly frozen into the hearts of fields of ice, as a fly is found glued in amber. But more surprising is it to know, as has been proved by experiment, that the blood of a Polar whale is warmer than that of a Borneo negro in summer.
It does seem to me, that herein we see the rare virtue of a strong individual vitality, and the rare virtue of thick walls, and the rare virtue of interior spaciousness. Oh, man! admire and model thyself after the whale! Do thou, too, remain warm among ice. Do thou, too, live in this world without being of it. Be cool at the equator; keep thy blood fluid at the Pole. Like the great dome of St. Peter’s, and like the great whale, retain, O man! in all seasons a temperature of thine own.
The Books: “Self-Help” – ‘How to Be An Other Woman’ (Lorrie Moore)
Next book in my Daily Book Excerpt – on my adult fiction shelves: Self-Help by Lorrie Moore – a short story collection (her first, I believe). I’ll be excerpting from many of her stories – she’s so damn good. One…
Sheila- just to say that your blog has pushed me to read Moby Dick- and I’m finding it FASCINATING. Strange and lyrical and… really really weird… only on page 49 but your posts have been very helpful :)
no way Wren me too! I am really enjoying it. How hilarious are those early chapters when he’s waiting for Queequeg? I was like, this man is my spiritual twin in overthinking.
Haha, yes. I hadn’t guessed what a funny book it is. ‘Queequeg was George Washington cannibalistically developed.’ lmfao
I’m on chapter 27 now- really enjoying it. Herman Melville was NUTS.
Lol! I can’t tell if it’s shockingly modern in the same way that say Tom Jones feels modern or if that’s a failure of my imagination. Have you gotten to the Cetology chapter yet? That one ends in my favourite line so far: ‘Oh, Time, Strength, Cash, Patience!’ I feel ya Ishmael.
I love how he ends each Cetology chapter with some sweeping metaphor, bringing it all back to us.
It could be horribly self-conscious or pretentious or whatever – but instead it’s pure philosophy. Spiritual, I guess.
Yes, it’s tremendous! I would love that chapter solely for its taxonomy (organised, I couldn’t believe it, by book size) but to have it become a discussion of the impossibility of ever completing something to satisfaction…it’s very relevant to my life at the moment! And, I must presume, our central quest.
I feel like I’ll need a second read of it at some future point to really understand the layerings that are going on here. Or maybe understand is the wrong word. It reminds me — sigh, I’m gonna go there — of the best of Supernatural in that the layerings, the metaphors, the parallels and analogies — they work best in Supernatural when they are not direct and singular. That is, the power comes from the mess. An organised, uncontrollable, fruitful, dire swamp of meanings. I feel like aside from crackerjack language and this kind of driving sense of accounting for, Moby Dick is drawing on that same kind of power — I must resist saying out of the Deep! I cannot!
Maybe I’m thinking of this because my new favourite line is “Though in many of its aspects this visible world seems formed in love, the invisible spheres were formed in fright.” which puts me in too much thought of Dean Winchester to be comfortable.
Is Tom Jones any good?
Oh, yes! Tom Jones is great. Very funny, moving, incredible characters. And it contains one of my favourite lines about human nature in all of literature:
“Very true, mistress,” said the puppet-show man. “I don’t care what religion comes, provided the Presbyterians are not uppermost; for they are enemies to puppet-shows.”
Jessie – sorry, crazy week – took me a while to get back to this thread –
I too feel like I need to do another read.
I love your thoughts here, especially your connections to SPN – which I think is fabulous.
// they work best in Supernatural when they are not direct and singular. That is, the power comes from the mess. An organised, uncontrollable, fruitful, dire swamp of meanings. //
Absolutely agree – with the book and with SPN. I love it when SPN is messy – it’s my favorite SPN – when it lets itself meander, not answer questions – and let the mystery remain – through a close-up, a crook of the eyebrow, a pause. God, it’s so satisfying – because (as we have discussed) – it leaves so much space for US.
To project. and we’re all different so we all project different things. This, to me, is the definition of great art.
Like, you can read a dissertation telling you what the Mona Lisa means, or what Goya’s black period paintings mean – and what to think about it – but sorry. The things belongs to all of us, and letting the mind roam when confronted by it – sort of taking the leash off, allowing the connections and dovetails and disturbing undercurrents. It amazes me (and pleases me) to hear all the different reactions to SPN (and also Moby Dick – and hell, anything else).
I may not agree with whatever it is. But widely different reactions is always a fascinating sign.
// Maybe I’m thinking of this because my new favourite line is “Though in many of its aspects this visible world seems formed in love, the invisible spheres were formed in fright.” which puts me in too much thought of Dean Winchester to be comfortable. //
Tears.
Also Jessie, in re your SPN connection:
Here’s an obvious one: Moby Dick depicts a world without women. I guess all of Melville’s books do.
(Camille Paglia’s chapter on Moby Dick in her sexual personae book is pretty interesting. Her theory is that nature itself is female in the book – the vast frightening force of all life – something the men fight to control. Paglia can be nuts, but I do love the way her mind works.)
But what are men like when women are banished – not entirely (Ahab has a wife at home that he misses) – but pretty much. How do they deal with identity once that yin-yang thing has been eradicated from their reality? Can they embody both, by themselves? Is that a “whole” life?
Melville had some pretty serious gay feelings (not to mention vicious misogyny), and probably had gay relationships during those long years on whaling ships – I think it was pretty common. and Billy Budd is as homoerotic as an Abercrombie & Fitch ad. It’s practically camp, how much Melville lingers on how hot Billy Budd is.
This is all subtext, clearly – but you can feel that tension. Men were what mattered to him. and nature and death. Paglia feels “The Female” everywhere in Melville – merely by women’s total absence.
Totally nuts. And driven – because this is the only book he could write (imagine that being the case) – and nobody wanted to read it at the time, and it was a huge flop, and he died thinking he was a failure – but STILL – Moby Dick was the only book he could write.
Such a genius. We still haven’t caught up to him!
Yes! I see obsession literally everywhere in the book- in the cetology minutae and how BOTHERED he seems by the list’s incompleteness- Queequeg with his Yojo (how funny was the Ramadan chapter??)- Ahab and Moby Dick- even Stubbs and his pipe. I mean, the book opens with all the stuff about man being instinctively drawn to the sea.
And I love love love the LANDSCAPES- or seascapes. All the mist and the squalls and whatnot.
I’ve been reading it 24/7- like, I just started sixth form at a new school and already I have this reputation as a literary snob.
// I’ve been reading it 24/7- like, I just started sixth form at a new school and already I have this reputation as a literary snob. //
Wren, you are totally awesome. You are taking on that book on your own – GO YOU.
In its own bizarre way, it is a page-turner.
Wait until you get to the chapter when Pip falls overboard and isn’t picked up for a while. That, chapter – along with the chapter called “The Whiteness of the Whale” – is some of the most profound writing I have ever encountered in any novel ever.
You too?? This is so great!
// I was like, this man is my spiritual twin in overthinking. //
hahahahaha
Wren – oh my God I am so excited to hear this. You’re so cool! It’s a monster of a book to take on (or a whale of a book – so sorry) – and yes: “really really weird.” Like, who would even attempt such a book as this??
Those opening chapters. The implicit lie/prevarication in the first line. Okay, sir, we will “call you Ishmael” but … okay, so that’s not your real name, and now I am thinking about why you have changed your name. The whole book is filled with weirdness like that.
And Queequeg! In bed with Queequeg the cannibal!
Where has Queequeg goooooooone? I need more Queequeg in my life!
There’s something kinda ‘off’ about the whole thing to me… or something creepily unaccountable… maybe that comes from the fact that it was, indeed, the only book he could write. But I love it- especially the chapter The Spirit-Spout (I’m on chapter fifty-four now), with the whole thing about chasing after something that vanishes as you draw near… and Ahab. WHAT a disturbing character.
Loving the Mulder/Scully conversation in Quagmire even more now that I get the references. I really like Starbuck and Stubbs- what funny descriptions!- and Ishmael… he strikes me as such an unreliable narrator.
In bed with Queequeg! I know! And he kept describing himself as like Queequeg’s wife. Jeeesus.
I get why you like The Whiteness Of The Whale. It’s such a PSYCHOLOGICAL book in some ways- and that’s a prime example. Also, kind of disturbing.
Oooh, so you’ve gotten to The Whiteness of the Whale. I was pretty scared of that chapter – it’s death, right – mortality – the unknown.
and yeah – Scully’s poor dog!
Ishmael is totally unreliable! I mean Ishmael isn’t even his real name!
How about this weirdness: it starts out almost like a diary, Ishmael telling us about getting a gig on the boat, and meeting Queequeg, blah blah.
and then once they’re on the boat – Ishmael vanishes for chapters at a time. The narrator totally shifts. There are scenes described (like Ahab alone on deck) that Ishmael obviously didn’t witness.
I love how Melville just felt totally free to do that.
Yep- read The Blanket yesterday too, which you cited. At first I thought I was missing something, because I wasn’t seeing any particular difference from the other cetology sections- and then came the last paragraph.
I just passed the section where poor Tashtego falls into the whale head. Uuuugh. That really creeped me out. And Ishmael’s whole thing about being ‘smothered in the most delicate pearly sperm’ or something along those lines.
As for Queequeg- I am not at all a fan of animal death humour- aged 11, I found the ‘frog in a blender’ cartoon HORRIFYING- but I laughed my ass off when Queequeg went. Poor Scully!
And yeah, so weird- I get why a lot of people hate the book. I mean, clearly it does not give a damn about conforming to the demands of literature as they stood then. Which I really admire. We could do with a few more writers like that right now. I’ve read a lot- for my age- and I’ve never seen anything like this.
Joyce would have got it. And Mervyn Peake.
By the way, I LOVE Melville’s insistence on calling whales Leviathan.
Sheila, I have to ask- have you read A Clockwork Orange? It’s such a brutal book- but the way it’s written is just… like, there’s one entire page of a description of Beethoven’s Ninth and it stands out in my mind as one of the most gorgeous things I have ever read. And then there’s all this terrifying stuff about brainwashing.
Wren – yes, I’ve read it! So brutal. It’s been a long time though – I don’t remember the Beethoven’s Ninth section – will look it up when I get home.
I love any book that has to do with the pull (violent or not) of a group dynamic. It’s terrifying and seductive.
The Whale As A Dish, The Shark Massacre, Cutting In and The Blanket- what a killer set of chapters all in a row. Herman Melville seems vaguely obsessed with cannibalism. It comes up in adjective form about once every three chapters.
OK. Moby Dick has been on my reading list forever. Last month, I bought it. But now you all really make me want to read it NOW. Sharing with other people is so great! “Sheila’s bookclub”!
As soon as I finish the novel I’m reading now – which shouldn’t take long because I can’t put it down, I’m getting on board (pun intended).
// I just started sixth form at a new school and already I have this reputation as a literary snob.//
Ha! Wren, I must be twice your age, but: same here. People keep talking to each other, and I’m just this weird old person reading in the hallways. I suck at small talk anyway. Let me read, young people, we’ll have MONTHS to discover each other.
Lyrie- yes! Join the club!
// I’m just this weird old person reading in the hallways //
Haha, I’m the weird 16-year-old reading in the hallways. The power of a dead misogynist genius, uniting the generations.
It’s so strange- there’s such a trend for being ‘weird’ or ‘crazy’ these days among students- and yet when confronted of someone doing something as unordinary as /reading a book with 700 pages/, they all recoil.
Finished it last night. Holy crap, is all I have to say.