I care not to perform this part of my task methodically; but shall be content to produce the desired impression by separate citations of items, practically or reliably known to me as a whaleman; and from these citations, I take it- the conclusion aimed at will naturally follow of itself.
First: I have personally known three instances where a whale, after receiving a harpoon, has effected a complete escape; and, after an interval (in one instance of three years), has been again struck by the same hand, and slain; when the two irons, both marked by the same private cypher, have been taken from the body. In the instance where three years intervened between the flinging of the two harpoons; and I think it may have been something more than that; the man who darted them happening, in the interval, to go in a trading ship on a voyage to Africa, went ashore there, joined a discovery party, and penetrated far into the interior, where he travelled for a period of nearly two years, often endangered by serpents, savages, tigers, poisonous miasmas, with all the other common perils incident to wandering in the heart of unknown regions. Meanwhile, the whale he had struck must also have been on its travels; no doubt it had thrice circumnavigated the globe, brushing with its flanks all the coasts of Africa; but to no purpose. This man and this whale again came together, and the one vanquished the other. I say I, myself, have known three instances similar to this; that is in two of them I saw the whales struck; and, upon the second attack, saw the two irons with the respective marks cut in them, afterwards taken from the dead fish. In the three-year instance, it so fell out that I was in the boat both times, first and last, and the last time distinctly recognized a peculiar sort of huge mole under the whale's eye, which I had observed there three years previous. I say three years, but I am pretty sure it was more than that. Here are three instances, then, which I personally know the truth of; but I have heard of many other instances from persons whose veracity in the matter there is no good ground to impeach.
Secondly: It is well known in the Sperm Whale Fishery, however ignorant the world ashore may be of it, that there have been several memorable historical instances where a particular whale in the ocean has been at distant times and places popularly cognisable. Why such a whale became thus marked was not altogether and originally owing to his bodily peculiarities as distinguished from other whales; for however peculiar in that respect any chance whale may be, they soon put an end to his peculiarities by killing him, and boiling him down into a peculiarly valuable oil. No: the reason was this: that from the fatal experiences of the fishery there hung a terrible prestige of perilousness about such a whale as there did about Rinaldo Rinaldini, insomuch that most fishermen were content to recognise him by merely touching their tarpaulins when he would be discovered lounging by them on the sea, without seeking to cultivate a more intimate acquaintance. Like some poor devils ashore that happen to known an irascible great man, they make distant unobtrusive salutations to him in the street, lest if they pursued the acquaintance further, they might receive a summary thump for their presumption.
But not only did each of these famous whales enjoy great individual celebrity- nay, you may call it an oceanwide renown; not only was he famous in life and now is immortal in forecastle stories after death, but he was admitted into all the rights, privileges, and distinctions of a name; had as much a name indeed as Cambyses or Caesar. Was it not so, O Timor Tom! thou famed leviathan, scarred like a iceberg, who so long did'st lurk in the Oriental straits of that name, whose spout was oft seen from the palmy beach of Ombay? Was it not so, O New Zealand Jack! thou terror of all cruisers that crossed their wakes in the vicinity of the Tattoo Land? Was it not so, O Morquan! King of Japan, whose lofty jet they say at times assumed the semblance of a snow-white cross against the sky? Was it not so, O Don Miguel! thou Chilian whale, marked like an old tortoise with mystic hieroglyphics upon the back! In plain prose, here are four whales as well known to the students of Cetacean History as Marius or Sylla to the classic scholar.
But this is not all. New Zealand Tom and Don Miguel, after at various times creating great havoc among the boats of different vessels, were finally gone in quest of, systematically hunted out, chased and killed by valiant whaling captains, who heaved up their anchors with that express object as much in view, as in setting out through the Narragansett Woods, Captain Butler of old had it in his mind to capture that notorious murderous savage Annawon, the headmost warrior of the Indian King Philip.
You will forgive me if I don't spend much time on Melville's words here. The chapter from which these paragraphs come is titled "The Affidavit," and it consists of personal testimony to verify the veracity of the claims Ishmael is making about the habits and biology of sperm whales. There is no scientific study to back up anything said in these paragraphs. Therefore, it falls upon the reliability of the whalers telling the stories as to whether or not the reader accepts the truths about Timor Tom and New Zealand Jack and their company..
At the moment, I live in a country where many people repeat outlandish fictions as facts because they see it in a Tweet from the President of the United States or on Facebook or Fox News. The policies of the federal government seem to be steered by these sources, which both astounds and terrifies me. Outright lies are repeated by the inhabitants of the White House so often that they come to be accepted as reality.
That is the power of narrative. A slight exaggeration becomes an anecdote. An anecdote becomes a story. Story becomes narrative. And narrative becomes the basis of governmental policy, in some cases. We human beings are conditioned to listen to stories from a very young age. Fairy tales. Aesop's fables. Willy Wonka and Charlie Bucket. Nancy Drew. When I was a kid, these characters were as real to me as Ms. Fazzalari, my first grade teacher. They were friends.
So, it doesn't surprise me when obvious fictions are taken for fact, because we WANT to believe them. We latch onto stories that validate our world views, and that goes for man or woman, Republican or Democrat, heart surgeon or cleaning lady. I think we do this because it makes us feel connected, less isolated. Human beings are social animals. We like to be part of a pack.
I am a poet. I like to be around other poets. My daughter is a dancer. She hangs with dancers. Football players with football players. English professors with English professors. It's less work to be around other people with similar backgrounds and interests. If I walked into a gym and started talking about Sharon Olds' images of the body in her poetry, I would, a best, get strange looks. At worst, I'd be asked to leave. Because Sharon Olds isn't part of the narrative of the gym.
Donald Trump happens to draw his narrative from Fox News, and it shapes his world view. I truly believe the weak-minded are easily influenced by the power of narratives. Everyone loves a good story, especially if it validates your self-image. Fox News validates Mr. Trump's self-image. He's completely at home there. It's his Neverland, and he's not being asked to grow up.
I like to think my personal narratives are based on more solid ground. Science. Philosophy. Religion. Common sense. I live in a world where humans cause climate change. Where Nazis are bad people. Where refugees and the poor are treated with compassion, respect, and love.
Saint Marty is thankful tonight for his good stories.
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