January 6: The Spouter Inn, Color of Snow, New Kind of Rabbit

With halting steps I paced the streets, and passed the sign of "The Crossed Harpoons"- but it looked too expensive and jolly there. Further on, from the bright red windows of the "Sword-Fish Inn," there came such fervent rays, that it seemed to have melted the packed snow and ice from before the house, for everywhere else the congealed frost lay ten inches thick in a hard, asphaltic pavement,- rather weary for me, when I struck my foot against the flinty projections, because from hard, remorseless service the soles of my boots were in a most miserable plight. Too expensive and jolly, again thought I, pausing one moment to watch the broad glare in the street, and hear the sounds of the tinkling glasses within. But go on, Ishmael, said I at last; don't you hear? get away from before the door; your patched boots are stopping the way. So on I went. I now by instinct followed the streets that took me waterward, for there, doubtless, were the cheapest, if not the cheeriest inns.

Such dreary streets! blocks of blackness, not houses, on either hand, and here and there a candle, like a candle moving about in a tomb. At this hour of the night, of the last day of the week, that quarter of the town proved all but deserted. But presently I came to a smoky light proceeding from a low, wide building, the door of which stood invitingly open. It had a careless look, as if it were meant for the uses of the public; so, entering, the first thing I did was to stumble over an ash-box in the porch. Ha! thought I, ha, as the flying particles almost choked me, are these ashes from that destroyed city, Gomorrah? But "The Crossed Harpoons," and the "The Sword-Fish?"- this, then must needs be the sign of "The Trap." However, I picked myself up and hearing a loud voice within, pushed on and opened a second, interior door.

It seemed the great Black Parliament sitting in Tophet. A hundred black faces turned round in their rows to peer; and beyond, a black Angel of Doom was beating a book in a pulpit. It was a negro church; and the preacher's text was about the blackness of darkness, and the weeping and wailing and teeth-gnashing there. Ha, Ishmael, muttered I, backing out, Wretched entertainment at the sign of 'The Trap!'

Moving on, I at last came to a dim sort of light not far from the docks, and heard a forlorn creaking in the air; and looking up, saw a swinging sign over the door with a white painting upon it, faintly representing tall straight jet of misty spray, and these words underneath- "The Spouter Inn:- Peter Coffin."

Ishmael is on the search for an inn to lodge.  He's in a strange city.  Knows nobody.  He is walking by instinct, trying to find a place that seems in keeping with his situation.  His boots are worn.  He has little money.  Some of the establishments are too bright and crowded.  Others, too rundown and questionable.  Even The Trap, an African American church, fills Ishmael with a feeling of unwelcome.  And then he happens upon The Spouter Inn, run by Peter Coffin.  Whales and death in one little sign.  Like the Holy Family, Ishmael finally finds a place to stay, even if it isn't ideal or particularly amenable.

It's strange.  Ever since I started Moby-Dick six days ago, the language of my blog posts has changed.  I find myself using words like "amenable" and phrases like "in keeping with his situation."  It's as if Herman Melville's prose is seeping into mine.  That's okay, though.  I don't mind if Ishmael finds a room in my words.  I love the density of the phrases and sentences and paragraphs.

There's something very postmodern in Melville's tale, I think.  A kind of self-consciousness in Ishmael's words.  This becomes even more obvious later in the book, when Melville spends pages talking about the color white.  I'm not sure how the manuscript of Moby-Dick would fare in a graduate school fiction writing workshop, however, let alone with the contemporary publishing industry.  Melville may have had to self-publish it as an e-book.

Yet, Moby-Dick was published in 1851.  Not too much fanfare or acclaim.  Over time, it has grown in stature and importance in the American literature canon.  Dissertations are written about it.  Movies.  Television.  Even the film Jaws owes something to Melville, with the shark hunter, Quint, coming across as some modern-day Ahab on the trail of his great white shark.  It's amazing, really.

That's what happens with great works of art.  They sneak into culture in strange and non-obvious ways, just like Melville's writing style has sort of sneaked into my blog posts these last few days.  Maybe, at the end of this year, I will be writing long, digressive posts on the color of snow or the legs of snowflakes.  That's what writers do.  They steal the best things from writers they admire.  

I can say that my work has been greatly influenced by quite a few poets--Sharon Olds, Galway Kinnell, Billy Collins, Judith Minty, Robert Frost, Walt Whitman . . . I could go on for a long time.  I learn things from other writers.  Throw their tricks into my magic top hat, wave my magic wand, and, hopefully, pull out a new kind of rabbit.  One that is wholly mine.

I don't mind wandering around the dark streets with Ishmael.  Don't mind getting lost in Melville's maze of language.  There's something comforting in it, like being in a classroom with a teacher you love but not really understanding the lecture completely.  Listening to Albert Einstein speaking about time.  Stephen Hawking about black holes.  Barack Obama about civic responsibility.  Herman Melville about whaling.

Saint Marty is thankful today for great writing and great art.