June 2: A Living Opal, Books that Defy, Writing Process

"No need, gentlemen; one moment, and I proceed.- Now, gentlemen, so suddenly perceiving the snowy whale within fifty yards of the ship- forgetful of the compact among the crew- in the excitement of the moment, the Teneriffe man had instinctively and involuntarily lifted his voice for the monster, though for some little time past it had been plainly beheld from the three sullen mast-heads. All was now a phrensy. 'The White Whale- the White Whale!' was the cry from captain, mates, and harpooneers, who, undeterred by fearful rumours, were all anxious to capture so famous and precious a fish; while the dogged crew eyed askance, and with curses, the appalling beauty of the vast milky mass, that lit up by a horizontal spangling sun, shifted and glistened like a living opal in the blue morning sea. Gentlemen, a strange fatality pervades the whole career of these events, as if verily mapped out before the world itself was charted. The mutineer was the bowsman of the mate, and when fast to a fish, it was his duty to sit next him, while Radney stood up with his lance in the prow, and haul in or slacken the line, at the word of command. Moreover, when the four boats were lowered, the mate's got the start; and none howled more fiercely with delight than did Steelkilt, as he strained at his oar. After a stiff pull, their harpooneer got fast, and, spear in hand, Radney sprang to the bow. He was always a furious man, it seems, in a boat. And now his bandaged cry was, to beach him on the whale's topmost back. Nothing loath, his bowsman hauled him up and up, through a blinding foam that blent two whitenesses together; till of a sudden the boat struck as against a sunken ledge, and keeling over, spilled out the standing mate. That instant, as he fell on the whale's slippery back, the boat righted, and was dashed aside by the swell, while Radney was tossed over into the sea, on the other flank of the whale. He struck out through the spray, and, for an instant, was dimly seen through that veil, wildly seeking to remove himself from the eye of Moby Dick. But the whale rushed round in a sudden maelstrom; seized the swimmer between his jaws; and rearing high up with him, plunged headlong again, and went down.

"Meantime, at the first tap of the boat's bottom, the Lakeman had slackened the line, so as to drop astern from the whirlpool; calmly looking on, lie thought his own thoughts. But a sudden, terrific, downward jerking of the boat, quickly brought his knife to the line. He cut it; and the whale was free. But, at some distance, Moby Dick rose again, with some tatters of Radney's red woolen shirt, caught in the teeth that had destroyed him. All four boats gave chase again; but the whale eluded them, and finally wholly disappeared.

"In good time, the Town-Ho reached her port- a savage, solitary place- where no civilized creature resided. There, headed by the Lakeman, all but five or six of the foremastmen deliberately deserted among the palms; eventually, as it turned out, seizing a large double war-canoe of the savages, and setting sail for some other harbor.

"The ship's company being reduced to but a handful, the captain called upon the Islanders to assist him in the laborious business of heaving down the ship to stop the leak. But to such unresting vigilance over their dangerous allies was this small band of whites necessitated, both by night and by day, and so extreme was the hard work they underwent, that upon the vessel being ready again for sea, they were in such a weakened condition that the captain durst not put off with them in so heavy a vessel. After taking counsel with his officers, he anchored the ship as far off shore as possible; loaded and ran out his two cannon from the bows; stacked his muskets on the poop; and warning the Islanders not to approach the ship at their peril, took one man with him, and setting the sail of his best whale-boat, steered straight before the wind for Tahiti, five hundred miles distant, to procure a reinforcement to his crew.

"On the fourth day of the sail, a large canoe was descried, which seemed to have touched at a low isle of corals. He steered away from it; but the savage craft bore down on him; and soon the voice of Steelkilt hailed him to heave to, or he would run him under water. The captain presented a pistol. 

With one foot on each prow of the yoked war-canoes, the Lakeman laughed him to scorn; assuring him that if the pistol so much as clicked in the lock, he would bury him in bubbles and foam.

"'What do you want of me?' cried the captain.

"'Where are you bound? and for what are you bound?' demanded Steelkilt; 'no lies.'

"'I am bound to Tahiti for more men.'

"'Very good. Let me board you a moment- I come in peace.' With that he leaped from the canoe, swam to the boat; and climbing the gunwale, stood face to face with the captain.

"'Cross your arms, sir; throw back your head. Now, repeat after me. As soon as Steelkilt leaves me, I swear to beach this boat on yonder island, and remain there six days. If I do not, may lightning strike me!'

"'A pretty scholar,' laughed the Lakeman. 'Adios, Senor!' and leaping into the sea, he swam back to his comrades.

"Watching the boat till it was fairly beached, and drawn up to the roots of the cocoa-nut trees, Steelkilt made sail again, and in due time arrived at Tahiti, his own place of destination. There, luck befriended him; two ships were about to sail for France, and were providentially in want of precisely that number of men which the sailor headed. They embarked, and so for ever got the start of their former captain, had he been at all minded to work them legal retribution.

"Some ten days after the French ships sailed, the whale-boat arrived, and the captain was forced to enlist some of the more civilized Tahitians, who had been somewhat used to the sea. Chartering a small native schooner, he returned with them to his vessel; and finding all right there, again resumed his cruisings.

"Where Steelkilt now is, gentlemen, none know; but upon the island of Nantucket, the widow of Radney still turns to the sea which refuses to give up its dead; still in dreams sees the awful white whale that destroyed him.

"'Are you through?' said Don Sebastian, quietly.

"'I am, Don.'

"'Then I entreat you, tell me if to the best of your own convictions, this your story is in substance really true? It is so passing wonderful! Did you get it from an unquestionable source? Bear with me if I seem to press.'

"'Also bear with all of us, sir sailor; for we all join in Don Sebastian's suit,' cried the company, with exceeding interest.

"'Is there a copy of the Holy Evangelists in the Golden Inn, gentlemen?'

"'Nay,' said Don Sebastian; 'but I know a worthy priest near by, who will quickly procure one for me. I go for it; but are you well advised? this may grow too serious.'

"'Will you be so good as to bring the priest also, Don?'

"'Though there are no Auto-da-Fe's in Lima now,' said one of the company to another; 'I fear our sailor friend runs risks of the archiepiscopacy. Let us withdraw more out of the moonlight. I see no need of this.'

"'Excuse me for running after you, Don Sebastian; but may I also beg that you will be particular in procuring the largest sized Evangelists you can.'

'This is the priest, he brings you the Evangelists,' said Don Sebastian, gravely, returning with a tall and solemn figure.

"'Let me remove my hat. Now, venerable priest, further into the light, and hold the Holy Book before me that I may touch it.

"'So help me Heaven, and on my honor the story I have told ye, gentlemen, is in substance and its great items, true. I know it to be true; it happened on this ball; I trod the ship; I knew the crew; I have seen and talked with Steelkilt since the death of Radney.'"

It's the ending of Ishmael's story.  Most people live somewhat happily ever after, except for Radney.  Moby Dick takes care of him.  When you reach this point in the novel, I think Melville wants you to wonder whether Ishmael is telling a veiled version of his own story.  Perhaps, Steelkilt is Starbuck.  Maybe Radney is Ahab or another of the mates on the ship.  Notice how Ishamel phrases his vow:  ". . . the story I have to ye, gentlemen, is in substance and its great items, true. . . "  In essence, Ishmael is vowing that the story itself is true.  Names may have been changed to protect the innocent.  And guilty.

This long chapter is interesting to me because it falls smack dab in the middle of the book.  It holds all kinds of bad omens about the fate of the Pequod and its occupants.  Of course, Moby Dick has yet to appear in the flesh in the book.  The White Whale is still a phantom being chased by Ahab.  Melville is really good at building the suspense in the novel.  When Moby Dick finally appears, he's going to be a cross between a god and a demon.  A glowing Godzilla, if you will.

As I've said before, I find myself both loving and hating this book.  There are beautiful, lyrical passages that take my breath away.  And then there are pages and pages that drive me to complete and total distraction.  I can't concentrate on them.  They are tedious and slow.  They remind me that Moby-Dick is, by no means, a traditional novel in any sense of the word.

I appreciate books that defy labels and categorization.  That push the boundaries.  Some of my favorite works are mixtures of lyric poetry and narrative and theology and magical realism.  Books like The Sasquatch Hunter's Almanac and Preparing the Ghost and Mr. Ives' Christmas.  Pilgrim at Tinker Creek.  These are books that I return to over and over for inspiration when I get stuck in my own writing.

Let me tell you a little about my writing process.  When I sit down to start writing every day, I spend some time reading a writer or book that I admire.  Usually, that book/writer holds something that resonates with whatever I'm working on--essay or poem or short story.  Whatever.  I gravitate to the prose or images or tone.  It launches me into my own work.  Gets my head in the right place.

Once I have read for a little while, the tumblers in my head fall into place, and I can begin writing.  It might still be a struggle to put the words down on the page, but I know what I'm aiming for.  In a lot of ways, it's like chasing a white whale.  I find it hard to describe.  However, I know it's out there, under the waves, waiting to surface.  Some days, I see its spout momentarily and nothing else.  Other days, a fluke or back.  And then, on good days, I jump on its back and go for a long ride.

I know that doesn't make a whole lot of sense, but it's the best that I can do.  Writing is a mysterious thing to me.  It's like prayer in a way.  Sending words out into the ether, hoping they coalesce into something true and meaningful.  I always feel a little closer to God after a session of writing.  My whole body and mind hums for a while.  I hold on to times like that.  They drive me back to my pen and journal over and over.

Saint Marty is thankful today for great writing and writers.