Now, in that Japanese sea, the days in summer are as freshets of effulgences. That unblinkingly vivid
Japanese sun seems the blazing focus of the glassy ocean's immeasurable burning-glass. The sky looks lacquered; clouds there are none; the horizon floats; and this nakedness of unrelieved radiance is as the insufferable splendors of God's throne. Well that Ahab's quadrant was furnished with colored glasses, through which to take sight of that solar fire. So, swinging his seated form to the roll of the ship, and with his astrological-looking instrument placed to his eye, he remained in that posture for some moments to catch the precise instant when the sun should gain its precise meridian. Meantime while his whole attention was absorbed, the Parsee was kneeling beneath him on the ship's deck, and with face thrown up like Ahab's, was eyeing the same sun with him; only the lids of his eyes half hooded their orbs, and his wild face was subdued to an earthly passionlessness. At length the desired observation was taken; and with his pencil upon his ivory leg, Ahab soon calculated what his latitude must be at that precise instant. Then falling into a moment's revery, he again looked up towards the sun and murmured to himself: "Thou seamark! thou high and mighty Pilot! thou tellest me truly where I am- but canst thou cast the least hint where I shall be? Or canst thou tell where some other thing besides me is this moment living? Where is Moby Dick? This instant thou must be eyeing him. These eyes of mine look into the very eye that is even now beholding him; aye, and into the eye that is even now equally beholding the objects on the unknown, thither side of thee, thou sun!"
Then gazing at his quadrant, and handling, one after the other, its numerous cabalistical contrivances, he pondered again, and muttered: "Foolish toy! babies' plaything of haughty Admirals, and Commodores, and Captains; the world brags of thee, of thy cunning and might; but what after all canst thou do, but tell the poor, pitiful point, where thou thyself happenest to be on this wide planet, and the hand that holds thee: no! not one jot more! Thou canst not tell where one drop of water or one grain of sand will be to-morrow noon; and yet with thy impotence thou insultest the sun! Science! Curse thee, thou vain toy; and cursed be all the things that cast man's eyes aloft to that heaven, whose live vividness but scorches him, as these old eyes are even now scorched with thy light, O sun! Level by nature to this earth's horizon are the glances of man's eyes; not shot from the crown of his head, as if God had meant him to gaze on his firmament. Curse thee, thou quadrant!" dashing it to the deck, "no longer will I guide my earthly way by thee; the level ship's compass, and the level deadreckoning, by log and by line; these shall conduct me, and show me my place on the sea. Aye," lighting from the boat to the deck, "thus I trample on thee, thou paltry thing that feebly pointest on high; thus I split and destroy thee!"
As the frantic old man thus spoke and thus trampled with his live and dead feet, a sneering triumph that seemed meant for Ahab, and a fatalistic despair that seemed meant for himself- these passed over the mute, motionless Parsee's face. Unobserved he rose and glided away; while, awestruck by the aspect of their commander, the seamen clustered together on the forecastle, till Ahab, troubledly pacing the deck, shouted out- "To the braces! Up helm!- square in!"
In an instant the yards swung round; and as the ship half-wheeled upon her heel, her three firm-seated graceful masts erectly poised upon her long, ribbed hull, seemed as the three Horatii pirouetting on one sufficient steed.
Standing between the knight-heads, Starbuck watched the Pequod's tumultuous way, and Ahab's also, as he went lurching along the deck.
"I have sat before the dense coal fire and watched it all aglow, full of its tormented flaming life; and I have seen it wane at last, down, down, to dumbest dust. Old man of oceans! of all this fiery life of thine, what will at length remain but one little heap of ashes!"
"Aye," cried Stubb, "but sea-coal ashes- mind ye that, Mr. Starbuck- sea-coal, not your common charcoal. Well, well! I heard Ahab mutter, 'Here some one thrusts these cards into these old hands of mine; swears that I must play them, and no others.' And damn me, Ahab, but thou actest right; live in the game, and die in it!"
Well, nothing is going to sway Ahab from the course he set for the Pequod at the beginning of the novel. The White Whale is in his sights, and it's full steam ahead. Until he sees Moby Dick's white belly facing the sun, Ahab isn't going to be happy.
In a small way, I understand this kind of obsession. For the last couple of years, it's been Bigfoot for me. I've been chasing the hairy guy poetically for quite a while. I own about 12 Bigfoot tee shirts. Some Bigfoot socks, as well. A friend gave me a Bigfoot lapel pin this summer. Every once in a while, I get a Bigfoot Snapchat from someone.
As I drive through towns, I spot Bigfoot statues outside of bookstores and restaurants and bars. When I visited Mackinaw City this summer, every store I visited had something large and hairy. I can't get away from him, not that I want to.
I wonder if Ahab experienced the same thing. He would go to a pub, and the special of the day was the Moby burger with Dick fries. At the corner store, Wonder white whale bread. When he went to a bar, he probably ordered something like a Moby margarita. At least that's what I imagine, if my Bigfoot experience is anything like Ahab's.
It is the first day of autumn, and I have been away from this blog for several days. Mostly because of illness. Last night was the first time that I've felt human since Monday. And this morning, I taught poetry to a group of kindergartners and first graders. When the audience is that young, you pretty much have to be a circus performer. I did everything I could to keep them entertained. I read a poem about burping, scared the crap out of them with a poem about the color black.
Now, my goal was to have them compose a poem about the colors green and gold, since those are the school colors and it is homecoming weekend at the university where I teach. That was my goal. Of course, most of the kids could barely write their letters, let alone spell, so it took a lot of one-on-one time with each child.
And then, near the end of the workshop, I said that I was writing a collection of Bigfoot poems, and one little boy just lit up. He started talking so fast that I could barely understand him. His mother laughed and said, "He loooooves Bigfoot. Bigfoot was really popular in the little Ohio town we came from."
My obsession once again made a surprise appearance. This time, in a group of little kids who couldn't spell "broccoli" but knew who Roger Patterson and Bob Gimlin were. (For non-Bigfoot fans, those are the names of the two guys who captured Bigfoot on film about fifty years ago near Bluff Creek in California. The most famous image--Bigfoot walking, loping along, arms swinging, looking directly at the camera.)
It was the best part of the workshop this morning, seeing that little boy totally geek out on Bigfoot. When I left the building, into the crisp autumn air, the little boy was walking beside me, still talking about Bigfoot--"Have you ever seen Bigfoot? Did you know what size shoe Bigfoot would wear? I'm going to write a children's book about Bigfoot when I grow up."
Saint Marty is thankful today for a first-day-of-autumn Bigfoot encounter.
No comments:
Post a Comment