Moby Dick

Trying to catch sight of Ishmael’s narration is like to trying to catch sight of Moby-Dick:  it’s elusive, volatile and unpredictable, emerging and submerging beneath the surface.

From the beginning one can imagine Ishmael disappearing into the narrative as he weaves in and out of the nautical streets of Nantucket.  Yet, now, after his long absence, like the poor wife of Starbuck, we must ask, where has he gone?

Ishmael clearly has some explaining to do.  Appropriately, in the chapter titled Moby Dick, he offers us an explanation for his behavior:

How it was that they so aboundingly responded to the old man’s ire–by what evil magic their souls were possessed, that at times his hate seemed almost theirs; the White Whale as much their insufferable foe as his; how all this came to be–what the White Whale was to them, or how to their unconscious understandings, also, in some dim, unsuspected way, he might have seemed the gliding great demon of the seas of life,–all this to explain would be to dive deeper than Ishmael can go. The subterranean miner that works in us all, how can one tell whither leads his shaft by the ever shifting, muffle sound of his pick? (180, Signet)

One gets the feeling that Ishmael doesn’t know where his narration is going, akin to an episode of Lost. His admission here complicates the view of him as an omniscient narrator.  He has limits.  There are some thoughts and occurrences that he cannot fully understand or explain. Like the miner he speaks of, he gets lost in the tunnel and begins feeling his way around.

In Ch. 45 he even admits that he’s not much of a narrator, “So far what there may be of a narrative in this book…” (195). Nevertheless, he feels compelled to take on the task; in the chapter The Whiteness of the Whale, he lets the reader for a moment into his subconscious: “…how can I hope to explain myself here; and yet, in some dim, random way, explain myself I must, else all these chapters might be naught” (181). This is both a confession of weakness and strength by the narrator.

Ishmael is of course neither omnipresent nor omniscient.  The question is whether his narration is; I don’t think there’s any reason to believe that Ishmael ever quits being narrator, so I assume that he is narrating even during the omniscient parts.  His narration is certainly not omnipresent, as we all know too well.

In Chapter 46, humorously titled Surmises, which are thoughts or ideas based on scanty evidence (Merriam-Webster), Ishmael surmises on the thoughts swimming through Ahab’s head: his need for tools (Starbuck being one of them), the reason why he enjoyed going after other whales (it reminded him of Moby Dick), and how anxious he must have been to protect himself (his men would want to be paid after emerging from their euphoric state).

Just a few chapters earlier, in Ch. 44 The Chart, Ishmael appears to shift into an omniscient form of narration, as James mentions in his post.  I think Surmising stands in stark contrast with this chapter, almost like a foil, illustrating Ishmael’s limits as a narrator.

Here, he is not surmising on Ahab’s thought, but describing the scene. This chapter does not attempt to explain Ahab’s psychological motives, which he can only guess at, but his mechanical scheming to catch Moby-Dick, which does have a certain logic to it, as evidenced by the footnote (191).  The ending of the chapter and its emotional depth are based on explosive observations: Ahab rushing out of his cabin and shouting exclamations into the night.

Perhaps, Ishmael, too, cannot explain what is behind the unreasoning mask.

“surmises.” Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary. 2010.

Merriam-Webster Online. 11 February 2010

<http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/surmises>

This post not quite fit under Characters and Characterization, but more under general morality.  I will post it in Characters and Characterization, however, because I feel like it connects to my previous post about Melville’s anthropomorphization of the whale.

In Chapter 61, the mate Stubb kills a whale, as evident by the title.  Ishmael seems to sympathize with this doomed creature.

lazily undulating in the trough of the sea , and ever and anon tranquilly spouting his vapory jet, the whale looked like a portly burgher smoking his pipe of a warm afternoon.  But that pipe, poor whale, was they last. (p. 275)

This whale seems somewhat human to Ishmael, lounging in the sun and smoking a pipe.  In fact, the pipe is important, as Stubb, the avid smoker, deals the death blow to this creature.  In fact, his final act in this chapter is to scatter “the dead ashes” of his own pipe over the water, looking at the whale’s corpse (p. 279).  This act is vastly symbolic.  The whale and Stubb are linked by the human affectation of the pipe, yet one kills the other, with seemingly little remorse.

Several chapters later, in Chapter 66, Ishmael describes the whale as a dish.  This is prompted by Stubbs’ consumption of a steak from the fellow smoker he slaughtered earlier.  Ishmael ponders

who is not a cannibal?  I tell you it will be more tolerable for the Fejee that salted down a lean missionary in his cellar against a coming famine; it will be more tolerable for that provided Fejee, I say, in the day of judgement, than for thee, civilized and enlightened gourmand, who nailest geese to the ground and feastest  on their bloated livers in thy paté-de-fois-gras (p. 292).

Ishmael seems to see eating an animal as a cannibalistic act, the same as eating a human.  However, this seems to be partially based on the civilized, enlightened nature of the gourmand, implying that he should know better.  If that is Ishmael’s stance, it would undoubtedly apply to Stubb, who is relatively educated and from America, a man of some standing on this ship.  Furthermore, he kills and consumes and animal with remarkable similarities to himself, both physically and in actions (the suggestion of smoking).  Is Stubb a cannibal?  It seems that Ishmael may, indirectly, be implying that.  But the bigger issue seems to be one of sympathy for the animals, perhaps even more than sympathy for the “lean missionary.”  Animals, from whales to geese, are seen as human-like by Ishmael, or at least worthy of concern.  One wonders, then, why this man has enlisted on a whaling voyage, or even how he can manage to eat meat.  Perhaps, like many other issues, Ishmael is merely pondering and reflecting, not claiming to develop an answer.

(New York: Signet Classic, 1998)

In the next many chapters we are finally introduced to a real female presence: the whaling ship. The ship is consistently referred to using feminine pronouns and whaling is even referred to as an “Egyptian mother” (p. 104). This is a particularly curious and perhaps problematic element of our interpretation of gender within the realm of whaling for it creates a complex relationship perhaps impossible to fully interpret. On the one hand, we have of course the possibility of a highly misogynistic interpretation in which the men control the female boat, using her and constantly redirecting her in order to accomplish their task. However, there is at the same time the fact that the whale-men respect and value the ship they sail upon, depending on her greatly to guide them and keep them safe out at sea. In addition, we cannot ignore given the rest of this novel thus far the sheer magnitude of this feminine presence: the ship plays an obviously substantial role in the voyage and thus in the entire story and is referred to at times as having its own will, if not personality:

“But in that gale, the port, the land, is that ship’s direst jeopardy; she must fly all hospitality; one touch of land, though it but graze the keel, would make her shudder through and through. With all her might she crowds all sail off shore…” (p. 102)

Nevertheless, the ship remains an object.

This odd tension can be resolved in part, I believe, when we look to the gender of the whale. In the highly recognizeable and widely known exclamation “there she blows!” the whale is considered female. This static phrase, however, is where that gender role begins and ends, for both in describing Moby Dick and the stories and reputations of other famous whales, they are all referred to as “he” and in fact are given each and every one a highly masculine name. In taking these two non-human but highly highly prominent elements of the novel, we can see a complex but also undeniable sexism. The whale, while referred to from a distance as female, is considered not just male but overwhelmingly masculine, almost brutish, when up close revealing its strength, size, and intelligence, e.g. when the battle begins. This seems to indicate the necessity by the whale-men to maintain their pride and masculinity by creating a dominant male threat to fight against.

“Quitting the pump at last, with the rest of his band, the Lakeman went forward all panting, and sat himself down on the windlass; his face fiery red, his eyes bloodshot, and wiping the profuse sweat from his brow.  Now what cozening fiend it was, gentlemen, that possessed Radney to meddle with such a man in that corporeally exasperated state, I know not; but so it happened. Intolerably striding along the deck, the mate commanded him to get a broom and sweep down the planks, and also a shovel, and remove some offensive matters consequent upon allowing a pig to run at large.” (239-240)

“But there was more than this: the order about the shovel was almost as plainly meant to sting and insult Steelkilt, as though Radley had spat in his face.  Any man who has gone sailor in a whale-ship will understand this; and all this and doubtless much more, the Lakeman fully comprehended when the mate uttered his command.” (240)

With all the work that must be completed on the ship, especially a whale-ship, there has to be a hierarchy that must be maintained.  That being said, the story of Stellkilt and Radley depicts what occurs with the break down of hierarchy on the boat.  Every man has a duty and place within the ship, whether he is a common sailor like Ishmael, a harpooner like Queequeq, or first mate like Starbuck; there is an order.  Thus when Radley provokes Steelkilt by demanding him to clean up pig filth, for the shear enjoyment of being cruel, he was breaking the natural order.  Not only had Steelkilt just worked furiously at pumping out the ship but it was not his duty to clean and muck the deck.  So when Steelkilt refuses to follow his commanding officer’s demands he was also breaking the hierarchy but he did so because he was defending his honor; that he had just completed backbreaking work and it was unfair for Radley to force him to do such menial chores.  If all order is lost upon the boat, then there is no hope for the voyage.  Within that environment, the success and the failure of the voyage’s future depends on its crew maintaining discipline.

In my mind, the Town-Ho’s story was an allegory warning what would happen if one member of the crew disobeyed the natural order of the ship.  Furthermore, was this story a foreshadowing of the impending doom of the Pequod? By secretly stowing away a separate crew, was Ahab not upsetting the natural balance of the Pequod?  Did he not dishonor the original crew of the Pequod by producing his own? What I find curious is that Radley’s ultimate punishment was death by the white whale, Moby Dick.  It was as if Moby Dick intrinsically knew that Radley had so grievously disobeyed the laws of the ship and the sea that he had to be done away with.  Thus will members of Pequod face the same fate by disobeying the natural order?

“That instant, as he fell on the whale’s slippery back, the boat righted, and was dashed aside by the swell, while Radley 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.” (251)

For all its florid prose and general lack of literary discipline, Melville’s writing often resembles some of the most affecting religious rhetoric I’ve ever heard. In the last paragraph of chapter forty-two, when Ishmael seemingly relates whale, God, heathen, color, nature, and philosophy with the unifying principle of whiteness—he preaches. He is sermonizing. One characteristic particular to the sermon (other than religious content) is the invocation of the congregation; the most effective sermons have some kind of central theme on which the speaker will indirectly entreat an audience to meditate, by way of imagery, metaphors, parallels, related scripture, etc. By creating several powerful, beautiful images into which he weaves themes of religion and colorlessness, Melville makes a sermonic plea to his audience through Ishmael to entertain a particular interpretation of the whiteness of the whale.

One of the most overtly religious suggestions in the passage comes in the form of a question addressed by Ishmael to the reader:

Or is it, that as in essence whiteness is not so much a color as the visible absence of color, and at the same time the concrete of all colors; is it for these reasons that there is such a dumb blankness, full of meaning, in a wide landscape of snows—a colorless, all-color of atheism from which we shrink? (175)

The question itself makes an obvious request of the reader, if not for an answer, for at least a consideration. However, therein lies the problem; Melville here presents the reader with an impossible paradox to digest. The idea of simultaneous color and colorlessness is not something empirically observable in the natural world, and as a result, it is difficult, if not impossible, to imagine the concept extended visually to an infinite blanket of snow. Thus, the reader’s immediate reaction might be to “shrink” away from such an inherently contradictory image, before the question is even asked. Given the effect of the image, then, the reader is more likely to accept the implication of Ishmael’s rhetorical question: “we” avoid at all costs anything impossibly paradoxical. The mention of atheism after the em-dash seems almost a logical leap, or at least an unqualified parallel. However, it comes across in analysis as an attempt by Ishmael (and, by extension, Melville) to, now that the reader has already been given something he or she can accept, get him or her to agree to something that might indeed be unrelated. Many an effective sermon will follow this same practice: incite fear or confusion by presenting an audience with some grave improbability, win them back with some easily digested and relatable conclusion, and—when their guard is down—slip in something vaguely controversial. Melville sets his audience up for confusion, comforts them for “shrinking” from it, and somehow implies their adversity to atheism.

This passage (paragraph, even) would take me volumes to explore, but my space here is limited, so I’ll stick briefly to one more quotation. Ishmael begins to close his lengthy dissertation on whiteness with something that sounds oddly like a myth or parable:

[L]ike wilful travellers in Lapland, who refuse to wear colored and coloring glasses upon their eyes, so the wretched infidel gazes himself blind at the monumental white shroud that wraps all the prospect around him.

Instead of invoking the reader, Ishmael fills out this second snow-related image with several anonymous characters in a bleakly exotic landscape. With this situation-as-metaphor, instead of seeking the reader’s acceptance, Ishmael seems to assume the reader’s total investment in his words. By this point, he makes the religious aspect of his argument clear by casting the “protagonists” of his metaphor as no different from infidels. Ishmael seems to have become more comfortable, by this sentence in the paragraph, with the religious implications of his musings, and so incorporates religion far more liberally into his language.  The image he paints and situation he describes have a clear pro-religious agenda, like that of a Christian parable: simply put, whiteness, like religious infidelity, is something beautifully tempting, but with dire consequences. Why dress up such a simple message? The only answer seems to be form; like any Christian sermon, Ishmael’s words mustn’t say anything about whiteness. Via ornamented metaphors, they have to show it.

Chapter 82, entitled The Honor and Glory of Whaling, is chock-full of both cultural and literary allusions. In this chapter, Melville recounts the stories of biblical and mythological figures who have killed or triumphed over whales. The chapter begins as Ishmael remarks,

The more I dive into this matter of whaling, and push my researches up to the very spring-head of it, so much the more am I impressed with its great honorableness and antiquity and especially when I find so many great demi-gods and heroes, prophets of all sorts, who one way or other have shed distinction upon it, I am transported with the reflection that I myself belong, though but subordinately, to so emblazoned a fraternity. (Melville 395)

This passage and the chapter in general serve a dual purpose. It gives Melville another chance to display his knowledge of history, mythology, and scriptures, but it primarily functions as way for Melville to demonstrate to his readers that whales have been depicted as dangerous beasts throughout history, and sailors who willingly hunt these Leviathans are elevated into a heroic and almost god-like “fraternity.”

Melville’s first literary allusion describes the story of Perseus, who Melville defines as the “first whaleman.” Perseus was a hero from Greek mythology who saved the princess Andromeda from a “Leviathan” or whale. Melville writes,

The gallant Perseus, a son of Jupiter, was the first whaleman; and to the eternal honor of our calling be it said, that the first whale attacked by our brotherhood was not killed with any sordid intent. Those were the knightly days of our profession, when we only bore arms to succor the distressed, and not to fill men’s lampfeeders. (395)

This passage is a curious juxtaposition to the last one; in the first, Melville honors whalers by putting them in the same class as “demi-gods” and “heroes.” But, in this passage he implies that killing whales “to fill men’s lampfeeders” is a “sordid intent.” I get the feeling that Melville is conflicted by whaling; while he is incredibly impressed with the courageousness it takes to attack a giant and powerful animal, he also feels that hunting whales for the sole purpose of oil is not so honorable and heroic.

Despite this not so subtle political commentary, Melville goes on and adds St. George (religious saint), Hercules (demi-god), Jonah (prophet), and Vishnoo (Hindu god) to the “emblazoned fraternity.” Although Melville was a politically-minded individual, it seems his principal goal in this chapter is to establish whalers as a brave and fearless group, despite the immoral aspects of their job.

I could not help but find a particular statement in Ishmael’s commentary of labor very controversial and slightly disturbing. In chapter 45, The Affidavit, Ishmael says “For God’s sake, be economical with your lamps and candles! not a gallon you burn, but at least one drop of man’s blood was spilled for it” (Melville 184). This line reminded me of the blood diamond conflict in Africa. There are also many connections in Ishmael’s earlier remark “Who ain’t a slave?”

In class we spoke a lot about Melville’s commentary on labor and the melancholy. Melancholy was defined as extreme sadness, and even a psychological condition, as Freud says. However, the setting of the melancholy remained on the whaling ship, and nowhere else. In fact, nearly the entire book takes place exclusively on the whaling ship. Ishmael’s remark about spilt blood draws the readers attention to the effect of whaling voyages; the afterwards. In this way I believe Melville is appealing to the audience that has never seen the horrors of whaling. He points out that, although there are hardships in every form of labor, the hardships are directly transported (in this case in the form of lamps and candles) to the kitchen tables of his readers.

This notion is very reminiscent of the blood diamond conflict because the blood of many men is spilt over a luxury item. In Angola, Zimbabwe, Côte D’Ivoir, Liberia, and the Republic of Congo, diamonds became an item of extreme importance, similar to the Gold Rush in America, and in this case, whale oil. Both are very important resources that Americans are willing to buy for high prices. Our dependence on oil can be compared with our dependence on luxury and beauty. In these African nations, diamonds were hoarded and used for many purposes, including funding government wars. All nations with sufficient diamond mines fell to turmoil and civil war, making the diamonds more stained with human blood than the whale oil.

The United States got word of the atrocities in the diamond mining business and cut off business with Sierra Leone and other guilty countries. The amount of blood spilt over such a superficial item boggles my mind. Although whale oil does not hold the same materialistic qualities, Ishmael is pointing out the same conflict. Diamonds that cost many human lives were transported directly to the fingers, necks, and ear lobes of millions of ignorant men and women, just like whale oil was made into lamps and candles for people who had no idea how much suffering was involved.

In regards to Ishmael’s earlier comment “Who ain’t a slave?” I believe there are exceptions. The consumers are not always slaves. The buyers of whale oil and diamonds who never lift a finger are not slaves. In class we discussed the possibility of Melville being a social commentator. I did not invest in this claim until reading this line, for it is so directly confronting the audience about their ignorance. I do not think Melville is indignant about the situation, but I do think he aimed to make people aware of what hardships are involved in every type of labor, and that, as consumers of almost every good, we should be more grateful of what is put on our table.

In chapter 22 (“Merry Christmas”), the ship is finally setting out:

At last the anchor was up, the sails were set, and off we glided. It was a short, cold Christmas; and as the short northern day merged into night, we found ourselves almost broad upon the wintry ocean, whose freezing spray cased us in ice, as in polished armor. The long rows of teeth on the bulwarks glistened in the moonlight; and like the white ivory tusks of some huge elephant, vast curving icicles depended from the bows (92).

I think it is interesting how Melville/Ishmael uses weather and nature in this section. It is so cold outside that the water sprays the crew and coats them like they were wearing “polished armor” (92). Though one would think that the terribly cold elements would be a detriment, they are described in different terms. Instead, the freezing spray is almost providing a type of protection and is symbolically arming the crew for battle with the whales. The rest of the ship gets similar treatment, but it is described like a giant ferocious animal. When I first read this section, I immediately recalled tales of battle and the preparation and arming scenes that inevitably go along with them. Although I would imagine that the physical conditions (and the weather) would be horrible during winter in the Atlantic Ocean, Melville/Ishmael seems to want the reader to visualize the crew (and ship) as more than ready for the task ahead.

This point seems reinforced a couple paragraphs later:

Spite of this frigid winter night in the boisterous Atlantic, spite of my wet feet and wetter jacket, there was yet, it then seemed to me, many a pleasant haven in store; and meads and glades so eternally vernal, that the grass shot up by the spring, untrodden, unwilted, remains at midsummer (92).

In this case, Ishmael acknowledges that the weather is indeed miserable, but yet his spirits remain high. He is clearly optimistic and looking forward to this journey–Ishmael sees “many a pleasant haven in store” on this trip (92). The language used to describe spring seems to imply something of a birth (or rebirth) for Ishmael, and this whaling expedition appears to be the impetus for that rebirth. It is fascinating to see how Melville, by using only a little language about nature, is able to imply so much about the mental readiness of the crew and Ishmael’s excitement to go to sea.

Melville evokes a complicated rendering of the popularly sentimentalized  “Noble Savage” in the Pequod’ three harpooners, Daggoo, Tashtego, and Queequeg. The trope of the Noble Savage goes waaay back, there are examples of it to be found in both Homer and Ovid. The term is an expression of the concept of primal man in the state of nature, uncorrupted and not weighed down by the burdens of civilization. That humans are potentially good, and civilization has distorted us. This idea picked up steam in the Romantic Period, with Rousseau, travel narratives, and Primitivism, and there are countless instances of its use in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. It didn’t really take on negative connotations until Charles Dickens published a satirical essay attacking it as a romanticized cliché, entitled “The Noble Savage” – published in 1851, the same year that Moby Dick was published.

Melville uses the type distinctively in several respects. Most notably, the characters that invoke the Noble Savage are not serene tribal figures in their native lands, teaching a civilized newcomer their ways. Instead they have been subsumed into the western world, and have claimed positions of considerable power on the microcosm of the Pequod. Melville does not oversimplify the Noble Savage as purely good, tame and pleasing, the threat of past cannibalism hangs over their stories. Neither does he picture them as solely uncorrupted in the context of their uncivilized home, they operate within a western system and show themselves on multiple occasions to be more good and kind than white men. They may be used as token savages, but they are not just token savages. The harpooners form a complex picture of race that in ways attempts to subvert accepted notions of superiority. Melville uses a standard trope as a sort of “in” to contemporary consciousness and changes its players, context, and effects. He uses the term in chapter 34:

But for all this, the great negro was wonderfully abstemious, not to say dainty, It seemed hardly possible that by such comparatively small mouthfuls he could keep up the vitality diffused through so broad, baronial, and superb a person. But, doubtless, this noble savage fed strong and drank deep of the abounding element of air; and through his dilated nostrils snuffed in the sublime life of the worlds” (134) (italics my own)

Here Melville seems to satirize the idea and use of “noble savage” itself, over sentimentalizing Daggoo’s communion with nature while marginalizing his appearance. The image of a huge African man taking tiny dainty bights is meant to humorously parallel the inherent contradiction of the term Noble Savage, when translated as a civil uncivilized person. Moby Dick presents a fascinating example of the Noble Savage, both mocking and reinforcing.

In “The Jeroboam’s Story”, the Pequod encounters the ship the Jeroboam, aboard which is a sailor claiming himself to be the archangel prophet Gabriel.  In the past, Gabriel declared that Moby Dick was “no less a being than the Shaker God incarnated” (306).  After Gabriel warns that the ship should not hunt Moby-Dick, the crew spots Moby-Dick and one of the ship’s mates, Macey, attempts to harpoon him, at which point Macey, and only Macey, is tossed into the sea “for ever sank” (307).

This mere claim of Gabriel, that Moby-Dick is the Shaker God, supports the theory that Moby-Dick is an instantiation of God.  Not only does Gabriel predict that misfortune will fall on anyone who attempts to kill Moby-Dick/God, this misfortune is actualized, lending credence to Gabriel’s claim.  Furthermore, in the Bible, Gabriel was a prophet who predicted the birth of two prominent figures, John the Baptist and Jesus.  Thus, Gabriel’s prophetic name further upholds the validity his conviction that Moby-Dick is God – if the Gabriel in the Bible was able to predict the birth of such a Biblically important figure as Jesus, then shouldn’t Gabriel of the Jeroboam be able to predict whether or not Moby-Dick is God?

In response to the account of Macey’s death, Ishmael points out that accidents of the kind that befell Macey are “almost as frequent as any” (307).  This causes reader doubt whether or not Moby-Dick should be thought of as God.  Perhaps this sort of accident is typical of whaling, of all whales, and nothing to note as particularly significant.  However, immediately after providing this doubt-inspiring comment, Ishmael then contradicts it, saying that in these types of accidents,

Strangest of all is the circumstance, that in more instances than one, not a single mark of violence is discernible; the man being stark dead (307).

This suggestion of mystery involved in these accidents once again brings in the concept of divine intervention.  Perhaps the divinity of all whales, or the divinity of the sea, is what causes these men to be retrieved from the sea seemingly unharmed (except for, of course, the fact that they’re dead).  One would think that upon being hurtled into such a tumultuous environment as the struggle between a whale and a whaling ship, a man would be marred.  The fact that many of these men are not once again supports the idea that divinity is at work.

The contending points brought out in this chapter show that Melville/Ishmael are wrestling with the idea of the divinity of Moby-Dick.  It seems as though neither is willing to commit to the idea that Moby-Dick either represents, or does not represent, God.  Or perhaps the contradictory flavor of this chapter does not dictate that Melville/Ishmael are unsure of their sentiment on this subject, but rather that they are simply unwilling to show this sentiment to the reader.