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Herman Melville’s Great Escape | Village Voice

Herman Melville’s Great Escape | Village Voice

Born to Run: Herman Melville’s Great Escape
September 19, 1985

From within his commemorative stamp­ — dyed an applicable nautical blue — the un­possible hero figure of American literature gazes blankly out. Melville’s shrines and monuments accumulate relentlessly, as if in atonement for previous neglect: he turns into a plaque in the Poets’ Nook of St. John the Divine, a three-volume set (all the fiction, with the poetry still to return) from the Li­brary of America, a museum within the Berk­shires, a 90-minute movie filled with seashores and sails and waves. But all our hagiolatry can’t pressure the stately mask to wink back at us. We need to make Melville “ours,” have him speak to us as a pal, however he withdraws irrevocably right into a muteness like that of the Galapagos Islands, where “no voice, no low, no howl is heard.” It’s a curi­ous communion his work provides: the deeper we wade in it, the more it seems an enormous isolation, chill at the core but capacious as a National Park. He’s our official literary wil­derness, in whose clefts and shadows we come to lose ourselves and thereby find the world once more. Where different writers proffer ideas or tales or companionable chat, Melville seems to promise the very stuff of existence: time, area, air. We don’t a lot learn him as inhale him.

His promise is the unattainable promise of language. Melville was mad sufficient to be­lieve that the groves and harbors the phrases make are actual, that the imagined world opens into actual areas. He entered these spaces, felt out their recesses — these “gained­drous depths, where strange shapes of the unwarped primal world glided backward and forward”­ — with a blunt boldness that introduced on ca­tastrophe. The hazy shores and receding horizons which intoxicated his readers weren’t sufficient for him, and he made the deadly error of chasing them to their level of ori­gin: the purpose the place they fade again into the insubstantiality of language, and thought itself collapses inward. It’s a disappearing act mirrored outwardly in his disappear­ance as an writer, the space he steadily established between his writing and any potential reader. To an viewers looking forward to the colourful clamor of his palm fronds and tattooed bodies and sibilant Pacific bays, he might supply in the long run only the silence of matter, the exhausting lifeless rock at the root of creation.

The primary readers responded to freshness, a sea breeze, deliverance from civilized clut­ter. Typee proposed open areas through which to chill out: clearings, nakedness, calm lagoons, the seen absence of brickwork and ma­chines and arithmetic. Melville’s secret lay in what he neglected: households, courtships, marriages, wills and lawsuits, internecine politics and worldwide diplomacy, the maddening knots of kinship and finance and social obligation — every thing, briefly, that offered materials for all the opposite novelists. For Melville the good cities are dusty, depleting puppet-shows, the hum­ming coronary heart of Wall Road a tomb. As for the nice and cozy ties of house, the interweaving of the generations, the delicacies of flirtation: all that stifles him. The e-book have to be a disposing of. He’s stimulated most keenly by desert­edness. The emptier the higher: plunging into the implications of a word like “blank” or “dim” or “fissure,” he finds sprawling worlds. A flat sea generates infinite linguis­tic expression. The “contents” of that ex­pression — concepts, literature, religions, politi­cal methods — are simply what a sailor invents to keep himself awake on night-­watch, extrapolating them from the pat­terns made by swirling sea-scum.

He had passed up the prospect to put in writing an amazing sensible novel of life on land: the story of his household. Had Melville been capable of write about his individuals as he wrote of his shipmates, we might know much more not only about him but concerning the America he commemorated, fled, and eventually detested. Both his grandfathers have been heroes of the Revolu­tion: Main Thomas Melvill flung tea into Boston Harbor and fought at Bunker Hill, while Basic Peter Gansevoort turned legendary as “The Hero of Fort Stanwix,” savior of the Mohawk Valley. Born close to the center of energy and tradition, related via his uncles and cousins to the world of James Monroe, DeWitt Clinton, James Fenimore Cooper, Melville grew up swathed in an aura of inherited glory. His father, an importer of Parisian silks and gowns, criss­-crossed the Atlantic on enterprise and when at house entertained lavishly in a collection of Manhattan mansions, while his mother vigi­lantly stored up the tone of the Hudson Val­ley aristocracy she came from.

He by no means wrote about that world of patri­cian ease and cosmopolitan brilliance, and the one time it starts to leak out — in Pink­burn — he cuts himself brief: “But I need to not think of those pleasant days, before my father turned a bankrupt, and died, and we faraway from the town; for once I consider these days, something rises up in my throat and virtually strangles me.” His father’s enterprise failed all of the sudden and unex­pectedly in 1830, when Melville was 11, and he discovered directly that there was no sine­remedy for the descendants of patriotic heroes. The family slid into genteel penury, and two years later, following further financial reverses, Melville saw his father collapse into sickness, insanity, and dying. The masks was off the world. His schooling cur­tailed, he labored as a financial institution clerk, a hand on his uncle’s farm, a clerk in his brother’s retailer (earlier than that too failed), a rural faculty­instructor. After seven years of inconsequen­tial labor — years during which his relations together with his mother have been by all accounts suffo­catingly shut — he went off to sea.

It was his single decisive gesture, to be repeated as wanted: sever connections, withdraw from a posh and quite hope­much less state of affairs, take flight. For 5 years he was in fixed motion: to Liverpool as a novice seaman; again house briefly, then some inland roaming alongside the Erie Canal and down the Mississippi by steamboat; off on a New Bedford whaler; jumped ship six months later, handed the time with canni­bals for a couple of weeks; escaped to another whaler and, accused of mutiny together with the rest of the crew, was somewhat half-heart­edly incarcerated in Tahiti; escaped, wan­dered round Tahiti, sailed on yet one more whaler, wandered around Honolulu, and fi­nally enlisted within the Navy so as to get passage residence. He came back to precisely the identical state of affairs he had walked away from, and nonetheless had no concept what to do with himself. Logically sufficient he determined to put in writing a e-book.

The public by no means acquired over that guide, to Melville’s eventual sorrow. His picture, mist­ed over with adolescent nostalgia, would re­foremost that of a bright-eyed rover, a compan­ion in the reveries of youth. To his reading of Typee Jack London attributed “the marvel that was to steer me to many lands, and that still leads and by no means palls. The years passed, however Typee was not forgotten.” For Robert Louis Stevenson as nicely the discov­ery of Melville’s early books was a rite of initiation. By the time Melville died his books have been principally out of print, and all that lingered of his fame was a faint after-­image of coral reefs and coconuts. He was an artifact of widespread culture, the person who had turn out to be an in a single day star by bringing house a brand new flavor of fantasy. That erotic dream of Polynesia soaked into the Ameri­can thoughts, finally discovering its means into pop songs and pinball machines and B­-movies like the one Allan Dwan extracted from Typee: Enchanted Island, with Jane Powell posed in sarong towards the eternal Technicolor palm timber.

Melville had kicked off that course of together with his visions of the nymph Fayaway. Several generations grew up imbued with the implications of phrases like “free pliant figure” and “the straightforward unstudied graces of a kid of nature.” Typee contained all the required supplies for a P.T. Barnum spectacle of the mind, cannibals and dancing women pa­rading previous at a protected distance. Its subtitle — “A Peep at Polynesian Life” — suggests a picture of Melville narrating a magic lantern present; and indeed the guide could be very a lot a public efficiency. With a present­man’s instincts he spins his yarn in a prose punctuated by sly winks, digs in the ribs, and appeals to warm fellow feeling. The cheerful young adventurer — a humorist, a little bit of a scamp, at backside an peculiar enough fellow — unpacks his sea chest, hauls out his South Seas trophies, and holds the listeners spellbound.

It was all really easy: straightforward to learn, as the reviewers enthusiastically noted, and con­ceptually if not all the time technically straightforward for Melville to put in writing. A scrumptious passivity in­types the guts of Typee. Among the unex­pectedly tender cannibals, Meville can lie back and be fed and fanned and caressed. In a land the place sustenance falls from timber or is scooped from shallows, he indulges in the joy of creating no effort by any means. Coming house, he finds it’s equally straightforward to carry his viewers’s consideration. He need only reiterate sure surefire pictures: “Naked houris — cannibal banquets — groves of coca­nut — coral reefs — tatooed chiefs — and bamboo temples; sunny valleys planted with bread-fruit timber — carved canoes danc­ing on the flashing blue waters — savage woodlands guarded by horrible idols — hea­thenish rites and human sacrifices.” These, Melville informs us, have been the pictures in his head earlier than he arrived in the Marquesas; but oddly they have been additionally the pictures the typical reader retained from Typee. Those that cared to look deeper found considera­bly more — however Melville made positive his mass viewers obtained what it paid for. He was play­ing a double recreation, writing one guide for himself, another for his readers: a part of him was again with the Typees, happily bathing in sensual harmonies, while in another as­pect he shrewdly gauged the responses of a flock of prurient Christians.

The contradiction didn’t hassle him but. As the man in the center, he might shuttle between worlds without committing himself to either. His very amiability, his easy gratifying of the readers’ wishes, gave him license to slide in all types of audacities. It fit his image: a person who had lived with canni­bals was expected to have rough edges. There have been limits, in fact, and so the digs at missionaries needed to be excised from the second edition. However otherwise Melville was free to let off steam about civilized evils: “the guts burnings, the jealousies, the social rivalries, the family dissensions, and the thousand self-inflicted discomforts of refined life.” The viewers sat willingly although the sermon with a purpose to catch anoth­er glimpse of “the half-immersed figure of a gorgeous woman, standing within the transparent water.”

An instinctive escape artist, Melville found a home in the tantalizingly shifting surfaces of language. Writing a guide about his escape to the South Seas was an extra escape, enabling him to postpone turning into indentured to a good career or a hard and fast id. Because the act of writing it had preserved his freedom, naturally the ebook turned a celebration of freedom; and in Typee and its successor Omoo (a garrulous, typically slapstick “street novel” of lazy days in the tropics), he come across technical tips that gave him further liberties. Information, for one thing, might be altered. His three-week keep among the Typees not be­ing spectacular enough, he might increase it to six months. Every unintentional event could possibly be reworked into what it should have been. He additionally discovered the makes use of of discovered material: to make his Polynesia more dense, it was simple sufficient to raise clumps of detail from another voyager’s account. Tearing a web page from a botany textual content and pasting it in place was a means of incorporating the world into the guide. If he couldn’t have actual moss and sand and seawater — and certainly he would have liked to — he might a minimum of interpolate ship’s logs and regulation docu­ments and pedestrian guidebooks, crime tales from the newspapers and rough­-hewn nonliterary memoirs like these of Owen Chase and Amasa Delano and Israel Potter. Such writing influenced him more than anything except for Shakespeare and the Bible. To his personal domain of lan­guage it imparted a distinctly democratic air, the polyglot jokes and curses of the foredeck jostling the kinglike speech of Ahab.

Prose, he discovers, is a wonderland he can populate as heterogeneously as he likes, in the meantime divesting himself of familial bonds and all of the oppressive encroachments of the land-dwellers. Words perpetuate fleeting motions: the exhilarating leap, caught in midair between ship and shore, need by no means end in a disappointing arrival. In Redburn he recreates the moment when, on his first voyage, the ship left land be­hind: “About sunset we acquired fairly ‘outdoors,’ and nicely might it so be referred to as; for I felt thrust out of the world.” Such is the transfixed Melvillean moment, conscious and lonely and equally alienated from level of depar­ture and ultimate vacation spot. He needs­ — or needs to want — to reside endlessly in that “outdoors,” to be permanently in transit, to be away. But language has its obligations in addition to its freedoms; the same hooks he’s been avoiding in household and society lurk in phrases too. His imagined liberty has to con­have a tendency with the structure of imagination it­self. The restlessness that gained’t let him stay in a single place too lengthy — not even the earthly paradise of the Marquesas — also steers his sentences away from any which means too fastened or immutable. Language — as codified by well mannered literature and scholastic logic — frus­trates him because it forces him toward un­desired resolutions. In Typee he typically has problem finishing sentences: caught up in cascading fragments of description­”bold rock-bound coasts, with the surf beat­ing excessive towards the lofty cliffs, and broken here and there into deep inlets, which open to the view thickly-wooded valleys” — his power runs down as the interval approaches, as if grammatical closure have been like a harbor he didn’t need to return to.

He’d relatively go through language toward a condition of indefinable mineral ecstasy, a coral cuneiform appropriate for transcribing what he reads in the waves: “a kind of broad heaving and swelling and sinking everywhere in the ocean.” He needs, fairly frankly, the unattainable: to revel within the unimpeded de­lights of language whereas liberating himself, once and for all, of the relations that lan­guage unavoidably implies, the squidlike embrace of interconnectedness. Like the thinker Babbalanja in Mardi, he ex­empts himself from linguistic rules with a purpose to assert that “there isn’t a place but the universe; no restrict but the limitless; no bot­tom however the bottomless.”

In his notion, nevertheless, probably the most cloudily undefined is at one with probably the most meticulously concrete. His school for tech­nical description — for the intricacies of rig­gings and top-gallants and capstans and ca­bles — hinges on the last word abstractness of mechanical procedures. Every elaborate, impersonal, morally impartial course of fasci­nates him: the fluxing of currents and tides, the sluggish accretion of coral islands, the inte­rior functioning of whalers and men-of-war. Such techniques share the complexity of lan­guage, however in contrast to language they don’t increase issues of id or which means. Melville can get misplaced in them as in the patterns of a Turkish rug.

He approaches writing in a lot the same a spirit, tinkering with clauses, operating via potential modes of rhythmic organi­zation in a sentence, slapping down oddly combined bits of jargon and erudition. If the meanings to which language refers make Melville uneasy, its mechanics liberate him: he finds more freedom of action in grammar than in life. Whereas in life he should make irrevocable selections — to quiet down, get married and lift youngsters, finally sacri­fice his writing profession for the household’s sake — in writing he could make an everlasting refusal to commit himself. Every part can remain unfinished, indefinite, poised for a resolution which by no means fairly arrives: “God hold me from ever completing something,” he writes in Moby-Dick. “This entire guide is however a draught — nay, however the draught of a draught.” Melville’s deliberate hesitation frees us to invent his books as we read them. Nobody offers more openings. As the second mate of the Pequod remarks, “You books should know your locations. You’ll do to offer us the naked phrases and information, but we are available to provide the ideas.” In vaults piled high with commentary, every stray sentence of Melville’s has shaped the idea for kind of arbitrary system-mak­ing. If phrases are seeds, his have engendered forests upon forests. The commentators, by and enormous, want to pin the person down. Yet once we read by way of Melville, two phrases recur insistently: “type of’ and “here and there.” They is perhaps emblems of a profoundly fertile imprecision.

Randomness — the unintentional quality of regardless of the thoughts finds inside itself — be­came his guideline. The shapes of his thoughts intrigued him much as unusual fish slapping up towards a ship’s sides. The ingratiating glibness of Typee and Omoo had no ulterior function; it sprang merely from his enjoyment in spinning out the story. To resemble more really a voyage, a e-book should transfer toward unknown waters: and so, careless of penalties, Melville made his first divergence from his audience. Sabotag­ing his personal facility, he dismantled his ex­pectations of what a e-book must be, or a sentence, or a thought, and referred to as the outcome Mardi: an immense improvisation, the imagination of a personal ocean during which — as within the final shot of Tarkovsky’s Solaris­ — concepts develop into islands. Melville levels a selfmade creation fable, with language serving as his primordial mud.

He starts with a sensible, circumscribed set-up not in contrast to the start of Typee­ — a ship at sea, two discontented sailors absconding in an open boat — however with every link in the narrative chain gets further away from his premise. Each episode erases what went before. It becomes clear that we’ll nev­er return to the start line: we are simply going to keep shifting outward. The story is overtaken by its prose: the metaphors usurp management, turning into extra powerful than what they symbolize. A relaxed at sea sets off apoca­lyptic resonances: “The stillness of the calm is terrible. His voice begins to develop strange and portentous . . . His skull is a dome filled with reverberations. The hollows of his very bones are as whispering galleries.” Melville wallows in language with a extra harmless exuberance than ever once more, and lets the wispy narrative float where it’s going to. The mysterious maiden Yillah, prisoner of an evil priest, is rescued by the hero Taji, only to fade again. Accompanied by King Media of the island empire Mardi and three philosophical courtiers, Taji searches among Pacific wastes for the lost Yillah, while silent messengers from the sinister enchantress Hautia pelt him with symbolic flowers. The remedy is absurdly perfunc­tory: essential plot turns occupy a couple of hasty paragraphs, whereas Taji and his quest disap­pear altogether for a whole lot of pages at a stretch. Yet Mardi‘s fluid disordered struc­ture casts up a whole lot of small self-con­tained buildings, like the key residence of King Donjalolo: “The husk-inhusked meat in a nut; the innermost spark in a ruby; the juice-nested seed in a golden-rind­ed orange; the purple royal stone in an effemi­nate peach; the insphered sphere of spheres.”

Melville simply needs to write down: the uncon­trolled process hypnotizes him, and as he immerses himself in the “world of wonders insphered inside the spontaneous con­sciousness,” strange issues begin occurring. The thinker Babbalanja, a marginal figure, imposes himself ever more insistently, evoking eons of imaginary geology, imag­inary history, imaginary commentaries on imaginary literatures. In Babbalanja the no­tion of private id begins to return aside: “Though I have now been upon phrases of close companionship with myself for nigh 5 hundred moons, I have not yet been capable of determine who or what I’m.” Unforeseen interiors heave into view. A de­mon named Azzageddi lives dormant in Babbalanja, a psyche inside a psyche, typically speaking by means of him in wild prose cadenzas. Melville is drawn into pro­gressively extra schizoid involutions: “He is locked up in me. In a masks, he dodges me. He prowls about in me, hither and thither; he friends, and I stare . . . So present is he all the time, that I appear not so much to stay of myself, as to be a mere apprehension of the unaccountable being that is in me. But all the time, this being is I, myself.” (Later, Ahab will urge: “Strike via the masks!”)

Toward the top, as if instantly waking to the presence of an audience, Melville ex­claims: “Oh, reader, record! I’ve chartless voy­aged.” The readers had probably already reached the identical conclusion a few e-book embracing florid dream sequences, whimsical paeans to wine and tobacco, labored po­litical allegories, and metaphysical disquisi­tions modeled after Sir Thomas Browne, to not point out the first major literary remedy of browsing. Requested at one level for the which means of his remarks, Babbalanja replies: “It is a polysensuum” — nearly as good a descrip­tion as any for Melville’s concoction. Even Mardi‘s doldrums are a part of its impact, cre­ating by means of boredom a way of actual distance, actual period. For the first however not last time, Melville broached the thought of unreadability as an aesthetic value. To treat of an ocean it wasn’t enough to say “and so forth”; the load and quantity of the waters had to be contained between the covers.

At the similar time, out in the actual world, Melville was meshing after a trend with the imperatives of his milieu: in 1847, just after the publication of Omoo, he married Elizabeth Shaw, and inside 18 months the primary of four youngsters was born. Marriage would seem to be a turning outward; however considering that Elizabeth’s father, Chief Justice Lemuel Shaw of Massachusetts, had been the perfect good friend of Melville’s father, and had passionately beloved Melville’s aunt till her early dying, the marriage begins to seem like an appearing out of another person’s fantasy, a reassertion of the family bonds which Melville had by no means really been free of. That his mom and sisters have been frequent boarders within the new household might solely have strengthened that sense. In any occasion, the wedding was plainly not a cheerful one. We hear of uncontrolled rages, depres­sions, nervous illnesses. Melville evidently felt trapped; what Elizabeth felt only not often surfaces in her desperately cheerful letters. Whatever Melville might have expected from marriage and youngsters, they turned for him solely probably the most intimate emblem of the world and its pressures.

Those pressures have been mounting steadily. Mardi having predictably failed, he rushed out with a couple of lifelike, eminently salable narratives extra in line with the Melville model identify: Redburn, a thinly fic­tionalized account of his first voyage, and White-Jacket, a quasijournalistic retailing of his Navy stint. He was working at a kill­ing pace, dashing off Redburn in a number of months proper on the heels of Mardi, and wrapping up White-Jacket some 14 weeks later. But it wasn’t only business necessi­ty that stored him targeted on his years at sea. They represented a magic zone of libera­tion, whose most strange particulars have been charged with radiant energies. He labored determinedly to maintain certain sense-impres­sions alive, as if by means of them he may impact an alchemical wedding ceremony between the phrases “ocean” and “language.”

Life at sea is a lot easier. You’ve the ocean and you have the ship: clear boundaries. Not that a sailor’s existence is notably blissful. Redburn principally reca­pitulates bitter reminiscences of “vulgar and brutal men lording it over me, as if I have been an African in Alabama,” and White-Jack­et‘s man-o-war, with its ritualistic self-discipline and routine floggings, its Acts of Warfare whose penalty for every infraction is dying, is even more violently repressive. For what, pre­cisely, is Melville nostalgic? Does he aspire to the childlike condition of the sailor, who does what he is advised and who, after enjoying on shore depart a quick damaging outburst of freedom, returns sheepishly to the paren­tal care of his commander? Probably Mel­ville himself puzzled over it. He took liberty as significantly as any American writer has achieved, and in White-Jacket wrote a exact, thoroughgoing condemnation of the naval mind and its innate authoritarian bias. He detested confinement, restriction of any type; was anarchist sufficient to affirm solely partly in jest that “a thief in jail is as honor­in a position a personage as Gen. George Washing­ton”; and in his personal time at sea had succes­sively enacted the roles of deserter, mutineer, jailbird, beachcomber.

Then again, a sailor has a number of clear advantages. His work is minimize out for him, and nobody obstructs him from doing it. His intensely structured existence frees him in a curious means for probably the most abandoned medi­tations. He’s subsequent to the weather, stripped right down to his essence: “At sea . . . all males ap­pear as they’re . . . The contact of one man with another is just too close to and fixed to favor deceit. You wear your character as loosely as your flowing trowsers.” It meant an incredible deal to Melville — a bookish lad, none too dexterous, and by his own account simply shocked — to win a level of accep­tance from his fellows on the Acushnet, the Lucy Ann, the Charles and Henry, and america. Definitely his own class, the aristocratic class he had so rudely fallen from, had achieved him little good. There lay his democratic touchstone: to treat officers because the enemy camp and take his stand reso­lutely on the foredeck. However on shipboard­ — barring mutiny — the desire of the crew finds no concrete political expression. As an alternative it seeps wistfully into songs, tales, riotous fes­tivities, half-inarticulate soul-to-soul con­versations in the riggings. Melville, who could possibly be cold-blooded when it came to reli­gion and patriotism and regulation and household, reserved his sentimentality for the camara­derie of sailors.

Finally nothing counted more for him than a mate to whom he might tell each­thing, “mate” being a term male and nauti­cal relatively than female and domestic. All his adventures have been undertaken in tandem: Ty­pee with Toby, Omoo with the fantastical Physician Lengthy Ghost, Mardi with the stolid Norseman Jarl; Redburn with the adored Harry Bolting, whose “eyes have been giant, black, and womanly,” and whose voice “was because the sound of a harp”; White-Jacket with ­Jack Chase of the “clear open eye” and “fantastic broad forehead,” who fought for Peru’s freedom and bellowed out stanzas of Ca­moens from the maintop. Ultimately Mel­ville stored himself going with the reminiscence of such friendships. More importantly, his entire conception of what writing was for revolved more and more around the hoped-for existence of an isolated sympathetic ear.

He found such an ear, appended to the individual of Nathaniel Hawthorne. The second was essential. Melville, activated as he would never be once more, had bought a correct­ty in the Berkshires and was making an attempt his considerably dilettantish hand at farming, while working resolutely on yet one more potboiler, this one drawing on his whaling experiences. “I write these books of mine virtually solely for ‘lucre,’ — by the job, as a woodsawyer draws wooden,” he confided to Richard Henry Dana. “Will probably be a wierd kind of e-book, tho’, I worry; blubber is blubber, you recognize; tho’ you could get oil out of it, the poetry runs as exhausting as sap from a frozen maple tree.” His encounter with Haw­thorne, at a neighborhood picnic, appears to have precipitated something like a spiritual experience. He had already been studying Mosses from an Previous Manse, of which he wrote rhapsodically: “This Hawthorne has dropped germinous seeds into my soul. He expands and deepens down, the more I con­template him; and further, and further, shoots his robust New-England roots into the recent soil of my Southern soul.”

A new sense of urgent objective animated Melville. Hauling again the whaling e-book for revision he ended up remaking it altogether: after 18 months — for Melville an unconscio­nably lengthy interval of composition — it emerged as Moby-Dick; or, The Whale. He dedicated it to Hawthorne, in whom he had lastly met a reader who might substitute all other readers. He noticed their friendship — a friendship lastly wrecked by Melville’s over-demanding fervor — because the communion of two great souls: “Your coronary heart beat in my ribs and mine in yours, and both in God’s,” he wrote, in a letter whose mystical-erotic tenor might only have perturbed the emo­tionally restrained Hawthorne. “I really feel that the Godhead is damaged up just like the bread at the supper, and that we’re the pie­ces . . . Understanding you persuades me more than the Bible of our immortality.” He fan­tasized about having a paper mill in his house, unrolling an infinite sheet of paper upon which “I ought to write a thousand-a million-billion ideas, all underneath the form of a letter-to you. The divine magnet is on you, and my magnet responds.”

Perhaps Hawthorne only half-guessed the occult position into which he had been thrust: that of religious brother to whom — and to nobody else — Melville might impart the illu­minations that have been sweeping via him. The writing of Moby-Dick had made him really feel his separateness. To his family he was already unusual, sequestered in his cham­ber, refusing meals from morning to nighttime as he gave himself over to writing. Perhaps solely together with his imagined Hawthorne on the receiving end might Melville have transmit­ted that network of alerts which was Moby-Dick. In any occasion he sensed the pro­cess would someway kill him: “I feel that I am now come to the inmost leaf of the bulb,” he wrote to Hawthorne, “and that shortly the flower should fall to the mould.” He was only 31.

Every of his books had been actually a voyage, formed by the motion it enacted, each sentence a smaller voyage mirroring the larger. In Mardi the canoe journey had already declared itself a psychic ritual, whereas in Redburn and White-Jacket the mi­nutiae of nautical life — sea weather and navigation and the interior structure of sailing vessels — have been laid out item by item like a language being readied to be used. But despite that work of preparation, the mak­ing of Moby-Dick stays mysterious, like the eruption of a type of “wild skills” the parapsychologists like to speak about. It registers the shock of a sudden, solely partly voluntary transformation, accompanied by the acquisition of latest powers. All of sudden Melville knows that he can’t make a false step. The problem of which means ceases to  hassle him as a result of he can imply every­thing at the similar time. As if speaking in tongues, he breaks into dozens of various voices, turns into an entire crew of “Feegeeans, Tongatabooans, Erromanggoans, Pannan­gians, and Brighggians.” Inanimate objects squirm with life, colours are magnified, tiny sounds develop thunderous.

A shaping drive has seized maintain of the e-book: a completely novel sense of inevitability surges up beneath Melville’s relaxed random­ness. The change arises precisely from Mel­ville’s belief in language, his apply — culti­vated in Mardi — of letting syntax simmer and swirl and hatch its multiform offspring. However what surfaces this time is one thing totally different in variety, an alien presence, darkish and mute: not the whale, I imply, however Ahab. Right here was the demon Azzegeddi made mani­fest: and Melville, who had shied from cap­tains, finds himself ventriloquizing dreadful commands. The moment Ahab pops up into daylight the e-book’s chemistry modifications: “He seemed like a man reduce away from the stake, when the hearth has overrunningly wasted all of the limbs with out consuming them, or tak­ing away one particle from their compacted aged robustness.” Actually he’s already lifeless: an inert totem gone beyond responsiveness. However his very deadness catalyzes the vitality around him, calling up an atmosphere during which no pebble or syllable may be moved with out cosmic consequences.

Though we will see what Ahab is made of — stances, props, adjectives, analogies, a smattering of grandiloquent cadences — nothing in need of voodoo adequately ex­plains his energy. On the most obvious degree we see a stagy determine thundering forth Elizabethanisms: “I’m demoniac, I am madness maddened!” Ahab’s eeriness lies not in his outward conduct but within the secret influence he seems to exert over his creator. Like a demon issued fullblown from a hexed pen­tagram, overwhelming his invoker, the char­acter starts telling the writer what to do: and Melville, an obedient seaman, obeys his captain. Ahab, a Golem, a Frankenstein monster, uncannily feeds off the power of mental projection, surviving in an unnatu­ral half-life, not Ahab any longer however “what was Ahab”: “a vacated thing, a formless somnambulistic being, a ray of dwelling mild, to make certain, but with out an object to paint, and subsequently a blankness in itself.”

But to have given delivery to Ahab was a profound liberation. The horrible lifeless previous man was not within Melville but out­aspect him, sharply etched towards empty sky. The externalization of that “tormented spirit” effects an appeasement: like a decoy Ahab absorbs all dark forces, whereas Melville is freed to exercise his powers with a sort of divine license. Omnipresent, he dives to the underside of the ocean, enters into whales, learns what it’s “to have one’s palms among the unspeakable foundations, ribs, and really pelvis of the world.” He speaks with the tongue of Shakespeare and Solo­mon, and his ebook turns into a proclamation of its personal expansive intentions: “Already we are boldly launched upon the deep, however soon we shall be lost in its unshored, har­borless immensities.” Burnt-out Ahab bides his time under, a vacant silhouette, a black hole drawing the whole ship down with him.

Within the “oceanic doom” style — which en­compasses The Rime of the Historic Mari­ner and The Flying Dutchman and The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym — there’s nothing uncommon about an incredible gothic ma­chine of a ship sailing into horror. But whereas for Coleridge and Poe the ocean mirrored their very own paranoia, for Melville it’s a secret house, a slithery womb filled with freshets and phosphorescent glimmers. His death-ship might glide ceremonially towards the abyss, heralded by indicators and portents, but the ocean on which it floats brims with a sluggish and historic bliss. How might it’s different­clever, because the concept of ocean infallibly re­leases Melville’s power as a writer? It’s the tough and impermeable Ahab who is the Different. The ocean, quite the opposite, is that innermost resting place in whose depths, says Ishmael, “I nonetheless bathe me in everlasting mildness of joy.” Moby Dick‘s huge physique — ­mapped out chapter by chapter, in all of the amplitude of its “thick walls, and . . . inte­rior spaciousness,”— is analogous to the physique of the e-book. It was in whale type, we’re informed, that Vishnu swam to “the bottom of the waters” to retrieve the sacred writings: and when Ishmael, momentarily separated from the Pequod, peers down into those same waters, it’s to gaze entranced on the “dalliance and delight” of serenely copulat­ing whales.

The impulse to freedom — which in Mel­ville is a form of laziness — seeks the deeps, away from the hypnotic proto-Hitler Ahab, whose “sultanism” turns into “incarnate in an irresistible dictatorship” as he guides his crew towards dying. By attaching himself to a single unambiguous which means, Ahab sacri­fices his freedom of motion. His character narrows right down to a sentence: I’ll kill the whale. It turns into a political slogan: as mas­ter of the Pequod he imposes on the crew an ideology consisting of that sentence alone. The ship, locked into its rigid construction of which means, sails on an ocean which is all swelling and heaving ambivalence, that “indefiniteness” of which the whale’s white­ness is emblematic. Whiteness appalls be­trigger it “shadows forth the heartless voids and immensities of the universe, and thus stabs us from behind with the considered annihilation.” But the thoughts — Melville’s mind most notably — keeps coming back to that brink, to “the white depths of the milky means” and the “dumb blankness, filled with which means, in a large landscape of snows”: full, not of 1 particular which means, but of all meanings blended, “a colorless, all-color of atheism from which we shrink.” Whilst he shrinks from it, Melville is stirred by a counter-impulse of want — or so the temblors of his prose assure us. If there’s an eroticism of annihilation, the white whale embodies it.

Although his alter ego Ishmael survives the wreck, it was as if Melville had in fact been swallowed by the whale. He had stum­bled virtually by accident into writing, however as soon as caught up within the process had been pulled ever deeper into the spiraling struc­tures it generated. The timetables of the surface world should have begun to look re­mote: he was out of sync. There was no cash. His great prophetic utterance was acquired as a moderately convoluted sea story. Even in Hawthorne he sensed a nervous withdrawal. As for his household, they have been not merely worrying about his health, however brazenly questioning his sanity. Their correspondence exhibits the conclave of rela­tives sending emergency alerts forwards and backwards about Herman’s “situation.” His mother fears that “this fixed working of the brain, and excitement of the imagina­tion, is sporting Herman out”; his father-in­-law concurs that Melville “overworks him­self and brings on severe nervous afflic­tions.” All agree that, in sister Augusta’s phrases, “it’s of the utmost importance that something must be carried out to stop the necessity of Herman’s writing.” However Her­man, closeted in his room like Ahab in his cabin, plunged straight into the subsequent guide as if afraid to stop.

That ebook — Pierre, or The Ambigu­ities — introduced the crisis to a head: it was not solely an abject failure, but a piece of unbridled psychological aggression during which Melville undertook the symbolic destruc­tion of his complete family. Till now he had been like a bit boy enjoying in his room, making up stories about his imaginary boat: the world of his books was safely separated by huge tracts of ocean from his real life as son and husband and father. In Pierre the little boy crept into the remainder of the home, poking amongst bedrooms and closets and attics and making some disagreeable discov­eries. The previous Melville household  with its dominating mother, lifeless father, and oppressively legendary grandfather — was performed again in the distorted mild of re­awakened childhood reminiscence.

Pierre‘s plot resembles the garish fantasy of a morbidly precocious baby: Noble young Pierre lives alone together with his still lovely mother, on whom he lavishes a “courteous lover-like adoration.” (Mother and son playfully “name each other brother and sis­ter.”) Otherwise Pierre spends his time ven­erating a portrait of his father and strolling via gardens together with his virginal fiancee Lucy. Into this petrified bower of bliss comes the darkish Isabel, who reveals herself in secret to Pierre as his illegitimate half-­sister. Horrified at this exposure of parental hypocrisy and determined to do the appropriate thing by Isabel, Pierre abruptly burns his father’s portrait, vacates the family man­sion, breaks off with Lucy, and unites — for, motives too complexly self-contradictory to elucidate — in a mock marriage with Isabel. His mom dies of grief; Lucy, in a weird match of self-sacrifice, comes to stay with Pierre and Isabel as their servant; and Glen, Pierre’s cousin (and, it’s steered, his one­time lover), publicly insults him, in re­sponse to which Pierre shoots him down in the street. Imprisoned, Pierre is joined by Lucy and Isabel, and all three — in a type of small-scale Jonestown — expire collectively.

So much for Melville’s effort to write down a business novel: not solely his family members but the critics have been calling him insane. Pierre hasn’t fared properly with critics in our day either, having been variously described as a “disaster” (Charles Olson), “grindingly, ludicrously dangerous” (John Updike), and “one of the crucial painfully ill-conditioned books ever to be produced by a first-rate thoughts” (Newton Arvin). It is certainly a suicidal guide, undermining its own construction, chok­ing off the emotions to which it appeals, and exploding into arbitrary violence which shatters any remaining framework of sym­pathy. Melville cannibalizes himself: in the same means that he had turned his sea voy­ages into books, he makes an attempt to patch his rawest traumas and rages right into a gothic ro­mance. Charged with the residue of Moby­-Dick‘s energies, he directs them towards his own precarious sense of wholeness, with bloody outcomes. Small marvel that many have recoiled from a e-book where, in a typi­cal occasion, the hero angrily smashes his head towards a wall and falls down “dab­bling in the vomit of his loathed id.”

But in its method Pierre is as formidable and unique as Moby-Dick. The entire first half is a sustained trance by which, towards the droning background created by the repeti­tion of “dim” and “obscure” and “mysteri­ous” and “indefinite,” Melville lets shadows leak into the comfortable household nest. The method by which familiar associations flip menac­ing, because the hero’s consciousness provides method to engulfment, is described with obsessive pre­cision: “He felt that what he had all the time before thought-about the strong land of veritable actuality, was now being audaciously en­croached upon by bannered armies of hood­ed phantoms, disembarking in his soul, as from flotillas of specter-boats.” Briefly lu­rid bursts, Pierre’s states of thoughts are lit up like cavernous Thomas Cole landscapes. These sudden vistas of mental recesses jan­gle with voluptuous negativity: meanings deny themselves and coil inward to disclose further meanings likewise receding into shadow. An anguished unresolved probing extends itself in tortuously extended sen­tences, just like the one by which Pierre contem­plates his lifeless father’s portrait, “ever watching the unusually concealed lights of the meanings that so mysteriously moved back and forth inside . . . unconsciously throwing himself open to all these ineffable hints and ambiguities, and undefined half-sugges­tions, which from time to time individuals the soul’s environment, as thickly as in a smooth, steady snow-storm, the snow-flakes individuals the air.”

In Moby-Dick Melville had written that “these far mysteries we dream of,” if pur­sued, “both lead us on in barren mazes or halfway depart us whelmed.” His trail had led him into a maze poisonous with “dark persuadings” and “horrible haunting toads and scorpions,” and his companion this time was no hearty fellow sailor but the spectral sickly Isabel, Melville’s feminine twin finally bodied forth. Her speeches have  a hole, somnolent ring, like an emanation at a seance. In that alien voice we appear to hear the controlling spirit of Melville’s writing speaking for itself: “I by no means have an effect on any ideas, and I never adulterate any ideas; but once I converse, assume forth from the tongue, speech being typically  earlier than the thought; so, typically, my own tongue teaches me new things.” If Pierre begins to collapse somewhere previous its mid­level, it’s maybe because Melville, sud­denly aware of what he was perpetrating, tried to escape from the process he had initiated. Dwelling in poverty with Isabel, Pierre writes a ebook — a e-book plainly identi­cal to the one we’re reading. Pierre’s e-book collapses too: he is overwhelmed by “the primitive elementalizing of the strange stuff, which in the act of trying that ebook, has upheaved and upgushed in his soul.” Finally there’s no means out but a murderous showdown: so in 1852, by default, Melville invented the style of James Cain’s Serenade and Jim Thompson’s The Killer Inside Me.

He would by no means let himself go like that again. After Pierre he reined within the sponta­neity which had led him so wildly astray. A brand new distrust surfaces in his prose: he masks himself. The scrupulous impersonality of “Benito Cereno” extends even to its weath­er patterns: “Every thing was mute and calm; all the things gray.” Structurally a de­tective story, “Benito Cereno” shares that genre’s flatness of characterization. Its com­panion piece, “Bartleby, the Scrivener,” eliminates characterization altogether in its portrait of a human degree zero, defined solely in damaging phrases. Past the rotted lushness of Pierre we emerge right into a bone-white dessication, good and empty: “I placed his desk shut as much as a small aspect­-window in that part of the room, a window which originally had afforded a lateral view of certain dirty back-yards and bricks, however which, owing to subsequent erection, com­manded at present no view in any respect, though it gave some mild.” Having superior to date into the nonhuman, he even wrote a novella-like set of sketches, “The Encantadas,” whose “characters” are clumps of volcanic rock and large primeval tortoises, and the place such people as appear perform as bits of rubble littering the landscape. Within the deso­lation of these lava slopes, within the barrenness of the Chilean coast off which “Benito Cer­eno” unfolds, within the blankness of Bartleby, Melville discovered his new area of motion: the desert. But if his ocean had been filled with noises, his desert was to be principally silent.

Israel Potter, the miserably unfortunate hero of Bunker Hill, was condemned by fate to 50 years of beggarly exile. Melville’s own exile was inner: a separation from lan­guage as he had beloved it, primordial and generous, and as an alternative a hair-splitting mental paranoia, a remorseless jabbing at phrases to seek out out their hidden enmities. Pierre had already revealed to him “the universal lurking insincerity of even the best and purest written thoughts,” and The Confidence-Man, that queasiest of books, states the case to the point of ex­haustion. The enthusiastic, hyperbolic lan­guage which had once been Melville’s now belongs to the Confidence-Man, grinning emissary of the good American bilking ma­chine, chameleonic trickster and archetypal glad-hander, together with his bluff cries of “Good fellowship ceaselessly!” and his ravenous eye for human vulnerability. Like all salesman his implicit motto is: “For those who don’t belief me, there have to be something improper with you.”

For us, with its impeccable foreshadowing of the fashion and methodology of a Spiro Agnew or Jerry Falwell, The Confidence­ Man appears prophetic: and like many anoth­er prophetic e-book, it borders on the unread­in a position. As airless and badly lit because the Mississippi steamer aboard which it’s set, the novel pits a faceless malevolent pres­ence — we recognize him only by the insinu­ating thrust of his discourse — towards a se­ries of lumpish grotesques, ultimate materialists characterised solely by the garments they put on and the cash they spend: “From an previous buckskin pouch, tremulously dragged forth, ten hoarded ea­gles, tarnished into the appearance of ten previous horn-buttons, have been taken, and half-ea­gerly, half-reluctantly, provided.” All affir­mations being suspect, Melville undercuts his personal writing: the words recoil from themselves, and the e-book trails off into a choking darkness. With a cryptic gesture of farewell ± “Something further might comply with of this Masquerade” — the novelist steals away into silence.

He revealed no more prose. In 1856, just after finishing The Confidence-Man, he went — or was packed off — throughout the ocean once more, at his father-in-law’s expense: a hag­gard convalescent on pilgrimage to the Holy Land. Stopping off in England he paid his respects to Hawthorne, speaking endlessly of religion and the life after dying, and ac­knowledging that he had “pretty much made up his thoughts to be annihilated.” The sacred locations of Jerusalem and Judea, duti­absolutely though he wrote them up in his notice­e-book, imparted no religious healing. He appears to have come house resigned to a muffled, depleted existence. Admitting that he was completed as knowledgeable writer, he lectured unsuccessfully for a number of seasons on subjects like “Roman Statuary” and “Journey: Its Pleasures, Pains, and Income”; made vain efforts to parlay his family’s Demo­cratic connections right into a diplomatic ap­pointment; and in 1866 — having by now bought the farm and settled into an condominium on East 26th Road — he accepted a job as Inspector of Customs, at $4 a day, on the New York docks. He remained there till his retirement 20 years later.

The report of these years is a spherical of barren drudgery and household events. Mel­ville advanced right into a diffident functionary, notoriously trustworthy amid a nest of bureau­cratic corruption, who in off hours indulged his taste for books and high quality prints whereas complying dutifully with the rituals of domestic life. A number of blinding tragedies inter­rupted the floor monotony. Quickly after Melville went to work within the customs workplace, his teenaged son Malcolm — who slept with a gun underneath his pillow and had typically quarreled together with his father — blew his brains out for no clear cause. A yr later the opposite son, Stanwix, set sail for China to start a downward spiral of indecisive drifting, modeled perhaps on Typee and Omoo, and terminated by an early demise in far-off Cali­fornia. Melville himself disappeared from literary society, and by the mid-’80s was being written of in these terms: “Herman Melville exemplifies the transiency of liter­ary status . . . Although his early works are still fashionable, the writer is usually imagined to be lifeless.”

In truth he had not even stopped writing; he had simply stopped addressing an audi­ence. Melville’s specific silence took the form of poetry. He might have nursed a quick hope that the Civil Warfare poems of Battle­-Pieces would elevate him to the rank of public bard; however no one observed and few would have appreciated his delicate modifica­tion of army rhetoric by means of pictures of “the parched ones stretched in ache” or “the rusted gun,/Green footwear filled with bones, the mouldering coat/And cuddled-up skel­eton.” Battle-Pieces is Melville’s least per­sonal guide (his personal tumult for once sub­sides into a larger civic solemnity) and the mode of formal recitative through which it’s forged has turn into remote to us. It does include at the least one idiosyncratic masterpiece, “The House-‘Prime,” a “night time piece” registering in Jacobean tones the shock of New York’s draft riots:

No sleep. The sultriness pervades the air
And binds the brain-a dense oppression, such
As tawny tigers feel in matted shades, Vexing their blood and making apt for ravage.
Beneath the celebs the roofy desert spreads
Vacant as Libya.

Melville’s democratic enthusiasm curdles, confronted with an anarchy by which “All civil charms/And priestly spells which late held hearts in sway/. . . like a dream dis­clear up,/ And man rebounds entire aeons again in nature.” It looks like a poem of the subsequent century, and the poet’s grim applause for the forces of martial regulation is just too premon­itory: “Sensible Draco comes, deep in the mid­night time roll/ Of black artillery.”

After the important failure of Battle-Pieces, Melville was free to be indifferent. The ap­plause, rewards, laurel wreaths and honor­ary appointments can be distributed elsewhere: he was left as his own audience of one. Out of that solitude he constructed Clarel, an immensely long poem drawing on his journey to Palestine. Apparently begun within the wake of his son’s suicide, it was pub­lished 10 years later at his uncle’s expense, and was greeted — as could be anticipated­ — with lifeless silence. Melville later cavalierly described Clarel as “eminently adapted for unpopularity”; but his wife supplies a extra anguished glimpse of what it meant to him: “Herman, poor fellow, is in such a frightful­ly nervous state . . . that I am truly afraid to have anybody right here for worry that he shall be upset. solely . . . If ever this dread­ful incubus of a e-book (I call it so as a result of it has undermined all our happiness) will get off Herman’s shoulders I do hope he could also be in better psychological well being.”

Clarel has virtually the air of a self-im­posed penance, as Melville meticulously re­constructs his failure to seek out any trace of God in the Holy Land. This 18,000-line work, with its dozens of characters and dense layers of Bible lore and Orientalia, was probably the most labored, probably the most consciously inventive factor Melville ever did: yet its very elaboration appears designed to stave off an awesome feeling of hollowness. The narrative line is stark: An American divinity scholar has undergone a crisis of faith. Hoping for religious renewal he wanders by way of Jerusalem and across the Judean desert to Bethlehem, in firm with a band of pilgrims representing every shade of credence: sincere piety, fanaticism, mod­ern liberalism, scientific scepticism, with a couple of taciturn Moslems and Druses thrown in for contrast. The talk moves forwards and backwards, while in counterpoint the sacred websites roll by. We is perhaps in the midst of a type of 19th century work depicting a gaggle of vacationers dwarfed by the surround­ing crags and ruins. Young Clarel wavers from one aspect to a different, only to sink deep­er in uncertainty and self-doubt: and, re­turning to Jerusalem to seek out his chaste be­beloved lifeless of fever, he slumps into a perhaps unredeemable despair. Melville systematically frustrates the will for a transcendent resolution. Regardless of the for­mality of its trappings — a ceremonial order­ing of calendrical and geographic compo­nents, a constricting metrical scheme (rhymed tetrameters), a Dantean inter­weaving of symbols — Clarel remains stub­bornly open-ended, dislocated, a monument to unappeasable vacillation. It prays for which means and no which means seems.

Had Melville’s talent at versification been equal to a piece of such size, Clarel can be the good poem which it obliquely im­plies but solely fitfully becomes. The techni­cal constraints too typically weigh him down, and we feel trapped within the thudding transfer­ments of some monstrously cumbersome machine. But Clarel has its fascinations. The meter’s choked, clotted gait induces claustrophobia. Amid incessant photographs of aridity and dying, the poem’s dry and ab­stract speak mirrors the desert’s barrenness: ” ‘Tis horror absolute — severe,/ Lifeless, furious, honeycombed, dumb, fell — / A caked depopulated hell.”

Suffocating because it typically is, Clarel works superbly as concrete poetry. The brief strains, unrolling like a scroll by means of empty area, heighten the physical presence of Melville’s heterogeneous, all the time shocking vocabulary; the location of words on the web page is usually extra vital than symbolic patterns or intellectual arguments. The lay­out’s dizzying verticality, combined with a persistent staccato of enjambment, estab­lishes a jagged topography:

Ignored, the homes sloped from him — 
Terraced or domed, unchimnied, gray,
All stone — a moor of roofs. No play
Of life; no smoke went up, no sound
Besides low hum, and that half drowned. 

Clarel may be described as a symbolic poem concerning the failure of symbolism. The good unifying Biblical photographs are decreased to empty types: just a hill, only a rock, only a tomb. The result of “that huge eclipse” is to make all actions arbitrary. The randomness which once delighted Melville now horrifies him: “No shape astir/Besides at whiles a shadow falls/Athwart the best way, and key in hand/Noiseless applies it, enters so/And vanishes.” The world is all masks, a grainy surface crisscrossed by unintentional comings and goings.

In Clarel, that cipher of a hero, Melville had come to relaxation in an image of ultimate passivity. Laid low with spiritual doubt, by premonitions of political cataclysm, by nag­ging sexual uncertainties, the scholar with­draws from motion altogether. Like Clarel, Melville had by no means actually determined which sex he was drawn to, or whether he didn’t pre­fer a solitary asceticism; as for what sort of government to help, or what God to be­lieve or not consider in, his judgments flut­tered and plunged and reared up with remorseless unpredictability. Writing served as a refuge from that crisis, as Melville discovered how contradictory prospects might be fused collectively in imaginary linguistic buildings. In that paradise he might defer what have been for him unimaginable selections. Moments of flight or procrastination or lifeless calm — when a ship can’t move even if it needs to — turned pockets of eternity.

Maybe in the long run he felt that each one his decisions had been pressured upon him. His last poems brim with nostalgia for a life only half lived: he conjures up the ghosts of lifeless sailors (“The place’s Commander All-a­-Tanto?/ Where’s Orlop Bob singing up from under?/ Where’s Rhyming Ned? has he spun his last canto?/ Where’s Jewsharp Jim? Where’s Rigadoon Joe?”) and recollects “The Typee-truants beneath stars/Unknown to Shakespeare’s Midsummer-Night time.” The final years appear to have been more tranquil than what went before. He might even write: “Healed of my harm, I laud the inhuman sea.” The perfect of these late poems, “Billy within the Darbies,” shaped the seed of his last story, the almost-finished Billy Budd. There an entire drama of wrongful harm, and warped want turned hateful, dissolved right into a reconciliation between the condemned in­nocent and the father-figure who should kill him. The scene is bathed in a resolutely unrevealing luminosity: “There isn’t a telling the sacrament . . . wherever beneath circum­stances at all akin to those here tried to be set forth two of nice Nature’s nobler order embrace. There’s privacy at the time, inviolable to the survivor; the holy oblivion, the sequel to every diviner magnanimity, providentially covers all eventually.” The will to particularize eventually surrenders to the will to sink, to be embraced, to undergo the disciplinary prerogatives of silence: “I’m sleepy, and the oozy weeds about me twist.” ■

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