Rereading Moby-Dick: “so noble and so sparkling”

Not a comforting thought to an ignorant and slow reader like me, but Tom (Wuthering Expectations) was right when he said there’s no reading deeply without reading widely. Moby-Dick feels different—and even better—now that I have read (and immersed myself in) Shakespeare. The influence is obvious: the language, the madness and grandeur of Ahab (in whom we find the rage of Lear and Timon), the play-like chapters, the references, and so on. 

I forgot, for example, that there’s a Shakespeare quote in the “Extracts”: 

“Very like a whale.”—Hamlet. 

References abound, like the chapter titled “Queen Mab”, or: 

“… But I omit them as altogether obsolete; and can hardly help suspecting them for mere sounds, full of Leviathanism, but signifying nothing.” (ch.32)

And plenty of others. 

Sometimes it’s less obvious: 

“Men may seem detestable as joint stock-companies and nations; knaves, fools, and murderers there may be; men may have mean and meagre faces; but man, in the ideal, is so noble and so sparkling, such a grand and glowing creature, that over any ignominious blemish in him all his fellows should run to throw their costliest robes.” (ch.26)

Does that not make you think of Hamlet?

“HAMLET […] What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god: the beauty of the world, the paragon of animals; and yet to me, what is this quintessence of dust?” (Act 2 scene 2)

Both are about the contradiction in man, but Ishmael’s quote is the inverse of Hamlet’s. 

He goes on: 

“That immaculate manliness we feel within ourselves, so far within us, that it remains intact though all the outer character seem gone; bleeds with keenest anguish at the undraped spectacle of a valor-ruined man. Nor can piety itself, at such a shameful sight, completely stifle her upbraidings against the permitting stars. But this august dignity I treat of, is not the dignity of kings and robes, but that abounding dignity which has no robed investiture. Thou shalt see it shining in the arm that wields a pick or drives a spike; that democratic dignity which, on all hands, radiates without end from God; Himself! The great God absolute! The centre and circumference of all democracy! His omnipresence, our divine equality!” (ibid.) 

That makes me think of that moment in King Lear when Lear asks “Is man no more than this?” and realises the shared humanity between himself and a beggar, and wants to take off his lendings. But Melville—shall I say Ishmael?—isn’t just talking about shared humanity; he talks about the dignity of each individual and all humanity. He makes a stronger, more emphatic point about equality. 

____________________________________

I still don’t understand why there’s a hyphen in the title. 

Anyway, reading Moby-Dick, I get that bliss from every line as I get reading Shakespeare. One doesn’t experience that with every writer. Dickens is another one, Bleak House most of all. Nabokov. But especially Shakespeare and Melville. Much as I love Tolstoy, Chekhov, or Cervantes, there’s some barrier, some distance as I read them in translation and don’t have their exact words.  

The Aeneid: “I sail for Italy not of my own free will”

 Aeneas Defeating Turnus by Luca Giordano.

1/ At some point in the poem, after a lot of fighting, Aeneas says to the people there:  

“What unmerited misfortune, Latins, 

Could have embroiled you in so sad a war 

That now you turn your backs on us, your friends? 

[…] 

Never should I have come here had not Fate 

Allotted me this land for settlement, 

Nor do I war upon your people…” 

(Book 11) 

(translated by Robert Fitzgerald)

There is a much stronger sense of humans being bound by fate in the Aeneid than in Homer’s epics: in the Odyssey, Odysseus is cursed to wander for years and to finally return home without his men, and he gets help from Athena and Penelope, but he also uses his own strength and intelligence to return home and reclaim his place; in the Iliad, Akhilleus is told to have two possible destinies, and seals his fate the moment he returns to battle after Patroklos’s death; the entire Aeneid is about Aeneas being bound by fate and following the path that has been drawn for him. 

The two characters who fight against fate and therefore become more interesting are Turnus (who loves Lavinia) and Juno (the Romans’ Hera). 

The quote from the headline comes from Book 4—Aeneas says that to Dido. 

2/ There are many great passages through the poem. This one, for instance: 

“The two assailants were like fires begun

On two sides of a dry wood, making laurel 

Thickets crackle, or like snow-fed streams

That foam and roar seaward down mountain-sides

And leave, each one, a watercourse laid waste.

With no less devastating power these two, 

Aeneas and Turnus, cut their way through battle.”

(Book 12) 

I like that. At some point, I would have to check out other translations, but I’m fond of Robert Fitzgerald. 

3/ I’ve now finished reading the Aeneid, after over 2 weeks.

I like my friend Himadri’s idea about the parallels between Aeneas and Hamlet: both men have to ignore their own feelings and inclinations, to fulfil some obligations—Aeneas is to lead his people to Italy and set up a new kingdom and Hamlet is to avenge the death of his father. 

The problem with the Aeneid, however, is that Virgil doesn’t really depict the struggle. I would even say that the characters in the Aeneid don’t have much of an inner life, except Dido and maybe Turnus. I’m not judging Virgil against Shakespeare—I’m comparing him to Homer. In the Iliad, we can see Akhillleus’s wrath; we can see him develop and change; we see him refuse to fight but get drawn back into it after death of his close friend, and become a ruthless killing machine, rejecting his own humanity; but in the end, he regains his humanity as he meets Priam and thinks of his own father. In the Odyssey, Odysseus might not change as much, but he’s multifaceted and self-contradictory; he’s intelligent, resourceful, a great actor and storyteller, but also proud, dishonest, sometimes reckless and ruthless. In the Iliad, we can see Akhilleus grapple with his own mortality. In the Odyssey, we can see Odysseus calculate the steps to get home safely and watch everybody and regain his kingdom. Compared to them, I don’t think Aeneas has much of an inner life, by which I mean that we see him act but don’t see him think. 

When Virgil writes about the love story between Aeneas and Dido, he focuses almost entirely on Dido, not showing Aeneas’s struggle between his own feelings and his duty. Book 6 is the only time we come a bit closer to Aeneas, as he travels to the Underworld and comes across the ghost of Dido, and only now realises that she has died. Later on, Virgil doesn’t depict his thoughts either—I don’t even know how Aeneas feels about marrying Lavinia. How does she compare to Dido? Or his dead wife Creusa? We don’t know. 

We don’t see Lavinia either—we are told in some brief moments that she’s unhappy about having (inadvertently) caused so much suffering—but how does she feel about Turnus? Or Aeneas? No idea. 

Considering his reputation, I don’t doubt that Virgil’s a great poet—I just can’t tell as I read the Aeneid in translation—I can only judge it as a narrative. What I see is that the characters don’t have much of an inner life, generally speaking, and Aeneas is a rather bland character—he doesn’t have much of a personality. And if we look at the two characters who try to fight against fate, Juno is almost entirely defined by her anger, her hatred of the Trojans; Turnus is more interesting, he may be largely defined by anger and pride, but we do see his disappointment, frustration, doubt, and so on. 

I would say that the most vividly drawn character in the Aeneid is Dido—the story of her and Aeneas is one of the saddest, most haunting stories in all of literature. There are quite a few moments throughout the Aeneid, but the best parts, in my opinion, are Book 4 (the story of Aeneas and Dido) and Book 6 (the Underworld), followed by Book 2 (the sack of Troy) and Book 9 (Nisus and Euryalus). 

A coffee diary

Over the past few months, I’ve been getting more properly into coffee, with my French press.

As suggested by the title, I was writing down my thoughts as I was trying the coffee, which means that later I’m going to keep adding to this same post as I try new types (even though I’ve got a favourite for now). 

Lavazza Rossa: A blend of Brazilian Arabica and African Robustas. Smells good, tastes all right, with hints of chocolate. Good start for someone just getting into coffee (and setting off to become a coffee snob—can’t wait!).  

Uganda – The Coffee Gardens from Curious Roo: Arabica (Nyasaland varietal). The tasting notes are said to be mango, cherry liqueur, dark chocolate. The first impression was that it tasted a bit odd. After I changed the dosing, I enjoyed it much more though it’s still a bit odd, a mixture of tastes—perhaps this is what the connoisseur would call “an interesting taste”. 

Dragon (Brazil) from Dark Arts: A mixture of varietals, Arabica or hybrid. The tasting notes are said to be roasted almond, raisin, caramel. Much slighter taste than the Ugandan coffee. I’ve sampled this twice, after the Ugandan coffee from Curious Roo and after the Nicaraguan coffee (Mask of the Mire) from Dark Arts, and think the best option would be 5 tablespoons for 2 cups. Tastes better at 6, but has too much caffeine. I probably shouldn’t be writing about these things when I’m making coffee without a scale and still experimenting with dosing. 

Eternal Light (Colombia) from Dark Arts: Arabica (Yellow Bourbon and Caturra). The tasting notes are said to be blood orange, apricot, Earl Grey. Sharper and more acidic than the other coffee I have tried, which reminds me of the sour coffee in Norway. Best option is 5 tablespoons for 2 cups, with a bit more milk. 

Waterfall (Colombia) from Dark Arts: Arabica (Caturra). The tasting notes are said to be strawberry, black cherry, dark chocolate. Acidic. Best option is 4 tablespoons for 2 cups, a bit slight; more than that, you get a nasty aftertaste. I’m slowly getting all the different kinds of coffee confused, but I’m not really a fan of this one. 

Mix of Eternal Light and Waterfall: All right.  

Don Domingo (Colombia) from Hermanos: Arabica (Castillo). The tasting notes are said to be dark chocolate, caramel, marmalade, red grape. Best option is 5 tablespoons for 2 cups. This one is all right, less acidic than Eternal Light and Waterfall, though there’s a slightly bitter aftertaste I don’t particularly like. 

Catnip (Ethiopia) from Dark Arts: Arabica (74110, 74112). The tasting notes are said to be jasmine, apricot, candied lemon. Smells good, tastes good (4 tablespoons for 2 cups). I like this, otherwise would be disappointing as Ethiopia is the birthplace of coffee. Doesn’t taste acidic and doesn’t have a bitter aftertaste like Colombian coffee. This is my favourite so far.  

Mask of the Mire (Nicaragua) from Dark Arts: Arabica (Parainema, Red Catuai) and hybrid (Sarchimor). The tasting notes are said to be dates, roasted almonds, caramel. I can smell almonds. This one is all right and doesn’t have high acidity or a bitter aftertaste, but it also doesn’t have strong flavours. This one might be my second favourite.

The Aeneid: “their bows went under like a school of dolphins”

Nisus and Euryalus by Jean-Baptiste Roman.

1/ As I have heard from other people, the Aeneid has two halves: the first half is modelled after the Odyssey, as Aeneas flees from Troy and wanders for seven years searching for a new home (breaking a woman’s heart on the way); the second half is modelled after the Iliad, as Aeneas follows orders from the gods and sets up a new kingdom in Italy and has wars with local people.

As Aeneas settles in Latium, King Latinus happily accepts him because of oracles that he should marry his daughter Lavinia to a stranger/ foreigner. But Juno (the Roman equivalent of Hera) is not happy—that Troy has been destroyed is not enough, that the Trojans have wandered for seven years without a home is not enough—she hates them—she causes discord between Latinus and his wife Amata, then wakes up resentment and anger in Turnus, the main suitor of Lavinia. 

“With this she hurled a torch and planted it 

Below the man’s chest, smoking with hellish light. 

Enormous terror woke him, a cold sweat 

Broke out all over him and soaked his body 

Then driven wild, shouting for arms, for arms 

He ransacked house and chamber. Lust of steel 

Raged in him, brute insanity of war, 

And wrath above all, as when fiery sticks 

Are piled with a loud crackling by the side 

Of a caldron boiling, and the water heaves 

And seethes inside the vessel, steaming up 

With foam, and bubbling higher, till the surface 

Holds no more, and vapor mounts to heaven.

So, then, in violation of the peace, 

He told the captains of his troops to march 

On King Latinus…” 

(Book 7) 

(translated by Robert Fitzgerald) 

I bet Shakespeare loved that passage. 

2/ In my blog posts about Homer, I pointed out that there were a lot more epic similes (Homeric similes) in the Iliad than in the Odyssey. In the Aeneid, there are also more epic similes in the Iliad half than in the Odyssey half. 

“[…] And they all thronged, 

Outshouting one another, round the palace. 

Latinus, though, like a seacliff stood fast, 

Like a seacliff that when the great sea comes

To shatter on it, and the waves like hounds

Give tongue on every side, holds grandly on, 

Though reefs and foaming rocks thunder offshore

And seaweed flung against it streams away.” 

(ibid.) 

Like Homer, Virgil compares the fighters to animals: 

“Now Turnus furiously this way and that 

Rode round the walls and looked for a way in 

Where there was none. As a wolf on the prowl 

Round a full sheepfold howls at crevices

Enduring wind and rain at dead of night, 

While nestled safe under the ewes the lambs 

Keep up their bleating; he, beside himself, 

Tormented by accumulated hunger, 

Jaws athirst for blood, in all his fury

Cannot reach them, rend them…” 

(Book 9) 

Here Turnus is compared to a bird (hawk or eagle, I guess), and then a wolf again: 

“And taking hold 

Of the man hanging there he tore him down 

With a big chunk of wall—as when the bird 

Who bears Jove’s bolt takes wing, lugging a hare 

Or snowy swan aloft in crooked talons, 

Or when Mars’ wolf steals from the fold a lamb 

Whose mother, bleating, seeks it…” 

(ibid.) 

Euryalus, a young Trojan, is compared to a lion, which is one of the most common images in the Iliad.  

“… Think of an unfed lion

Havocking crowded sheepfolds, being driven 

Mad by hunger: how with his jaws he rends 

And mauls the soft flock dumb with fear, and growls 

And feeds with bloody maw.” 

(ibid.) 

You get the idea. The quote in the headline also comes from Book 9. 

Pity that I can only read the Aeneid in translation—it’s probably so good to read in Latin. 

3/ Another thing Virgil has learnt from Homer is that he tries to add life to the warriors—their deaths are not just abstract losses. In Book 9, for example, he gets us to spend time with Nisus and Euryalus, to know them and see their friendship. When they die:  

“The attackers’ heads, indeed—a ghastly sight—

They fixed on spears, and lifted, and bore out 

In taunting parade: Euryalus and Nisus.”

(ibid.) 

It’s an awful image—we feel the sorrows of Trojans: 

“They stood in sorrow, moved by those grim heads 

Impaled and dripping gore—heads too well known 

To their unhappy fellows…” 

(ibid.) 

Virgil also adds a scene of Euryalus’s mother wailing as she sees her son brutally killed, beheaded, and unburied. It’s heart-rending. 

However, generally speaking, I still think Homer is better: in the Iliad, every death matters, every one that dies is an individual. All the fighting and killing in the Iliad were gruelling and tough to read after a while, but Homer got me to care about the characters, especially the Trojans, and got me to like Hektor and take an interest in Akhilleus—Virgil doesn’t really have me interested in the characters and their war. 

I’m going to refrain from commenting on Aeneas till I’ve finished reading the whole poem.