by Hiatt Woods
I was recently buying gasoline (for my automobile) and as I stood in line to pay the teller I saw a rack of lighters and felt compelled to purchase one, for its artistic irony.
It was a cheap plastic lighter, wrapped in a graphic representation of the U.S. flag with the NASCAR logo splashed over this patriotic backdrop.
The lighter to me was beautiful, because it was in miniature form the same thing that Nascar is. A fuel-burning, heavily ad-sponsored, man-made combustion machine.
The way the “form” of the lighter contributed to its “meaning” hit way too close to home (home = first poetry class, in this case) for me.
Also, it got me to thinking about Moby Dick.
Moby Dick, Melville’s lengthy and celebrated work of fiction depicting the chase of a whale by the same name, is to a whale as my Nascar lighter is to Nascar.
At least, according to Ishmael.
The narrator of the text rambles on about the billions of ways to consider Moby Dick, other whales, and the business of whale hunting for one hundred and thirty five chapters (six hundred and twenty four pages in my edition). He devotes many of these chapters solely to the discussion of a whale’s anatomy, comparing and contrasting different types of whales; their virtues and drawbacks; whether or not they merit pursuit.
He extols the beauty, dignity, enormity, and power of whales, even while he hunts them. He digs deeper, examining the different ways in which whales interact with the world, even commenting that they must have a brain in some way superior to man’s if they are to be capable of deciphering the distinct images which are delivered by their separated eyes.
He describes how to find them, how to catch them, how to dissect them and get the valuable parts out, and how to know what to leave behind.
But for all the time spent staring at the subject “whale” we are left with the distinct impression that all the time our peripheral vision is directed at the subject “man.”
Melville’s text itself is very much like a Whale. It too is immense, and inspires awe from those daring enough to pursue it, provoking more questions than even Ishmael could have concocted from the millions that have cracked its pages in pursuit of understanding.
The novel, like Ishmael’s prototypical whale, is a thing whose existence is well known to most, but whose essence and intricacies are the obsessions of a select few. Many read Moby Dick, perhaps assigned in a class; most only make it through a third of the Spark Notes. I’ll liken these people to whale watchers. Those who study the novel, captivated by the very grand size of it, and its unique composition, those I will liken to Ishmael; some still more to the tortured Captain.
This simple concept is what makes this novel as brilliant (if slightly more so)
than the aforementioned légers de Nascar. The form of the text, with styles varying from chapters of pure cetology to scenes represented in the style of a dramatic text, offers so many facets of this giant beast that one could go crazy in pursuit of it. This “form meets function” aspect of the book is in its self the reason why I would argue for the inclusion of Moby Dick into the Literary Canon.
The idea of Ahab’s obsessive hunt being related by a scientifically inclined weekend-sailor is in and of itself good fodder for an entertaining story. However, it is the construction of the novel itself which allows (forces may be the better word) the reader to undertake a journey that is best described as the love child of Ahab and Ishmael’s respective experiences.
It is one half a hunt for an elusive resolution, one half a truly analytical undertaking.
Firstly, the episodic nature of the chapters lends itself to a disorientation of time and space, much like one might experience on a long sea voyage. The relatively short chapters also give only brief (if detailed) observations of events or epiphanies, mimicking journal entries in a way which helps the reader stop and digest each concept wholly. The brevity of the chapters also lends itself to the possibilities of varied styles of presentation, as from the middle of the novel on we begin to see dramatic scenes, soliloquies, and other variations on the idea of story telling. We see chapters completely devoid of dialogue (even human characters) and some which are almost dialogue entirely.
Secondly, the “outsider” point of view with which we view Captain Ahab’s tale truly reflects his journey better than if he were to lament his feelings as eloquently (and abundantly) as Hamlet. The pounds and pounds of ink which Ishmael dispels in an attempt to understand his captain, without success, is probably on par with how well Ahab himself understands his motivations and actions. This viewpoint, presented by a man who is so intellectual and in control, offers us a view of a central character through the eyes of his foil.
The duality of experience with which we are provided, while having only one real source of information (Ishmael) is an incredible feat. It represents with deft subtlety the battle between passion and rationality, allowing the reader to identify with whatever side he or she will.
As I sit at my coffee table, Nascar lighter resting atop Melville’s great work, it occurs to me that while Nascar probably didn’t intend for people to have a metaphysical realization about the nature of combustion engines and the effects of advertising on commerce and invention, Melville most likely did intend for the self-referential enormity and complexity of his novel to work the minds of his readers into the same half-mad state as Ahab, and to inspire as many questions as Ishmael himself asks.
While there is much to be learned from my lighter (waste vs. want?) I would not consider it to be put up in an art museum, since its construction was accidental. I would however contend that Moby Dick deserves a shelf to itself in the literary canon, if only an example of the effect, the absolute importance, the force of form, and the ways in which it can take a story and make it an experience, a journey, an investigation.
Canonical Thoughts 