The interior of my head is an ocean, vast and unvarying, the watery horizon curving as with the curve of the globe. There is no island, no source of direction, or action. Floating, centerless, in this expanse, I am ready to drown . . .
But there is a sudden change: my left leg—or that which had been my left leg—comes back to me: I feel blood and warmth entering again, sweeping in waves from the hip, and with this, the rest of me, all of my body becomes charged with sensation . . .
There is also a difference: sinking in one ocean, I have risen to the surface of another—in a different hemisphere, or on the other side of the equator. The heart beats, the blood flows, the lungs inhale and discharge air—but all are radically altered. Reaching for the butt of the cigar resting in the ashtray, I am surprised to discover the gesture originating, not in my right hand, but in my left. My arm and shoulder, my whole left side, ache and feel uncomfortable—but this is not so strange as when I try to countermand the order, originate the gesture as I would normally, from the right. Plunging once more into the ocean, I attempt to force myself back, to force the gesture, and all gestures, to emerge and spring from the right: my body becomes rigid, all the machinery, all the moving parts, jammed . . .
PIERRE: “. . . a sudden, unwonted, and all-pervading sensation seized him. He knew not where he was; he did not have any ordinary life-feeling at all. He could not see; though instinctively putting his hand to his eyes, he seemed to feel that the lids were open. Then he was sensible of a combined blindness, and vertigo, and staggering; before his eyes a million green meteors danced; he felt his foot tottering on the curb, he put out his hands, and knew no more for the time. When he came to himself he found that he was lying crosswise in the gutter, dabbled with mud and slime. He raised himself to try if he could stand; but the fit was entirely gone.”
and Murray, commenting on this: “Although there is no record of Melville’s having suffered an attack of syncope, there is verisimilitude in his description of Pierre’s fainting. Furthermore, the time relation of Pierre’s attack . . . would indicate that Melville himself had experienced syncope.”
(From the medical book: “. . . characterized by an abrupt onset, with uneasiness, weakness, restlessness, vague abdominal discomfort associated with moderate nausea, lightheadedness, blurring of vision, inability to walk, cold perspiration, collapse, unconsciousness, and sometimes a flaccid paralysis and mild convulsions . . .”
Melville, standing on a Pacific island—TYPEE—floating up to effervescent MARDI—charging, then, full force, back to the origin and beginning of things—the center of the whale-herd, east of the Straits of Sunda—and turning, to plunge . . .
(from a letter, written before MOBY-DICK: “I love all men who dive. Any fish can swim near the surface, but it takes a great whale to go down stairs five miles or more . . .”
. . . plunge to the depths and bottom of the ocean, to drown, as PIERRE . . .
rising, then, struggling to disgorge the ocean from his lungs (and his head), to find another island, another origin of action,
through syncope: fainting—a small and imitation death—perhaps a drowning . . . in effect, saying to bimself—and to any who would listen:
“I have to change centers, and I have to drown to do it.”
Failed as an author—and as a Pittsfield farmer—failing now in health, to the extent that the family had him examined by Dr. Holmes in regard to his sanity—Melville set about in his own way to recenter: he took to writing verse . . .
“For poetry is not a thing of ink and rhyme, but of thought and act. . .” (Melville)
The joints, the motion-sources of my body, remain rigid, the bones and muscles forcing against one another. My tongue and eyelids are heavy, and
I recall a time when Carl came home for a visit—it was just before the war, and I was away in medical school: he was experiencing mysterious convulsions, and the doctors for some time withheld a diagnosis, uncertain of what term to use—although I knew they suspected a recurrence of hydrocephalus. Mother and I were subjected to the electroencephalograph, in search of genetic dysrhythmia—but the findings were negative. Carl experienced all the typical preconvulsive phenomena—unexplained faints, attacks of giddiness, sleepiness, myoclonic jerks—and finally the diagnosis was made: acquired epilepsy . . .
(the word meaning to “seize upon”: as a drowning man would seize upon an island . . .
Perhaps because I was studying medicine—and was, as well, his brother—Carl sent me reports on his seizures . . . fragmentary letters, notes jotted on old pieces of wrapping paper, or the backs of prescriptions:
“A touch of fear . . . great thickness and heaviness, moving to my tongue . . . last stage before the attack.
“This time the aura was black, and the closing-in type . . .
“It is always flashover, definite—like the stepping out of a warm room into the cold . . .
“Have discovered I can induce the aura: driving the car, I put myself as someone in one of the other cars, then someone in another car, then another, and so forth—an overwhelmed-by-numbers bizzniss turns up, and right under (or after) that: the aura . . .
“. . . a breeze . . . gateway to a fabulous world, everything maneuverable . . . like an explosion, reaching, spreading into widening space, all white . . .
“As for question of the head and interpenetration . . . the effect is gradual . . . as for shape, configuration, the same, but as for size, I don’t know . . .
“While I write this, I feel the approach of the aura. Realize that I have walked past where it is stored . . . go back and contact it . . . now it has me, full force . . . as long as I keep my eyes closed, it’s there . . . Feeling: it’s all in my head, and I’m in and occupy very little of it . . . all the world in there (or here) since my head is the limit of the world . . . I am a little bigger than the rest of the universe . . . the feeling now persists even with eyes open: I make desperate efforts to get away from it . . .
“Thought, under attack: I must recap the birth of the universe . . .”
(from the medical book: “A patient who invariably dislocated his right shoulder as he fell, explained this by saying that he would see a star before him for which he would reach . . .”
and Carl: “A dream: conjure up a chorus, with the director (thinfaced) telling them to start the theme, god damnit, on the UP beat! Chorus furious, marches on him, on the strong beat . . . feeling of horror . . .”
(the medical book: “The authors present the case of a woman aged 44 in whom extensive clinical investigation failed to reveal an acquired cerebral lesion, but which represented a case of musicogenic epilepsy. The patient experienced increases of blood pressure, heart rate, and respiration while listening to music. Fits could not be induced by pure tones, although the patient felt emotional to a tone of 512 cycles which persisted and was varied in loudness. Different kinds of music were invariably followed by a fit within five minutes.”
The period in which Carl had attacks lasted only a few months, terminating as abruptly as it started; and for this, the doctors had no explanation. Nor would Carl himself speak of it, then or thereafter . . .
Melville, collapsing the world of Pittsfield and the Pacific, salvaged the remains, hoarded them into 104 East 26th Street—fortunate to be taken on as outdoor customs inspector (badge #75), Port of New York, at a reward of $4 per diem (later reduced to $3.60). Reduced, circumscribed, and aging, he still thrashed . . .
From DANIEL ORME (and perhaps he meant DANIEL OR ME): . . . his moodiness and mutterings, his strange freaks, starts, eccentric shrugs and grimaces . . .”
and from a contemporary review of Melville’s verse: “Mr. Melville has abundant force and fire . . . But he has written too rapidly to avoid great crudities. His poetry runs into the epileptic. His rhymes are fearful . . .”