MOBY-DICK: “But now that he had apparently made every preparation for death; now that his coffin was proved a good fit, Queequeg suddenly rallied; soon there seemed no need of the carpenter’s box: and thereupon, when some expressed their delighted surprise, he, in substance, said, that the cause of his sudden convalescence was this;—at a critical moment, he had just recalled a little duty ashore, which he was leaving undone; and therefore had changed his mind about dying: he could not die yet, he averred. They asked him, then, whether to live or die was a matter of his own sovereign will and pleasure. He answered, certainly. In a word, it was Queequeg’s conceit, that if a man made up his mind to live, mere sickness could not kill him: nothing but a whale, or a gale, or some violent, ungovernable, unintelligent destroyer of that sort.”
I experience an abrupt relaxation, a lifting of tensions, and, with this, a restoration of vision, so marked, the dark corners and recesses of the attic stand out so sharply—that I seem to have gained new powers. Random motives, impulses to shift and rearrange limbs and muscles, occur throughout my frame. I am restless, moving, wanting to move in ways I have never tried before . . .
Melville: “Let us speak, tho’ we show all our faults and weaknesses,—for it is a sign of strength to be weak, to know it, and out with it . . .”
Reviving within myself, I am aware also of external motion, motion of my body as a whole, from the outside, and there are the two: inside and outside, working with and against one another . . .
Stretched loosely in the chair, giving the sensations full play, I am aware of fresh sources of energy opening in me, opening barely in time to be poured into the increasing demands, both in action and duration, that are to be made upon me . . .
Melville, after MOBY-DICK: “Lord, when shall we be done growing? As long as we have anything more to do, we have done nothing.”
and Las Casas, describing Christopher, embarking on the third voyage: “. . . wherefore it appeared to him that what he already had done was not sufficient but that he must renew his labors . . .”
I remember the three occasions—but especially the first—of Linda’s pregnancies . . . our watching and wondering as the end of her term approached, what day or night it would be when we would hurry to the hospital . . . the obvious pleasure with which she allowed me to place my hand on her, to try to anticipate, as husband, father, and doctor, the exact hour . . . her figure, short and broad, so exquisitely designed for childbirth, carrying the weight lower and lower, as the head approached the cervix, the ultimate part of its pear-shaped world, until it seemed that the infant must drop at any moment—in the kitchen, the bathroom, or on the bed where he began . . .
Columbus: “. . . it is impossible to give a correct account of all our movements, because I was carried away by the current so many days without seeing land.”
and from the “Libretto”: “. . . not very far from there they found a stream of water from east to west, so swift and impetuous that the Admiral says that never since he has sailed . . . has he been more afraid.”
I am shaken—head, ribs, and limbs—by a tremendous effort . . .
Columbus: “At this time the river forced a channel for itself, by which I managed, with great difficulty, to extricate . . .”
and Las Casas: “Arriving at the said mouth . . . he found a great struggle between the fresh water striving to go out to the sea and the salt water of the sea striving to enter the gulf, and it was so strong and fearful, that it raised a great swell, like a very high hill, and with this, both waters made a noise and thundering, from east to west, very great and fearful, with currents of water, and after one came four great waves one after the other, which made contending currents; here they thought to perish . . .”
“It pleased the goodness of God that from the same danger safety and deliverance came to them and the current of the fresh water overcame the current of the salt water and carried the ships safely out, and thus they were placed in security; because when God wills that one or many shall be kept alive, water is a remedy for them.”
THE ODYSSEY: “Here at last Ulysses’ knees and strong hands failed him, for the sea had completely broken him. His body was all swollen, and his mouth and nostrils ran down like a river with sea water, so that he could neither breathe nor speak, and lay swooning from near exhaustion; presently, when he had got his breath and came to himself again, he took off the scarf that Leucothea had given him and threw it back into the salt stream of the river, whereon Leucothea received it into her hands from the wave that bore it towards her. Then he left the river, laid himself down among the rushes, and kissed the bounteous earth.”
I am invaded by a great warmth, my entire skin surface tingling . . .
(Melville: “. . . as we mortals ourselves spring all naked and scabbardless into the world.”
. . . and with it, an indescribable relief, satisfaction, and well-being. Reaching for the cigar butt, I lean back, stretch my legs, and light up again, relishing the warmth of the match flame, as it nearly burns my face. Drawing lungs full of smoke, I tilt my head against the back of the chair, and watch the clouds, floating in the yellow lamplight to the rafters. I recall the cigars I smoked and gave away at the plant on the occasions of Mike Jr.’s birth, our firstborn; and, with the tobacco smoke, I taste again the pleasure, the pride that I enjoyed at that time—pride such as a man might feel at the mouth of the Mississippi or Amazon, sharing in those waters that push back the ocean, the waters they are in the act of joining . . .