Sunday Funday: Elegant Extracts (Moby-Dick)

This week's may not be as fun for some people, but I decided to pull some great quotes from the so-called Great American Novel. (Note: When the title "Great American Novel" was coined, it was NOT in reference to Moby-Dick. In fact, it wasn't in reference to anything, because nothing of the sort existed at the time.)

You might ask why I would do such a thing, and why I am even reading it in the first place. I read it two years ago for a class, and I did a shabby job of it. I now have the same professor and I am required to, once again, read this daunting novel. But I actually love the book. I'm reading it slowly since I want to take it all in.

And listed below are some choice quotes. I selected them for their elegance, their humor, the brilliance of Herman Melville, or for any other of the million reasons this book is so damn good.

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Talk not to me of blasphemy, man; I'd strike the sun if it insulted me. –Chapter 36, "The Quarter-Deck"

"He's killed himself," she cried . . . "it will be the ruin of my house. Has the poor lad a sister? Where's that girl?–there, Betty, go to Snarles the Painter, and tell him to paint me a sign, with–'no suicides permitted here, and no smoking in the parlor;'–might as well kill both birds at once. Kill? –Chapter 17, "The Ramadan"

Illustration by A. Burnham Shute, from the 1892 edition published by Harper

For small erections may be finished by their first architects; grand ones, true ones, ever leave the copestone to posterity. God keep me from ever completing anything. This whole book is but a draught–nay, but the draught of a draught. Oh, Time, Strength, Cash, and Patience! –Chapter 32, "Cetology"

Better sleep with a sober cannibal than a drunken Christian. –Chapter 3, "The Spouter-Inn"

From www.cqaf.com

Finally, I always go to sea as a sailor, because of the wholesome exercise and pure air of the forecastle deck. For as in this world, head winds are far more prevalent than winds from astern (that is, if you never violate the Pythagorean* maxim) . . . –Chapter 1, "Loomings"

*The Greek philosopher Pythagoras (6th century B.C.E.) advised not eating beans because they cause flatulence. Melville jokes about the location of the tiny privies on the sides of whaleships–toward the bow, while the captain's quarters are at the stern.

Moby-Dick and Ahab, by Claus Hoie (1911, Norwegian/American)

Erskine was on the other side; and he then supported it by saying, that though the gentleman had originally harpooned the lady, and had once had her fast, and only by reason of the great stress of her plunging viciousness, had at last abandoned her; yet abandon her he did, so that she became a loose-fish; and therefore when a subsequent gentleman re-harpooned her, the lady then became that subsequent gentleman's property, along with whatever harpoon might have been found sticking in her. –Chapter 89, "Fast-Fish and Loose-Fish"

It was our business to squeeze these lumps back into fluid. A sweet and unctuous duty! No wonder that in old times this sperm was such a favorite cosmetic. Such a clearer! such a sweetener! such a softener! such a delicious mollifier! After having my hands in it for only a few minutes, my fingers felt like eels, and began, as it were, to serpentine and spiralize. –Chapter 94, "A Squeeze of the Hand"

From www.theglitteringeye.com

And one of my absolute favourites:

We felt very nice and snug, the more so since it was so chilly out of doors; indeed out of bed-clothes too, seeing that there was no fire in the room. The more so, I say, because truly to enjoy bodily warmth, some small part of you must be cold, for there is no quality in this world that is not what it is merely by contrast. Nothing exists in itself. If you flatter yourself that you are all over comfortable, and have been so a long time, then you cannot be said to be comfortable anymore. But if, like Queequeg and me in the bed, the tip of your nose or the crown of your head be slightly chilled, why then, indeed, in the general consciousness you feel most delightfully and unmistakably warm. For this reason a sleeping apartment should never be furnished with a fire, which is one of the luxurious discomforts of the rich. For the height of this sort of deliciousness is to have nothing but the blanket between you and your snugness and the cold of the outer air. Then there you lie like the one warm spark in the heart of an arctic crystal. –Chapter 11, "Nightgown"

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Dirty Projectors – Stillness is the Move

A talk with Pete Hamill is serendipitous

Everyone should get the chance to see life through Pete Hamill’s eyes. His books undoubtedly give you a glimpse of it, as I mentioned in my review of his book Downtown: My Manhattan, but reading his words are nothing like listening to them. 

Today, Hamill came to talk to my Beat class at NYU and my 10 fellow students and I were engrossed by his 90-minute talk. In person, he looks just like he does on the cover of the book, but a little bit older and wiser. His eyelids sag a bit, giving him a wispy, sentimental look. 

We grilled him on his life – from his bouts with alcoholism to his divorce, from realizing he was a writer (and not a painter) to his optimism for the Internet. We each got the chance to ask him questions, but sometimes, I forgot my questions in his captivating narrative. He told us about the old journalism days and, though he never had a beat, he loved talking to musicians. This is when I stopped thinking and just turned to listen. 

“Music, to me, is the highest art,” he said. (Yes! I thought.) “The problem with musicians is that it’s hard for them to explain themselves. They don’t have a language because they don’t need one.” (Yes, yes, yes!) 

And the most fascinating person he ever interviewed was not Gloria Cardinale, as he joked (though any arts journalist would be happy to interview her, I’m sure – as would I), but Max Roach, a famous African-American drummer who worked with great jazz musicians like Charlie Parker, Miles Davis and Duke Ellington. Hamill himself talks about them as if they were here only yesterday. He manages to combine days of yore with modernity in a wonderful grandpa-esque form of storytelling. 

Now, Hamill enjoys a life split between New York and Cuernavaca, Mexico. He’s married to a Japanese writer (this being his second marriage), and he has two daughters. But he is still wed to New York. In our interview, Hamill described New York as “existential,” “a marvel,” and a city that’s about possibility, and “the remaking of self.” 

His book doesn’t cover it, so we had to ask: is there anything Pete Hamill, New York’s wonder boy, hates about the city? Definitely. Some things annoy him, from the Starbucks on every corner to women who cart around nine-year-olds in strollers (and how the strollers can be like Hummers, he said.) 

He hates not seeing children wandering around the streets of Brooklyn, getting themselves in trouble and falling in love with the wrong people. (“I just worry that they’re having virtual childhoods,” he said.)

Another one of his hates, which I felt at heart because I hate it too, is the disappearance of great bookstores and record shops. He described how marvelous it is to walk into a store for one thing (a certain book or record) and walking out with something else. You can’t do that with iTunes or Amazon.com. 

“You lose a sense of serendipity,” Hamill said. 

Man, how can he do that! He just made me fall into a whim of sentimentality – one of the things I wasn’t fond of in his book – and love it! I lost my usual cynicism in the midst of his tales. He signed a postcard that I got in Japan for me. He also was more than happy for a photo op. (Photo to come soon!) 

All I can say now is: Thank you, Mr. Hamill.

Book Review: Pete Hamill's "Downtown: My Manhattan"

Pete Hamill knows New York. There’s no arguing that. His book Downtown: My Manhattan, first published in 2004, is a crash-course in New York history and culture, both for natives and outsiders. He skillfully blends nostalgia with New York now, giving readers history while making his present-day activities somehow relevant.


The son of Irish immigrants, Hamill incorporates his own Brooklyn-born past with the immigrant tale. He takes readers on a walking tour of his downtown, pulling us from Battery Park to Times Square (and beyond!). He weaves through history, narrating the Knickerbocker tale, revealing Herman Melville’s Pearl Street birthplace, reporting the mysterious appearance of the angry bull in front of the Stock Exchange and telling about the founding of the Village Voice. There’s just so much to take in!

Nostalgia is key, mostly because of the constant loss – and acceptance of loss – that New Yorkers face every day. Hell, I become nostalgic for New York’s past, and I have only lived here a few years.

His style is conversational, but still eloquent. His stories are informed and sentimental, and they add context to a city that over eight million people call home – eight million people who probably know little about its amazing story.

The only drawback of the book is that the reading can sometimes become tiresome or heavy. This is not because of Hamill himself, mind you, but because of constant facts and historical details that weigh down the narrative at times. Well, sometimes it's Hamill's fault. He gets a bit too sentimental every once in a while, which might distract readers (like me). But it isn’t long before he makes his next reference to the film Black Orpheus or to playwright Harold Pinter or some other fascinating detail, pulling readers back into the glorious past of New York.

It’s a good read, definitely. Still, not as good as Miroslav Sasek’s children’s book, This Is New York.

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Telepathe – So Fine