Here’s you second daily chapter call. Read it. Love it. Want to remake it. Then go make something and send it to us.
Chapter 31. Queen Mab
Next morning Stubb accosted Flask.
“Such a queer dream, King-Post, I never had. You know the old man’s ivory leg, well I dreamed he kicked me with it; and when I tried to kick back, upon my soul, my little man, I kicked my leg right off! And then, presto! Ahab seemed a pyramid, and I, like a blazing fool, kept kicking at it. But what was still more curious, Flask—you know how curious all dreams are—through all this rage that I was in, I somehow seemed to be thinking to myself, that after all, it was not much of an insult, that kick from Ahab. ‘Why,’ thinks I, ‘what’s the row? It’s not a real leg, only a false leg.’ And there’s a mighty difference between a living thump and a dead thump. That’s what makes a blow from the hand, Flask, fifty times more savage to bear than a blow from a cane. The living member—that makes the living insult, my little man. And thinks I to myself all the while, mind, while I was stubbing my silly toes against that cursed pyramid—so confoundedly contradictory was it all, all the while, I say, I was thinking to myself, ‘what’s his leg now, but a cane—a whalebone cane. Yes,’ thinks I, ‘it was only a playful cudgelling—in fact, only a whaleboning that he gave me—not a base kick. Besides,’ thinks I, ‘look at it once; why, the end of it—the foot part—what a small sort of end it is; whereas, if a broad footed farmer kicked me, THERE’S a devilish broad insult. But this insult is whittled down to a point only.’ But now comes the greatest joke of the dream, Flask. While I was battering away at the pyramid, a sort of badger-haired old merman, with a hump on his back, takes me by the shoulders, and slews me round. ‘What are you ’bout?’ says he. Slid! man, but I was frightened. Such a phiz! But, somehow, next moment I was over the fright. ‘What am I about?’ says I at last. ‘And what business is that of yours, I should like to know, Mr. Humpback? Do YOU want a kick?’ By the lord, Flask, I had no sooner said that, than he turned round his stern to me, bent over, and dragging up a lot of seaweed he had for a clout—what do you think, I saw?—why thunder alive, man, his stern was stuck full of marlinspikes, with the points out. Says I, on second thoughts, ‘I guess I won’t kick you, old fellow.’ ‘Wise Stubb,’ said he, ‘wise Stubb;’ and kept muttering it all the time, a sort of eating of his own gums like a chimney hag. Seeing he wasn’t going to stop saying over his ‘wise Stubb, wise Stubb,’ I thought I might as well fall to kicking the pyramid again. But I had only just lifted my foot for it, when he roared out, ‘Stop that kicking!’ ‘Halloa,’ says I, ‘what’s the matter now, old fellow?’ ‘Look ye here,’ says he; ‘let’s argue the insult. Captain Ahab kicked ye, didn’t he?’ ‘Yes, he did,’ says I—’right HERE it was.’ ‘Very good,’ says he—’he used his ivory leg, didn’t he?’ ‘Yes, he did,’ says I. ‘Well then,’ says he, ‘wise Stubb, what have you to complain of? Didn’t he kick with right good will? it wasn’t a common pitch pine leg he kicked with, was it? No, you were kicked by a great man, and with a beautiful ivory leg, Stubb. It’s an honour; I consider it an honour. Listen, wise Stubb. In old England the greatest lords think it great glory to be slapped by a queen, and made garter-knights of; but, be YOUR boast, Stubb, that ye were kicked by old Ahab, and made a wise man of. Remember what I say; BE kicked by him; account his kicks honours; and on no account kick back; for you can’t help yourself, wise Stubb. Don’t you see that pyramid?’ With that, he all of a sudden seemed somehow, in some queer fashion, to swim off into the air. I snored; rolled over; and there I was in my hammock! Now, what do you think of that dream, Flask?”
“I don’t know; it seems a sort of foolish to me, tho.'”
“May be; may be. But it’s made a wise man of me, Flask. D’ye see Ahab standing there, sideways looking over the stern? Well, the best thing you can do, Flask, is to let the old man alone; never speak to him, whatever he says. Halloa! What’s that he shouts? Hark!”
“Mast-head, there! Look sharp, all of ye! There are whales hereabouts!
“If ye see a white one, split your lungs for him!
“What do you think of that now, Flask? ain’t there a small drop of something queer about that, eh? A white whale—did ye mark that, man? Look ye—there’s something special in the wind. Stand by for it, Flask. Ahab has that that’s bloody on his mind. But, mum; he comes this way.”
Chapter 30. The Pipe.
When Stubb had departed, Ahab stood for a while leaning over the bulwarks; and then, as had been usual with him of late, calling a sailor of the watch, he sent him below for his ivory stool, and also his pipe. Lighting the pipe at the binnacle lamp and planting the stool on the weather side of the deck, he sat and smoked.
In old Norse times, the thrones of the sea-loving Danish kings were fabricated, saith tradition, of the tusks of the narwhale. How could one look at Ahab then, seated on that tripod of bones, without bethinking him of the royalty it symbolized? For a Khan of the plank, and a king of the sea, and a great lord of Leviathans was Ahab.
Some moments passed, during which the thick vapour came from his mouth in quick and constant puffs, which blew back again into his face. “How now,” he soliloquized at last, withdrawing the tube, “this smoking no longer soothes. Oh, my pipe! hard must it go with me if thy charm be gone! Here have I been unconsciously toiling, not pleasuring—aye, and ignorantly smoking to windward all the while; to windward, and with such nervous whiffs, as if, like the dying whale, my final jets were the strongest and fullest of trouble. What business have I with this pipe? This thing that is meant for sereneness, to send up mild white vapours among mild white hairs, not among torn iron-grey locks like mine. I’ll smoke no more—”
He tossed the still lighted pipe into the sea. The fire hissed in the waves; the same instant the ship shot by the bubble the sinking pipe made. With slouched hat, Ahab lurchingly paced the planks.
The Town-Ho’s Story.
“thought, Flask!” cried Stubb; “leg catch
boat, stop plug-hole timber toe.” Days, weeks
pass, sail, ivory Pequod swept cruising-
grounds; Azores; Cape de Verdes; Plate, mouth
Rio de la Plata; Carrol Ground, stake, water
local, southerly St. Helena. South-eastward
Cape, distant Crozetts, cruising
ground Right Whalemen, sail loom, Goney.
The Affidavit. Surmises.
narrative;indirect touch interest curious habit
sperm whales, chapter, earlier part, found volume;
matter familiar enlarge, adequate, incredulity
profound ignorance induce minds, natural verity
The Mat-Maker. The First Lowering. The Hyena.
Ahab’s Boat and Crew. Fedallah. The Spirit-Spout.
The Albatross. The Gam.
consume fire purpose, Ahab action view capture Moby
Dick; sacrifice mortal interest passion; nature
wed fiery whaleman, abandon collateral prosecution.
Of the Monstrous Pictures of Whales.
Of the Less Erroneous Pictures of Whales, and the True
Of Whales in Paint; in Teeth; in Wood; in Sheet-Iron; in
cloudy, sultry afternoon; seamen lazily lounge decks, vacant
gaze lead-coloured waters. phantoms, seem, flit deck, noise
less celerity, cast loose tackle band boat swung. queer
mixed affair life man universe practical joke, wit dim
discern, suspect joke expense.
Ahab whaler spoke: wind sea betoken storms.
Cape of Good Hope, watery region, corner highway,
meet traveller part. paint canvas, form
whale eye whaleman body whale moor whale-ship step.
Pictures of Whaling Scenes. Stone; in Mountains;
in Stars. Steering north-eastward Crozetts, fell
meadow brit, minute, yellow substance, Right Whale feeds.
When we are seeking out unknown texts, we tend to look for those that have “earned” (a strange social sort of earning, but that is another post, isn’t it) the four and five star reviews. The one-star review books we tend to avoid.
So what about our well-loved texts and the people who encounter them, find them somewhat lacking, and award them … only a single (or partial) star?
Those poor, poor deluded Misunderstanders of What We Love.
But the reviews are intriguing. Thank you, Biblioklept, for collecting and sharing one-star reviews of our beloved Moby-Dick.
Other poets have warbled the praises of the soft eye of the antelope, and the lovely plumage of the bird that never alights; less celestial, I celebrate a tail.
If you haven’t seen Emoji Dick, … you should.
From the Smithsonian blog: There are whales alive today who were born before Moby Dick was written. The evidence? A single harpoon point.
In the first place, I wish to lay before you a particular, plain statement, touching the living bulk of this leviathan, whose skeleton we are briefly to exhibit.
Inasmuch, then, as this Leviathan comes floundering down upon us from the head-waters of the Eternities, it may be fitly inquired, whether, in the long course of his generations, he has not degenerated from the original bulk of his sires.