This is not a comment on 'The Whale', tho' it may seem so, but more a reflection on a state of mind and a very small piece of the sprawling ocean of a text that it is 'Moby Dick'.
Melville had done a 'tour' of 2-3 years on a whaler and was familiar with whales and whaling. It is quite clear from his writing that his knowledge could not have been derived purely from scholarly works, although some undoubtedly is. He also, it seems to this penguin, had a great love, as well as respect, for the whales he had hunted. These majestic and regal Leviathans of the deep. MG has been reading the book in tandem and he finished it today. I deliberately slowed my pace to match his, I have more time on my hands/wings, but leapt ahead at the final chase, one always wants to be first at the finish line, while he was marooned in a tunnel on the Northern Line!
We have exchanged emails about what we have read each day.
Now it is clear that humans, by and large, exceptions being the Norwegians and the Japanese and a few others, have accepted a burden of guilt about their exploitation of the whale and have tried to make amends for the slaughter in some small way. They slaughter no more. But, reading MG's emails made me realise, 'post moratorium', how difficult it is for humans NOW, as opposed to then, when it was written, to read Moby Dick. The novel exults at the murder of a fellow sentient creature! As soon as it becomes 'murder', how do you continue?
What I want to consider is the following final paragraph from 'Will he perish?'
"Wherefore, for all these things, we account the whale immortal in his species, however perishable in his individuality. He swam the seas before the continents broke water; he once swam over the site of the Tuilleries, and Windsor Castle, and the Kremlin. In Noah's flood he despised Noah's Ark; and if ever the world is to be again flooded, like the Netherlands, to kill off its rats, then the eternal whale will still survive, and rearing upon the topmost crest of the equatorial flood, spout his frothed defiance to the skies."
For Melville, it was not possible to conceive of a whaling venture any different to that which he describes. Three or four years and forty whales, maybe. If you were French, significantly less! How could that possibly harm the species? However many whalers took to the hazardous task of confronting a seventy, eighty, ninety feet 'monster' in small boats with hand launched harpoons. No wonder he exults the courage of the whalers at the expense of the dignity of the whale.
Ah, but Herman, you did not, perhaps, almost certainly could not, envisage, then, the steam (and later explosive) launch of the explosive harpoon, from the very ship itself! No longer would the whale's survival be dependent upon the diminutive skills and strength of arm of the 'pagan harpooneer' and his oarsmen. All that was required now was a good aim from a safe distance. It is that which killed the whale! Melville speculated that even in northern latitudes, the whale could, would retreat to the ice, under the ice. And yet there are less that 300 North Atlantic Right Whales left on the planet. How wrong can a man be? And does the shade of Herman Melville gaze down from heaven and realise how wrong he was? I suspect so. It must make him weep. Terribly!
It is a sorry mess you have made of our planet, with your arrogance, your belief that we are here only for YOUR purpose. I wish you "God's speed". I have no wish to be a meal for an orca but how soon before penguin flesh becomes as tasty, and valuable, as the oil from a whale?
