Friday, April 06, 2012

There is one knows not what sweet mystery about this sea, whose gently awful stirrings seem to speak of some hidden soul beneath; like those fabled undulations of the Ephesian sod over the buried evangelist, St. John. And meet it is, that over these sea-pastures, wide-rolling, watery prairies and Potters' Fields of all four continents, the waves should rise and fall, and ebb and flow unceasingly; for here, millions of mixed shades and shadows, drowned dreams, somnambulisms, reveries; all that we call lives and souls, lie dreaming, dreaming, still; tossing like slubmerers in their beds; the ever-rolling waves but made so by their restlessness.
--Herman Melville, Moby Dick
Sorry to keep quoting our American master, but he strings words together with such aching beauty, such melodious sorrow, enough to sing me to sleep--it seems a tragedy that he spent the last nineteen years of his working life as a customs inspector. I'm glad I didn't read him on the boat, for to read such words of the sea--the ineffable put into words--would have made me despair forever. Heck, it almost makes me despair now. Some writers are just too good. It makes one think the well has dried up.

Read this book: Why Read Moby Dick.

And this one:

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