ch 110, my Queequeq

I obsessed with Queequeq, so this chapter had me a little emotional, for real, I thought we lost our man. Now to my claim and what I see, Melville is pushing us really to view class and structure in America, or even overall, the boat is all over the world, the ocean touches all the continents and the 7 seas blend together, yet we still like to have those hard lines to define what is what, who is who.

“Now, there is the noteworthy difference between savage and civilized; that while a sick, civilized man may be six months convalescing, generally speaking, a sick savage is almost half-well again in a day.” (524 Melville). Melville is telling us to note this, look at this passage, and take the meaning of the comparison of social class and class structure. What is to be civil and what it means to be a savage, what is even a savage. A savage has more willpower and strength than a civilized man; a civilized man takes 6 months to bounce back, but a savage needs a day. A savage is used to the germs and dirt, as a civil man does not touch dirt. It’s important to note that what society calls a savage is strong, but the ones who call clean men are weak. The idea that the man and savage need to blend, become equal

Loveliness Unfathomable

In Chapter 114, “The Gilder,” we see a rare moment of faith that momentarily interrupts the darkness that pervades Moby-Dick. Looking out at the calm, sunlit sea, Starbuck softly declares, “Loveliness unfathomable, as ever lover saw in his young bride’s eye! — Tell me not of thy teeth-tiered sharks, and thy kidnapping cannibal ways. Let faith oust fact; let fancy oust memory; I look deep down and do believe.” The tone here is startlingly romantic, one could even argue, devotional, as Starbuck compares the ocean’s beauty to that of a lover’s gaze. His use of “unfathomable” carries a double meaning, as it refers both to the literal depth of the sea and to its spiritual or emotional mystery, something that cannot be fully understood or measured. By personifying the ocean and addressing it directly, Starbuck acknowledges that it’s a living presence, treating it almost as a divine being. Yet, his language is also defensive or nervous. The command “Tell me not of thy teeth-tiered sharks” reveals a conscious effort to suppress the darker aspects of the sea, as though faith itself requires him to silence what he may or may not know to be true.

When Starbuck says, “Let faith oust fact; let fancy oust memory,” Melville captures the tension between spiritual idealism and lived experience. Each pair of opposites listed represents conflicting ways of perceiving the world. Fact and memory are the tangible realities of whaling that we can see: blood, death, and brutality. Faith and fancy, on the other hand, belong more to the imagination, an almost inner realm where hope can still survive. The repeated verb “oust” suggests a kind of internal struggle, maybe even violence, as if belief must forcibly remove reality to be able to endure. Starbucks’ plea, then, is not naïve but desperate. He knows exactly what the sea (and humankind) is capable of, yet he chooses to believe in its beauty. This active substitution of replacing knowledge with belief reveals the cost of maintaining faith in an environment shaped by danger and moral corruption.

Melville seems to situate this moment within a broader pattern throughout the novel, where the crew alternates between seeing the sea as a site of terror and transcendence. For Ahab, the ocean mirrors divine indifference and becomes an enemy to be conquered. For Ishmael, it represents a vast, unfixed mystery that draws him toward humility. Starbuck, however, tries to reconcile these opposing views by turning to faith. His insistence that “faith oust fact” is not simply religious but existential because it becomes a survival mechanism for someone trapped between moral conscience and obedience to Ahab’s doomed mission.

The final line, “I look deep down and do believe,” solidifies this tension between perception and truth. The phrase “deep down” implies both introspection as well as descent into the ocean, the self, and the unseen. Melville’s syntax seems very purposeful here. It slows the reader, as if mimicking the steady, deliberate act of belief itself. The simple, emphatic “do believe” reads like a vow. A deliberate act of will against possible despair. Yet there is ambiguity in what he believes. Does Starbuck truly find divinity in the sea, or is his faith a fragile illusion meant to stave off any madness? The line holds both possibilities. To “look deep down” may mean confronting the abyss, acknowledging that faith and destruction coexist in the same depth.

This passage captures Melville’s meditation on the human need to find meaning within a hostile world. Starbuck’s moment of reverence does not erase the ocean’s “kidnapping cannibal ways,” but it does reveal a deeper truth: that belief itself is an act of courage. To see “loveliness unfathomable” in something that is so deeply unknown is to assert that beauty and faith can persist, however tenuously, even amid the knowledge of violence. Melville gives Starbuck this brief vision of transcendence not as comfort, but as contrast. It is a fleeting reminder of how fragile the light of faith can be when set against the vast, indifferent sea, but sometimes it’s exactly what we need.

Blame God

Reading Starbuck’s last plea to Ahab in “The Symphony” was very disheartening because we know that Ahab couldn’t be swayed from his crusade. Starbuck, the voice of reason, or our symbol for “we the people”, is practically begging to change course back to Nantucket, but his words fall on deaf ears as “Ahab’s glance was averted; like a blighted fruit tree he shook, and cast his last, cindered apple to the soil” (592). Ahab can’t even bother to look at his first mate during his request, “blighted” by whatever this force is that keeps him on his mission, the “last, cindered apple” of any hopes of salvation now gone from him. We had the first confrontation in the Cabin just last week, but this is the final moment when the captain turns his back on his people, hardly listening to them as he leads the Pequod to their doom. I know it was present throughout the novel, but this scene of Ahab’s final soliloquy before The Chase felt the most like Shakespearean tragedy as we, with Starbuck, just want him to stop, but we know it won’t happen, and can only watch as he broods over his so-called fate, questioning whether he even has any agency or he’s just a puppet of God:

“Is Ahab, Ahab? Is it I, God, or who, that lifts this arm? But if the great sun move not of himself; but is an errand-boy in heaven; nor one single star can revolve, but by some invisible power; how then can this one small heart beat; this one small brain think thoughts; unless God does that beating, does that thinking, does that living, and not I” (592).

In giving up his agency, claiming that it may just be that God is moving him on this path, Ahab is reassuring himself that this is just the way it has to be. If the great sun that allows us to live doesn’t have control over it’s actions, then why should Ahab’s small heart and brain have any power? So Ahab assigns himself to what he believes to be his fate, despite the consequences it will have for the people he is responsible for. Placing the responsibility on a higher being is a way for him to excuse his actions that he knows will not bear the fruit he wants (where have we seen that before?) Despite the countless warnings and pleas from other ships (and Starbuck) and ill omens and prophecies, Ahab, or rather God, in his eyes, cannot be moved. By assuming divinity, Ahab prevents any alteration towards a better outcome for the nation state of the Pequod, leaving the people “blanched to a corpse’s hue with despair” (593).

The enlightenment of death

In chapter 110, we readers get a good scare from Melville, because it seems certain that our beloved Queequeg is going to die. I enjoyed this chapter very much, but there was a section in page 520 that especially caught my attention. Melville writes, “But as all else in him thinned, and his cheek-bones grew sharper, his eyes, nevertheless, seemed growing fuller and fuller; they became of a strange softness of lustre…And like circles on the water, which, as they grow fainter, expand; so his eyes seemed rounding and rounding, like the rings of Eternity.” Here, Melville presents a new kind of enlightenment, one that comes not from madness like in Pip’s case, but one that arises from proximity to death. For Queequeg, this enlightened state transcended the abstract and was physically visible in his body. Ishmael says that his eyes were getting bigger and gained a “softness of lustre.” The eyes are through which we take in the world around us, and the bigger they are can metaphorically represent a higher awareness and a deeper perspective on life. His eyes also had “lustre,” which is a glow (light) on reflective surfaces. Not only are eyes for taking in information, but some would say they are the window to the soul, and a visible shine on them is representative of an enlightened soul that can’t keep from outwardly reflecting that. Queequeg’s eyes are subsequently compared to “circles on the water,” another reflective surface, exemplifying the outward manifestation of enlightenment; but water isn’t just reflective, it is also a fluid, shifting surface, where marks expand and grow “fuller and fuller,” but also fainter. After all, Queequeg’s expanding eyes and thin body are a tangible sign of decay as much as they are a metaphorical sign of enlightenment. The human body is as impermanent as moving water. But while the body is temporary, the soul is eternal. Ishmael finally compares Queequeg’s expanding but fading eyes to “the rings of Eternity.” As he nears death, in Ishmael’s eyes, Queequeg becomes infinite in spirit. His body will fade away, but his soul, which is accessible through his eyes, becomes eternal. Aside from the spirituality in this scene, we also see Melville once again addressing the question of how we acquire knowledge. As he has shown us before in the book, existence is not exactly fit for certainty, but maybe death is. Melville questions that we can really know anything when we are alive, but in this scene, Queequeg’s expanding eyes and eternal soul display death as a true path to knowledge and revelation. In an ironic turn, when death begins to take the place of life, that is when a being may truly grasp their existence. It seems to be impossible to know anything with certainty, but that changes when we cease to exist. Though a very sad scene of sickness and decay, Melville uses lovely and serene language, giving the reader a sense of peace and almost as a way to dispel fear and restlessness. This is a tranquility that comes from finally understanding that which you could not in life, but the price to pay for that is death.

Chapter 112 – The Blacksmith

During our readings, I am always careful to take careful consideration for a chapter dedicated to any one specific character. Since the blacksmith has hardly ever been mentioned, or only been introduced as a means of dialogue between him and another more important character, I decided to do a bit more research on the language and references made to him. Towards the end of the chapter reads the lines “But one night, under cover of darkness, and further concealed in a most cunning disguisement, a desperate burglar slid into his happy home, and robber them of everything. And darker yet to tell, the blacksmith himself did ignorantly conduct this burglar into his family’s heart. It was the Bottle Conjuror” (pg. 528). What an odd name to give a burglar…

After a bit of research, I realized that the “Bottle” aspect of the burglar’s name was what held the most importance. It wasn’t a man that had come in and robbed the family of everything they owned and loved, it was alcoholism. The blacksmith had fallen into drinking and thus lost his possessions, his home, and then his family. Alcoholism has always been known, across various fields, for destroying not just the individuals addicted to alcohol, but the people around them. My research further brought about information of a magician, around 1749 in London, England, who proposed the trick that he could fit within a glass bottle, failed to do so, and in turn the audience burned down the event and tent he was performing in. This can be used as a means of representing how quickly the blacksmith’s alcoholism burned down everything he loved, and his ties to his loved ones, leading him to “the guilt of intermediate death (suicide)” (529) and thus resulting in his being on the Pequod in current time of the novel. Ishmael had stated during the beginning chapters of the novel that men who contemplated suicide often sought out ships and whaling as a better means of self-destruction. After burning ties to everything he cared about, instead of committing suicide, the blacksmith turned to a whaling voyage, one that prolongs his death, but leads to it nonetheless.

White, the color of absence and death, in flame

Throughout Moby-Dick, there has been a kind of attention to the number 3. There are 3 mates for the ships, 3 mast heads to the ship, and the 3 peaks featured on the doubloon, but there are also supernatural connections to 3 sprinkled through out the novel, such as the blood of 3 harpooners to temper Ahab’s barb, the 3 fires alight the top of the mast heads, as well as 3 people prophesizing Ahab’s demise: the prophet, Gabriel from the Jeroboam, and the Parsee.

This is a number present in the Bible – the holy trinity – and even Pythagoras, a great philosopher of Greek History that has been mentioned at least once in the novel, believed that the number three was special. One such reason was that it is the only number where the numbers that come before it add perfectly to it. Another reason, and one that I link more to this section of the novel than his other reasons, was that it seems to reflect our world on a conceptual level – beginning, middle, end; birth, life, death.

In the chapter, The Candles, this number is repeated and emphasized as the spectral lights cast brilliant shadows onto the ship below.

“All the yard arms were tipped with a pallid fire; and touched at each tri-pointed lightening-rod-end with three tapering white flames, each of the three tall masts was silently burning in that sulphurous air, like three gigantic wax tapers before an altar.” (549)

This all comes two chapters out from Parsee’s prediction of Ahab’s death by hemp rope, after Ahab calls it a strange sight the idea of a hearse and its plumes floating over the ocean. For reference, hearse plumes were ostrich feathers that would adorn hearse carriages at the time, signaling the departed’s wealth and status. Having 5-6 plumes meant you were wealthy, more meant that you were truly rich. In reference to this, the flames are described as pallid and tapering. What are the flames but Ahab’s own funeral plumes, floating atop the ocean he so desperately searches for his monomaniacal need for revenge?

Chapter 110: Queeqeg Returned From the Grave!

As I was closing out reading chapter 110, I started to become concerned for Queeqeg and his health as he started to become very ill as he had requested for a coffin to be made for him so that he could be laied to rest at sea. As Queeqeg was not looking well at the beginning of the chapter but towards the end, we see that Queeqeg now wants to push through the sickness as he doesn’t want it to overtake him just yet. This highlights that internal strength which Queeqeg has over the course of nature which came over him. It shows Queeqeg’s beliefs as well that he will overcome what is happening to him.

“They asked him, then, whether to live or die was a matter of his own sovereign will, and pleasure. He answered, certainly. In a world it was Queequeg’s conceit that if 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.” This shows that Queeqeg had dedicated his life to being on this boat now and that he would not be overcomed by nature yet, he wanted it to live his life as long as he could.

From Ishmael’s and the sailors perspectie, they had even questioned Queeqeg and how he had made this decision as he even prayed to his God, Yojo, for guidance as he was ill aboard the Peqod. He seemed so confident in his decision and he micraculously became better after that! He didn’t want a plain sickness to take him away from this world. He then proceeds to list what I am imagining he would prefer to take his life away like the whale, or a very harsh breeze that could blow him over board. Queeqeg appeared to want to go out some way that was not natural. He wanted something that was placed upon him like those things.

Yes he did get better but he still overcame what was put upon him. He overcame the sickness as he was wanting to push through to his very end as he knew that was not his true end of how he would live out his life, not by sickness.

Living Writers Extra Credit

Maria Dolores Aguila’s visit to our Love Library last night was an incredible, raw, and enlightening experience. While Aguila primarily writes middle-grade literature and elementary picture books, her experience as an author deeply reflects what Andrew Delbanco describes in his introduction to Melville’s writing process in Moby-Dick. Delbanco describes how Melville had his various friends review his first drafts, picking and choosing whether or not to abide by their suggestions. Delbanco describes how, amongst scholars, “…there is a general agreement that it went through several radically different versions” (Delbanco xvi). Aguila described a similar experience, particularly as she navigated the rigorous publishing and reviewing process for her work. Where Melville had an experience with a friend who reviewed an initial draft and didn’t enjoy the beginning of the novel, Aguila described a similar experience, where a friend recommended suggestions that she disagreed with. Overall, attending Maria Dolores Aguila’s author visit helped put a lot of the writing process into perspective, especially in terms of receiving feedback.

Chapter One-Hundred Twelve

In Chapter 112, “The Blacksmith”, Melville’s language in this chapter fuses death, transcendence, and the sea into one symbolic symbol. He states, “Death seems the only desirable sequel for a career like this; but Death is only a launching into the region of the strange Untried; it is but the first salutation to the possibilities of the immense Remote, the Wild, the Watery, the Unshored; therefore, to the death-longing eyes of such men, who still have left in them some interior compunctions against suicide, does the all-contributed and all-receptive ocean alluringly spread forth his whole plain of unimaginable, taking terrors, and wonderful, new-life adventures; and from the hearts of infinite Pacifics, the thousand mermaids sing to them…” (Melville 529) This passage encapsulates one of Moby-Dicks central paradoxes, that the ocean is a spiritual frontier and also a death drive. To go to the sea is to flirt with the unknown, the sea is an entity that lies beyond the limits of human life. Melville uses this chapter as an allegory to capitalism. The sailor’s attraction to the sea mirrors humans’ attraction to metaphysical danger, the wish to lose oneself in something vast, to escape the confinements of individuality. 

Melville starts the beginning of this sentence with bluntness, using the tone of fatalism to reflect the alienation and hardships of a sailor’s life. A “carrier like this” seems to exhaust every human possibility, leaving death as the only remaining sequel, a continuation rather than an end. The middle of the sentence is particularly interesting since it describes the psychological tension between despair and desire; these “death-longing” men are drawn toward annihilating but restrained by “interior compunctions against suicide.” The sea becomes a space that offers the feeling of self-dissolution without the moral finality of suicide. Melville gives a way for sailors to escape from the world without committing the act. The sea absorbs and erases distinctions between man and nature or even purpose and aimlessness. The self loses solidity at sea, it becomes as fluid and unbounded as the waves themselves. The sea grants sailors a simulated death, a temporary relief that satisfies a spiritual craving for release while sparing the soul from the definite consequences of suicide. 

The cycle of war and peace

In chapter 98, “Stowing Down and Clearing Up,” Melville writes about the last step of processing the oil of a hunted whale. He tells us that when the oil is finally put away into barrels and these are stored away in the “bowels of the ship,” the whole vessel is scrubbed clean until it looks like “some silent merchant vessel, with a most scrupulously neat commander” (468). No trace is left of the bloody ordeal that was to extract oil from this whale. However, we find that this does not last for long. In page 469, Melville writes, “[T]hey only step to the deck to carry vast chains, and heave the heavy windlass, and cut and slash, yea, and in their very sweatings to be smoked and burned anew by the combined fires of the equatorial sun and the equatorial try-works; when, on the heel of all this, they have finally bestirred themselves to cleanse the ship, and make a spotless diary room of it; many is the time the poor fellows, just buttoning the necks of their clean frocks, are startled by the cry of ‘There she blows!’ and away they fly to fight another whale, and go through the whole weary thing again. Oh! my friends, but this is man-killing! Yet this is life.” This lengthy quote is a representation of the endless cycle of war and peace experienced by a nation. The sailors, or citizens, “only step to the deck to carry vast chains…cut and slash and…be smoked and burned anew by…the equatorial sun and equatorial try-works.” This first part of the passage describes a scene of physical toil, violence, and injury, all elements of a war. The sailors toil and suffer, and the language of “equatorial” fires is geographic in nature because this is the reality around the whole world. The sun is nature against man, while the try-works are man against himself, maybe weapons of our own creation. There is suffering in life that is natural and other that is man made, but it is observable equally around the world. Then comes the peace, and the sailors “have finally bestirred themselves to cleanse the ship, and make a spotless diary room of it.” The ship once again serves as a representation of a nation-state, and this section describes peace time, where the gore has been scrubbed clean and everything appears to be in order; where the land has transformed from a battle ground to a dairy room, a clean place of nurturing, a fertile land that will feed and grow the population. But nothing lasts forever, and the peace is broken by “the cry of ‘There she blows,'” a battle cry that snaps our “poor fellows,” who were enjoying the calm, the clean, the civilization (they were “buttoning the necks of their clean frocks”) out of a dream and sends them straight to the trenches once more. “[A]way they fly to fight another whale, and go through the whole weary thing again,” a quote that shows a type of melancholy, indicating the weary reality that is partaking in the repetition of a violent routine that one does not willingly enter into, but that seems the only option for survival in society. Finally, Melville writes, “Oh! my friends, but this is man-killing! Yet this is life.” This section reflects a cycle of suffering and calm that we have accepted as an inescapable truth of life, and takes it to a new scale by including the perpetration of suffering upon others as a continuation of this truth. In other words, Melville comments on our acceptance of war as a normal event which reflects the belief that life not only means to suffer, but also to make others suffer from time to time. This endless cycle we have created in our societies leaves too much to be desired, so Melville invites us to reflect on it and maybe think if there are no better options.