#thinking about Bulkington

[georges-chambers]

for the character asks...ishmael, ofc :3

Idk when you sent this but I wish I had seen it earlier because !!! VERY glad to do this!!

'How I feel about this character': So Much. In general. What can't I say about him? On one hand, as many point out, he's an almost definitely some kind of undiagnosable neurodivergent and due to this is incredibly relatable. ACCIDENTALLY CLICKED POST WHEN I MEANT TO SAVE THIS TO DRAFTS. ANYWAYS. I HAD MUCH MORE: He Also Suvks!!! He knows a lot but that doesn't mean he actually believes in objectively true things! Hes aware of his own faults but we get the feeling he's not too concerned with changing them very much! I also feel like some fans of Moby Dick kind of choose to gloss over the ways in which, beautifully as he puts it, his love for Queequeg is also almost definitely through a very warped lens due to the way he just thinks of Queequeg, and at times it also seems almost obsessive. And another important part of him, I think, is that he becomes just as obsessed with things that are important to him as someone like Ahab, just in a way that doesn't lead to relentlessly chasing them down and trying to kill them. Well, breaking down a door to 'save them' is. I'm sure you can see the similarities. But of course there's the way he writes obsessively about minor details about the whole voyage and people on it and Moby Dick himself in a way that implies he has a fascination with it all borne from the trauma it gave him. Which reminds me of how much he seems to actively want to hide any part of himself and his past from the reader but where it starts slipping out are often memories that seem kind of. Worrying(?) Definitely not Pleasant anyways. Which again, he seems to zero in on a bit. Also to me he is Not Cis. Of course.

'All of the people I ship romantically with this character': Ishmael's one of the very few instances where I think the only romantic ship I have of him are with the canon love interest (Queequeg of course). Aside from probably 2 ships or so, but those are either rather RPF (about someone who is dead but nonetheless real. I mean. He's kinda implied to exist in Moby Dick too, but he's very much real, its based on the real version) focused or Angst Heavy, so I would only share those in DMs at request.

Now as for potential sexual relationships? Another entire area I will leave to DMs.

'My non-romantic OTP for this character': Okay nevermind, I lied. I could Never explain it fully because its Not in the book and not based on anything in the book, but the 2011 movie. Showed me a whole layer to the potential of whatever was going on between Ahab and Ishmael and god. The toxic workplace relationship he had with that old man. That whole movie became Their Movie to me. Queequeg can of course become involved. I also like the idea of him and Bulkington of course.

'My unpopular opinion about this character': Its hard to say what'd be considered unpopular for this kind of a fandom, but I feel like the fact that the racism from his POV was progressive for its time only makes it even more immersive to him as a character. Its the sort of thing that's like . 'This is a fascinating indication about the time and the author writing in this time' and 'This could be considered a part of the character narrating all of this and how they view the world' Can very much coexist here. To me they feed into each other and I love it. Less like that, though, since that'd probably be the more popular of the two: I feel like a lot of adaptations are a bit less than accurate to what I personally think of with Ishmael because they often make him (even including the 2011 to some degree) a lot more overtly 'benevolent' than really fits. In the book, he does shit like contemplate just boarding up the room he's in and basically steal it from its original owner, and just the near frantic, almost aggressive tone he often takes with fucking Cetaceans, In General, towards his audience, I love, and really wish there had been like. Any of, in most adaptations, which seem to want him to be a much more 'relatable nice hero' which he just Fundamentally Isn't. There are so many times reading this book and rereading it where I've just gone, 'Ishmael, whoever you're having this argument Isn't here right now. I love you, but Please.'

'One thing I wish would happen/had happened with this character in-canon': I feel like actually learning more about what he did in his Past would kind of spoil some enjoyable and very fitting mystery and ambiguity so really what I wish we knew more about were his travels and life in general between the wreck of the Pequod and when he's writing that. Actually, no, if I absolutely Had to choose to actually be told 1 more thing about him? When and where was he a stone-mason. I love how hes very intentionally like, 'At Some Point in Time, For Some Point In Time, Neither of Which You Need To Know, I was a stone-mason.' And its just like. Actually no. Normally there'd be nothing odd about that but no, now I really do need to know what he could be hiding with that.

Once again Thank you so much for asking this and once again encouraging me to ramble incoherently about Moby Dick

[mooseteeth]

just got to the chapter about how Ishmael thinks Bulkington is such a cool guy i bet we'll hear more about him again 🤩

[grumpyfaceurn]

People having deep thoughts about today's chapter and here I am thinking, lol, he's tall and broad and literally called Bulkington

[stain-glass]

Chapter 3 - The Spouter-Inn

Ishmael makes it to an inn that is kinda sketchy and full of whaling things. The inn keeper tells him that there is no empty rooms, only the share bed option with a Harpooner.

Ishmael is nervous to share a bed with someone he doesn't know and wants to wait and meet the guy before making the decision, but the harpooner does not show up. The landlord tells him that he is trying to sell an actual human head and, after having a crisis or two, Ishmael is too tired to really think and just goes to bed (which was huge and he didn't need to worry about sharing blankets too much)

The Harpooner comes in in the middle of the night, waking Ishmael who stays quiet and watches the man who is later named Queequeg. He is bald, has dark skin and is covered in tattoos. his skin is describes as dark purple and yellow, so im not sure if he is suppose to be beat up and bruised but Ishmael certainly thinks he was. Ishmael goes on to deeply describe Queequeg (which is something that will be a pattern and is also something that he never bothered to do with himself).

when the man goes to bed smoking his tomahawk, Ishmael realizes that he hasn't let the man know that he is there and also, no smoking in bed dude. rude. Both end up screaming and Ishmael is almost killed for being a trespasser before the landlord comes in and sorts it out.

Ishmael realizes that he was being the rude one (but still no smoking in bed.) and with that they both go to sleep.

Also in the chapter: Bulkington, a future shipmate is introduced.

[shembl]

Moby Dick FNP Chapter 3 - In the Inn

Hello again, it’s time for what turned out to be a really long chapter compared to the last few eh? this took us two or three sittings on stream to get through on stream a year or so ago.  Anyway, for those new; this is where My friend Andy (A proper writer!) and I (A fool) read through Moby Dick very slowly and attempt to make it a bit easier to read while probably massively misinterpreting things. This Chapter’s TL;DR is

-Ishmael stares at a painting and gets really annoyed about it -Everything around the painting is a nightmare hellbutcher dungeon kind of aesthetic -The guy who runs the place is a manic prankster called Peter Coffin -The best character in the book turns up, he’s called Bulkington and everyone loves him. He is also probably a ghost and I think he dies offscreen later on? -Ishmael’s room gets double-booked and he spends about 15 minutes hiding in the bed staring at his bedmate who doesn’t know he’s there, and then acts like it was his bedmate who was the problem. -Ishmael’s bedmate is Queequeg, who is the best actual character in the book even if there’s some weird racists shit surrounding him.

Anyway, enjoy or don’t, your call.

Chapter 3: In the Inn

So, you walk into this inn, right, and it looks like shit, like an old fucked up boat they dragged onto land and forced into being a house. And at the other end of it there’s this painting. No matter which way you look at it, it’s shit, incomprehensible, nightmarish, like something from the Age of Hags, a gross splat of bad imagery in a frame. You look at it from every angle, stand all over the place, ask the people nearby, they don’t know what’s up either, but maybe, you more you look at it and calm down a bit and you think ‘nah it’s not that bad actually’ and then your senses come back and you’re like ‘no it is bad.’

That’s my review of the painting.

It was shit, but there’s a lot of things you can say about shit. To me it looks like a lot of things, heaths, elemental conflicts, midnight gales, some awful time-smashing cataclysm, seas; which you know I’m a big fan of, but mostly I think it looked like a massive fish.

Maybe it’s just that I had fish on my mind, but my mind was telling me there was a fish on that painting. 

That’s how art is sometimes I guess.

Then it clicked though, it was actually a ship all fucked up and crashed with a whale doing a sweet jump over it, but sweet turned to sour for this aquatic lad, as he’s only gone and speared himself on all of three of the ship’s masts.

Total lunacy.

I wouldn’t paint it.

What kind of mad bastard would hang a painting like that?

Probably the same kind of mad bastard who would hang up a load of monster-mode clubs and other weapons. You’ve got your clubs with teeth in them, you’ve got clubs with hair in them, you’ve got spears and harpoons and lances and every other form of pointed stick that’s ever been used to cause harm.

There was even a sickle which had a shape to it which I can only describe as being like a long-armed lawn mower. Make of that what you will, for I dare not to dwell on it.

There was also this absolutely legendary harpoon that was all jacked up by the ravages of time, sea and whale, so that it now looked more like a corkscrew. People said it had once been used by a really cool and handsome whale slayer, he chucked it so hard at a whale's arse that even though the whale got away it came out through the whale's head years later.

Moving further in, you begin to figure out what this place is about. It’s a theme bar, and the theme is death. Death and whales.

It’s all covered in dusty, cracked and fucked up bottles and other glasswares, and at one end there’s a massive whale jaw so big you could use it as the foundation for a 6-person tent if you were a serial killer.

But this was no tent, not right now any way, this was a nest for a tiny man, dangerous eyes in his face, and a look about him that suggested he wanted to either get you drunk or kill you.

I could tell from looking at him, this was the kind of barkeeper who was a prick about measures. Always ripping you off and under serving like a villain.

I walked past some sailors who were having a nice time looking at some fish bones and went on up to the landlord and asked about a room. He looked me up and down, and said

“We ain’t got no rooms, but I reckon you’re a whale guy, so go share a bed with another whale guy. It’s just what whale guys do. You ARE a whale guy, ain’t ye?”

I said back to him, “It’s not so much about whether he’s a whale guy or not, I’ll share a bed with anyone, well, not just anyone, it really depends on the person, rather than their occupation, you know? Besides, it’s cold outside.”

“I thought so. All right; take a seat. Supper?—you want supper? Supper’ll be ready directly.”

I took a seat on one of those picnic table type tables and took a look around, one guy sat near me was fumbling around between his legs, his eyes were crossed and his tongue was poking out... I looked away after a while.

We went in for dinner, into the coldest room you could imagine, colder than Iceland I would say. 

“A fire would be a good idea here.” I said.

“A fire’s too expensive.” said the landlord.

So we sat, shivered, buttoned up our monkey coats, which were just a name for a type of coat, and not actually made out of monkeys, and burnt our lips with hot tea, which we held with half-frozen fingers, which really is pretty confusing if you think about it. What temperature am I supposed to be right now, you know?

The food was nice though, you’ve not just got meat, and not just potatoes, you’ve got both! And not just both! Dumplings as well! Good heavens! dumplings for supper!

One guy was going absolutely bananas over these dumplings (not me)

The landlord said “Me lad, you keep crammin’ down dumplings in such a manner, ye’re likely to have dumpling related nightmares!”

“Landord,” I whispered. “That’s not the guy I’m sharing a bed with is it?”

I was concerned that I might be sharing a bed with someone having nightmares in such a place with so many instruments of cruelty up on the walls as this.

The landlord laughed darkly, in that way people do when they are holding back some info in a way that is very funny from a certain perspective. “Oooooooh no me lad, your bunk-chum don’t bother with no dumplings, he only eats meat.” He laughed again. “Rare meat, the rarest of meats, ye might say.”

“Holy shit.” I said, not picking up on the giggles or anything. “Where is he then?”

“Oh he’ll be here soon.” The innkeeper smirked, laughed, waggled his eyebrows and then refused to make eye contact.

Something in my bones told me that there was something up with this other whale guy, and that if we were going to share a bed, I’d make sure to inspect his naked body before I got in with him. Safety first and all that.

Anyway, food was over and we trickled back to the bar. I didn’t have anything to do so I just kind of sat around looking at people.

All of a sudden there was a massive loud noise, sounded like a riot. Barely had the noise reached my ears when the landlord leapt up onto the table. “That’s the Grampus’s crew. I seed her reported in the offing this morning; a three years’ voyage, and a full ship. Hurrah, boys; now we’ll have the latest news from the Feegees.”

He must have really liked news from the Feegees.

They all came in, they were a rowdy bunch, especially for a bunch of sailors who looked like shit. Frozen beards and bad patch jobs on all their clothes. They swarmed the bar and started complaining about headaches to the innkeeper, who gave them booze.

Once they were drunk, they got more noisy, so the headache cure (booze) must have worked.

Rowdy as they were, there was one among them who was not so rowdy. He was huge, jacked, handsome, chest broader than a dam and he had nice twinkly eyes that seemed sad, and nice twinkly teeth that would look nice in a smile if only he weren’t so clearly struggling with some inner demons. He tried to hide to hide it though so he didn’t throw off the vibe his pals were enjoying. After a while he left and that’s when I first heard his name. “BULKINGTON!” shouted all of the sailors as they scuttled about the place as one unit, like a man-berg, looking for him. “BULKINGTOOOOON!” It was a great name for such a big lad. I hoped I was sharing a bed with Ol’ bulky. My future shipmate, if not in an actual ship, then perhaps in a little ship called a bed.

Anyway, everyone had gone. It was about 9pm and I had a good plan in my head, a plan that was in my head before all these sailors turned up actually.

Kinda weird that the innkeeper wants me to share a bed with a guy, especially the part about sailors sharing beds, I’ve been on boats and let me tell you, you don’t share a hammock, how can you? They’re all droopy. No, you get your own bed with your own blanket and your own skin to keep all your wet bits in.

Nobody likes to share a bed, it’s a private time. As the innkeeper continued to drill holes in the back of my head with his eyes, I began to have suspicions.

The more I thought about it, the worse this deal was looking, and besides, I was getting tired and wanted to sleep. But if I go to bed in another guy’s bed, which would probably have shitty linens on it because whale guys are gross, then what if I’m asleep and he comes back and he’s like “Who’s this guy in my bed?” that’d be pretty weird for him, but what if he gets the wrong idea and he’s drunk or a serial killer or something and then he just gets naked and gets into  bed with me, who knows what he’d do. I didn’t like it.

“Landlord! I’ve changed my mind about that harpooneer.—I shan’t sleep with him. I’ll try the bench here.”

I slapped the bench and winced at all the new splinters that had entered my hand.

The innkeeper looked sad for a moment before some manic energy overtook his face “Just as you please; I’m sorry I can’t spare ye a tablecloth for a mattress, and it’s a very uncomfortable bench!”

He hopped over the bar, lathe in hand.

“But wait! Me little Skrimshander, I’ve a lathe, and I’ll have ye snug enough shortly.”

He scuttled over and wiped down the bench with his handkerchief, and then went to town on the bench with his lathe. I thought about moving out of the way, but was paralysed by the ferocity in the man’s approach. He wasn’t looking down at his work, his eyes were fixed on mine and he was grinning like an ape. Over and over the lathe bounced off some indestructible knot in the wood. He was sweating, his arms were shaking and after a while, the strength left his wrists so that he was just sort of daubing away at the wood. His breathing was ragged.

“For god’s sake man!” I plead over and over again. “Stop! It was fine enough before, you don’t need to do this!” and yet still, huffing and puffing he scraped away at his own furniture.

After some time had passed, and I can’t tell you how much time, because I didn’t have a clock, he stopped, winked at me, and scooped up all the shavings, which took a few minutes.

Then he winked again scuttled over to the fire, and threw in all the shavings, a thrifty approach to the fuel crisis he had previously complained about.

Meanwhile, I was covered in sawdust. I was itchy.

I had a test-lay on the bench and it was too short for me, being big and tall, but I also had a big brain, so I figured I could fix that by popping a chair at the end to rest my legs on. The bigger problem was that the bench was a foot too narrow for my big muscly back, being what benches are, and the innkeeper had gone so mental with the lathe that my bed-bench was four inches lower than the other benches, and I didn’t want to ask the guy to lathe this one up because he would probably die, looking at him.

Also it was drafty.

This fucking harpoon guy! What a fucking disaster he was causing for me, the prick. I thought about heading up to his room, stealing his bed and locking the door, force him to knock me awake, that sort of thing, but then what if that pissed him off? He’d probably just punch me. I reconsidered.

I had another look around at this shitty sleeping arrangement I had made for myself and thought, maybe this harpooner isn’t so bad. Maybe sharing a bed with him could be the start of a beautiful friendship. Optimistic I know, but that’s just the kind of guy I am.

Other sailors came in, laughing, being friends and all that, going up to share beds and have a good time, but my harpoon guy, he was nowhere to be seen, and it was already midnight. I’d been waiting for three hours since the last time I looked at the clock. Who knows how long the innkeeper had spent of this time staring me in the face and planing the bench beneath me.

“Landlord!” I said, “what sort of a chap is this guy? Is he always back this late?” I was sleepy, but also annoyed.

“Uhuuhuuhuuhuu” chuckled the innkeeper, darkly, as if he had just heard some mean joke about me. “generally he’s an early bird—airley to bed and airley to rise—yes, he’s the bird what catches all the worms. But to-night he went out a peddling, you see, and I don’t see what on airth keeps him so late, unless, may be, he can’t sell his head.”

I had no idea why he said the word ‘early’ like that, but this guy clearly had more pressing problems, and so did I.

“What do you mean ‘Can’t sell his head?” I made air-quotes to show that this was an insane thing to say to a guy. I was fucking pissed, livid. “Are you trying to tell me that this guy is out there on a saturday night, or now technically a sunday morning since it’s so fucking late, trying to sell his head around town”

“That’s precisely it,” said the innkeeper, “and I told him he couldn’t sell it here, the market’s overstocked.” He waggled his eyebrows.

I was getting really, really angry about all of this, I needed to get on a boat. “With what?” I shouted.

The innkeeper grabbed his own head by the ears. “With heads to be sure; ain’t there too many heads in the world?”

“Stop fucking about, Innkeeper. What are you going on about?” I’d calmed down a little bit. “Calm down with this weird chat, I’m not green.” Green is what you call people in Sailor language when they’re a bit new or daft.

“May be not,” He took out a stick, and in an instant, whittled it into a toothpick with his lathe. “but I rayther guess you’ll be done brown if that ‘ere harpooneer hears you a’slanderin’ his head.”

I lost my shit. “I’ll break his fucking head then if that’s what it comes to!” Really needed to get on a boat.

“It’s broke a’ready,” The Innkeeper said

“Broke?” I said “how do you mean, broke?”

“It’s broke! and that’s the very reason he can’t sell it, I guess.”

“Landlord,” said I, going up to him as cool as a big mountain in a snow-storm—“landlord, stop whittling. You and I must understand one another, and that too without delay. I come to your house and want a bed; you tell me you can only give me half a one; that the other half belongs to a certain harpooneer. And about this harpooneer, you keep going on and telling me the most mystifying and exasperating stories which frankly, invoke upon me an uncomfortable feeling towards the man whom you design for my bedfellow—a sort of connection, landlord, which is an intimate and confidential one in the highest degree.”

I had once or twice in the past dabbled with the legal profession, and thought that this might have been a good opportunity to scare an old man with courtroom talk.

“I now demand of you to speak out and tell me who and what this harpooneer is, and whether I shall be in all respects safe to spend the night with him. And in the first place, you will be so good as to retract that story about selling his head, which if true I take to be good evidence that this harpooneer is stark mad, and I’ve no intention of sleeping with a madman; and you, sir, you I mean, landlord, you, sir, by trying to induce me to do so knowingly, would thereby render yourself liable to a criminal prosecution.”

I folded my arms and snorted in that way I always assumed lawyers would do after making a good case.

“Wheeeeeeell,” said the landlord, fetching a long breath, “that’s a purty long sarmon for a chap that rips a little now and then. But be easy, be easy, this here harpooneer I have been tellin’ you of has just arrived from the south seas, where he bought up a lot of ’balmed New Zealand heads (great curios, you know), and he’s sold all on ’em but one, and that one he’s trying to sell to-night, cause to-morrow’s Sunday, and it would not do to be sellin’ human heads about the streets when folks is goin’ to churches. He wanted to, last Sunday, but I stopped him just as he was goin’ out of the door with four heads strung on a string, for all the airth like a string of inions.”

My case was lost, the landlord was making total sense. He wasn’t trying to trick me into anything, all that weird laughter must have just been his normal laugh, and he was thinking of something funny, like clowns or a puppet show he might have seen earlier on.

Still, a literal head salesman sounded like a pretty sketchy prospect to me, and I wasn’t super keen on sharing a bed with a guy who does weird cannibal shit.

“This guy sounds fucking nuts” I said. “You’d better be careful around guys like that, Innkeeper.”

“He pays reg’lar,” The Innkeeper said “But come, it’s getting dreadful late, you had better be turning flukes—it’s a nice bed; Sal and me slept in that ere bed the night we were spliced. There’s plenty of room for two to kick about in that bed; it’s an almighty big bed that. Why, afore we give it up, Sal used to put our Sam and little Johnny in the foot of it. But I got a dreaming and sprawling about one night, and somehow, Sam got pitched on the floor, and came near breaking his arm. Arter that, Sal said it wouldn’t do. Come along here, I’ll give ye a glim in a jiffy;” and so saying he lit a candle and held it towards me, offering to lead the way. But I stood irresolute; when looking at a clock in the corner, he exclaimed “I vum it’s Sunday—you won’t see that harpooneer to-night; he’s come to anchor somewhere—come along then; do come; won’t ye come?”

He was really keen on me coming, and that seemed reasonable enough since he was taking me to my bed, so I followed him, all good.

We got to the room and the bed was massive. Enormous, you could fit four harpooneers in it, even if they were massive like that Bulkington guy. A four Bulkington bed, what a thought! 

“There,” said the innkeeper, placing the candle on a crazy old sea chest that did double duty as a wash-stand and centre table, thrifty!; “there, make yourself comfortable now, and good night to ye.” after a while I turned round from eyeing the bed, but he had disappeared.

I took a closer look at the bed, it wasn’t fancy, but it wasn’t too bad, and it was still enormous. Besides the crazy chest there wasn’t much else in terms of furniture, just a few shelves and a big drawing of a guy hitting a while and a bunch of harpooneer paraphernalia including a big harpoon and a hammock.

Hammocks, famously, are for sleeping on. I thought it seemed insane that we had come to this; planing down a bench, sharing a bed with a head salesman, and yet no fucking mention had ever been made that there was a spare hammock going. Insanity. There even loads of hooks just strung about the place, it wouldn’t be hard to set up.

There was an object on the chest, being naturally inquisitive, I grabbed it, sniffed it, licked it, looked at it, sniffed it again, held it far away and looked at it again. It looked like a doormat, but it had holes in it like clothes.

What kind of monster human  would wear something so deranged?

I put it on out of interest, it was itchy and damp. I imagined this harpooneer must have been using it like some kind of raincoat.

I found a big shard of glass and looked at my reflection in it.

It looked like shit. I ripped it off my body so furiously and hastily that I pulled a muscle in my neck.

I thought about this Harpooneer and his doormat, and slowly started to undress. First my coat, what’s the deal with selling heads? Guy must be crazy. Then my smaller coat that I wear underneath the other one. Who wears a doormat? I sat there thinking a bit longer, figuring out how naked I could get without tempting fate and having this maniac burst into my room to punch me.

I made a calculated decision, got naked, and bunkered down under the sheets.

Whether that mattress was stuffed with corn-cobs or broken crockery, there is no telling, but I rolled about for ages, couldn’t get to sleep. At last I slid off into a light doze, and was nearly there into a proper sleep, when I heard a heavy footfall in the passage, and saw a glimmer of light come into the room from under the door.

I held my breath as he entered the room, his little candle didn’t reach me as I shivered under the covers. He put the candle down in the corner and started going through his bag. I couldn’t see his face, until he turned around and then I could. His face was a monster mash hodgepodge of all sorts of colours and shapes. Oh bloody hell he’s been out fighting and his face is covered in cuts and bruises and plasters, I thought, He’d be a horrible guy to share a bed with! But then I remembered hearing stories about people going to New Zealand and getting face tattoos, maybe that’s what had happened to this guy. 

He pulled out some weird items from his bag, including an axe and a hairy wallet, then he crammed this weird shrunken head down into the bottom of the bag and then the weirdest part came. He took off his hat and he was mostly bald except for a weird topknot thing on his forehead, awful! Let me tell you, I nearly fucking legged it, faster than I’d have ever eaten a dumpling.

I know it was my ignorance stoking my fear of this guy, but I’d never seen a guy like this before, and my fear, brought on as it was by ignorance was enough to stop me asking what his deal was, so it was like a little vicious cycle with just me in the middle of it, being afraid and thinking about jumping out of the window, but I’d come up a lot of steps to get here, and I didn’t fancy skipping them down to street level. Not naked anyway.

Speaking of naked, he was getting his clothes off now. His chest and arms were covered in the same sort of tattoos as his face. It looked like he’d been in a war for thirty years or so, and now wore the customary thirty-year war checkered plaster shirt. Maybe he was just really into chess, I didn’t know and I didn’t ask.

Then came the naked legs, these pins were tattooed as well, with frog footprints. I assume they were tattoos, it could be that he’d just been climbed on by some sort of exotic lizard which does tattoos as it goes. It’s a big world out there, you can’t ever say you know everything about it. Either way, this guy was a lunatic and I was pretty sure that these heads of his were the heads of his murder victims who were probably his own brothers, because look at him, what a monster! I only hoped that he hated my head so he wouldn’t think to take it with him later on. Heavens! Look at that tomahawk!

He still hadn’t seen me though, fixed as he was on the bag. He fished out some little black figurine, which he seemed to be very reverent about. He popped it in the fireplace and I was confused but thought it looked kinda cool in a way.

The fireplace placement started to make sense when the fella pulled out a bunch of wood shavings (what is it with this town and woodshavings???) and put them around the figure, before lighting them on fire and throwing a ship’s biscuit (or normal biscuit, to sailors like me) on top of it.

He then started making weird noises and then burned his hands quite badly trying to get the biscuit out of the fire. He offered it to the little figure, but it wasn’t interested, so he ate it.

Then he stuffed the figure back into his bag with all the un-ceremony of my shopkeeper bagging my bread.

I couldn’t think of much else he could be getting up to before getting into bed, and frankly, even if there was something I probably didn’t want to see it, so I thought it was about time to make myself known, or else he’d probably find me with his hands shortly.

But the moment I spent deliberating what to say was a fatal one. Taking up his tomahawk from the table, he squinted at it, holding it up to the light, stuck his mouth on the handle, and puffed out great clouds of tobacco smoke (wow!). The next moment the light was extinguished, and this wild cannibal, tomahawk between his teeth, sprang into bed with me. I yelped, I could not help it now; and giving a sudden grunt of astonishment he began feeling me.

I windmilled my entire body away from him, slamming up against the wall, I babbled various apologies and fumbled to get a candle or lantern going so I could explain why I’d been in his bed for so long, just watching him in the darkness without saying anything. I think he got the wrong impression.

“WHO ARE YOU? I’LL KILL YE!” He shouted at me, swishing that flaming pipe-axe around at me, scattering hot ashes around so that they nearly set the bedsheets on fire.

“Landlord, for God’s sake, Peter Coffin!” I shouted, bravely. “Landlord! Watch! Coffin! Angels! save me!”

“Speak! Tell me who ye be, or damn me, I’ll kill ye!” He continued to spin the axe around.

The innkeeper arrived with a light and a grin, I ran over and clutched at his shirt.

“Don’t be afraid now,” he said, grinning again, “Queequeg here wouldn’t harm a hair of your head.”

“Stop grinning!” I squealed, assertively. “Why didn’t you tell me he was a bloody cannibal?”

“I thought ye know’d it;—didn’t I tell ye, he was a peddlin’ heads around town?—but turn flukes again and go to sleep. Queequeg, look here—you sabbee me, I sabbee—you this man sleepe you—you sabbee?”

I did not sabbee, I had not idea what this meant.

“Me sabbee plenty”—grunted Queequeg, puffing away at his pipe and sitting up in bed. Instantly calm.

“Come, Get yerself abed, stranger.” he added, motioning to me with his tomahawk, and throwing the clothes to one side. He really did this in not only a civil but a really kind and charitable way. I stood looking at him a moment. For all his tattooings he was on the whole a clean, comely looking cannibal. What’s all this fuss I have been making about, thought I to myself—the man’s a human being just as I am: he has just as much reason to fear me, as I have to be afraid of him. Better sleep with a sober cannibal than a drunken Christian.

“Landlord,” said I, “tell him to stash his tomahawk there, or pipe, or whatever you call it; tell him to stop smoking, in short, and I will turn in with him. But I don’t fancy having a man smoking in bed with me. It’s dangerous. Besides, I ain’t insured.”

This being told to Queequeg, he at once complied, and again politely motioned me to get into bed—rolling over to one side as much as to say—“I won’t touch a leg of ye.”

“Good night, landlord,” said I, “you may go.”

I turned in, and never slept better in my life.

[queen-susans-revenge]

Moby Dick, chapter 22. A vivid and melancholy description of the ship getting underway in the dead of winter. "It was a short, cold Christmas; and as the short northern day merged into night, we found ourselves almost broad upon the wintry ocean, whose freezing spray cased us in ice, as in polished armor. The long rows of teeth on the bulwarks glistened in the moonlight; and like the white ivory tusks of some huge elephant, vast curving icicles depended from the bows."

Haunting right? Okay now it's chapter 23 and our narrator is like: Hey remember Bulkington? That character I was really careful to introduce back in chapter three? I talked him up a lot, how he was six feet tall "with noble shoulders" and all his crewmates loved him and stuff? Yeah, he was there too, in that part I was just telling you about, when we were getting underway and the ship was all iced up and stuff. He died though. I mean not right then. I'm not actually going to tell you how he died, at least not right now, but it sure wasn't on land. Anyway don't expect to see Bulkington again, that's all.

Chapter 24: By the way, I think people don't have enough respect for whalers in general. Like sure we're butchers but at least we don't kill people, amirite? And soldiers get more respect! That's not fair! Plus the business of whaling is economically a huuuuuuge deal and geopolitically significant too, like, we would never have colonized all those places without the whaling business! Wooo! U.S.A.! U.S.A.! Oh man, I am totally gonna be the first writer to do a really good whaling novel. Do NOT forget that I was the whaling guy.

[This chapter has footnotes! But they both just say to keep reading.]

Chapter 25: Incidentally, I have OPINIONS on personal hygiene and I'm gonna share them! "In truth, a mature man who uses hair-oil, unless medicinally, that man has probably got a quoggy spot in him somewhere. As a general rule, he can't amount to much in his totality." But you know they use oil to anoint kings! I bet they use sperm whale oil! They should, anyway. "Think of that, ye loyal Britons! we whalemen supply your kings and queens with coronation stuff"* *[This chapter does not have footnotes but it could have used some. I looked up coronation oil. Turns out that it's made mostly from olive and sesame oils but does contain ambergris, so Ishmael is only mostly wrong in the facts he admits to making up.]

chapter 26: All right we'll get back to the story for now. Meet Starbuck! Here's a very normal way to describe someone: "His pure tight skin was an excellent fit," you know, like a mummy. Let's also have a little meditation on the nature of fear while we're here. Starbuck, okay, he's a brave guy. Not foolhardy though. "Starbuck was no crusader after perils; in him courage was not a sentiment; but a thing simply useful to him, and always at hand upon all mortally practical occasions." He's a real pro, that Starbuck. And if there ever was a time when Starbuck totally fuckin lost it and like, pissed himself in terror, well gosh, I don't know if I could even bring myself to tell you about it. I'm not saying it's going to happen! It's just kind of like, you know, give the working man some dignity here. God! Be on my side here! Please God! Poor people are important too!

[seagodofmagic]

my mental image of tall, southern bulkington is that he ACTUALLY kind of looks like george washington and he probably has like 1 really tacky tattoo of the starbucks mermaid on his arm or something. if queequeg hadn’t shown up ishmael would 100000% have tried to bone him

[starbuck]

please put “maybe he fell over” on my gravestone.

[woozapooza]

Moby Dick 1998 reactions

Literally just the notes I took watching the 1998 Moby Dick miniseries. I enjoyed it a lot but I like the 2011 one better.

Elijah is pretty goofy here

Note to self--find video of Henry Thomas talking in his normal voice. Is he doing a weird accent for this role, or is that just how he talks? He sounds almost Irish. [BTW after I finished watching, I looked up a video of him talking in his normal voice and he does not sound weirdly Irish-tinged in real life, so I have no idea why he was talking like that in this adaptation.]

They shoehorn some narration from the book into Ishmael’s dialogue

Not sure if the problem is with the actor or the dialogue, but Henry Thomas’s performance is...rather stilted

Here, Ishmael has no nautical experience. 

“I fear I must make a confession. I used to be a schoolteacher.” HE SAYS THAT LIKE IT’S SO EMBARRASSING 

When Peleg says that Queequeg “doesn’t look like much of a Christian,” Ishmael fires back with “HE’S KILLED MORE WHALES THAN YOU CAN COUNT” and seriously looks like he’s about to punch Peleg until Queequeg puts his hand on his shoulder.

Queequeg is less worldly here than in the book. Ishmael takes him to church to teach him about the concepts of God and souls.

STARBUCK IS PLAYED BY BUFFALO BILL FROM THE SILENCE OF THE LAMBS?!

Ishmael is so serious here

Stubb is perfect

Interesting that Ishmael is a brand-new sailor, but he already knows the song (shanty?) the other sailors are singing

The guy playing Flask could stand to rein it in a bit

Pip is younger than I imagined him. But then, I don’t think his age is specified in the book.

Ishmael’s hands are burned by the rope. Later, below decks, Queequeg patches them up :) 

One guy literally refers to Ishmael and Queequeg as “lovebirds” and another guy makes kissing noises at them

Those guys try (pathetically) to bully Queequeg. Ishmael says to Queequeg, sounding kind of ashamed, “You pagans should teach us Christians the art of kindness.” Queequeg reassures him that they (Q & I) are friends *emotional emoji*

This is so weird! There’s a scene where basically the whole crew converges on Ishmael and tells him scary whale facts while he looks terrified!

I feel like Ahab needs to have a beard. I forget if he has one in the book but he SHOULD.

Ted Levine has the absolute BEST judgmental face.

They keep the scene of Ahab throwing his pipe overboard!

Pip sounds like he’s from the Caribbean? Interesting. I looked up the actor and he’s from Wisconsin. 

Fedallah is east Asian instead of Parsi for some reason 

“There’s no savagery of beast that’s not infinitely outdone by that of man.” I love that they retain Ishmael’s bursts of human-phobia!

The little swing Captain Boomer uses to get to the Pequod looks like so much fun

After the encounter with the Samuel Enderby, Starbuck openly stands up to Ahab, but Ahab shuts him down. Then there’s a shot of Pip angrily throwing down his tambourine. I like that. It adds some depth to Pip.

Wait, Bulkington’s name is in the credits??? He’s here??? I looked up the guy who plays him and I don’t recognize him but apparently the character is here somewhere. 

The whale looks so silly

Pip is in Starbuck’s boat here, and the emphasis is on Starbuck, not Stubb, choosing not to bother helping him. That’s an odd choice. I like that Ishmael is trying to get Starbuck to go back for Pip. When the hunt is over, Starbuck proposes going back for him and Stubb argues against it. Now that I think about it, I kind of see what they were going for. Starbuck’s first priority is to get the job done and his second priority is morality. 

A SHARK ALMOST GETS PIP?! WHAT’S GOING ON

When the rescue boat approaches the Pequod, there’s a shot of Ishmael holding Pip in his arms <3

When Pip is lifted aboard, Stubb celebrates. Sir, kindly shut up. You were in favor of leaving him to die. Okay, to be fair, I guess the novel is coloring my view of the miniseries’ take on the character. Here, Stubb wasn’t the one who left him behind, that was Starbuck. Stubb just thought he was probably dead, which I guess is reasonable.

Out of nowhere (unless I’ve forgotten something), Bulkington is an actual character in Part 2.

I love the choice to literally film from Pip’s point of view to depict his terror and disorientation. 

I don’t love this portrayal of Queequeg, to be honest. He lacks subtlety.

Pip starts dressing up as Ahab. I’m trying very hard not to find this funny. I KNOW it’s serious. It just reminds me of when I was a kid and I would entertain my mom by putting on her hat and shoes.

Unlike in the book, here Pip doesn’t become...I don’t know the word for it. Disidentified with himself? He doesn’t talk about “Pip” in the third person or say that Pip is dead or missing.

I like that, unlike the 1956 and 2011 versions, this one is really making an effort to depict the bond that forms between Pip and Ahab. However, the fact that it only forms once Ahab sees Pip dressed up as him cheapens it a bit, I feel. 

Ooh, they have Queequeg stand up to Ahab! That’s a fun choice. 

Ishmael is very angry that everyone on the ship is going mad. 

Why do some of the actors pronounce Queequeg’s name “kee-quay”???

THEY HAVE QUEEQUEG DECLARE THAT THERE IS NO GOD ON THE PEQUOD AND THROW YOJO IN THE FIRE??? 

Starbuck catches Bulkington trying to jump ship and go home to his wife. Instead of trying to stop him, he gives him a letter to deliver to Mary. Bulkington suggests that Starbuck just come along with him, but Starbuck can’t bring himself to do that. That’s really interesting. I like that.

Starbuck comes into Ahab’s cabin, where Ahab and Pip are both asleep, and stands menacingly over Ahab. Maybe thinking murderous thoughts? I’m not sure, but DEFINITELY thinking malicious thoughts. But then he sees Ahab put his hand on top of Pip’s, and he softens. I love that.

Ahab takes the wheel in a storm. Major Flint vibes!

Patrick Stewart seems to be having a great time

I THINK QUEEQUEG JUST DECLARED AHAB HIS GOD? WTF 

Ishmael and Starbuck commiserate about how everyone else on this crew has lost their minds. In the book, Ishmael is clear about the fact that he was under Ahab’s spell just like the rest of the crew (minus Starbuck), but I guess they wanted to give him stuff to do in this adaptation aside from just being one of the crowd.

Whoa there is something weird going on between Starbuck and Ishmael. I’m starting to ship it, frankly. 

I don’t like what they did with the “let me gaze into a human eye” scene. In the book, it’s really moving. Here, Starbuck literally has a knife in his hand. Ahab puts his hand on Starbuck’s face and Starbuck looks extremely uncomfortable. However, as the interaction continues, you see Starbuck start to feel less murderous and try to reason with Ahab, so I guess that’s good. 

Oh snap! Starbuck holds the knife to Ahab’s chest...and then starts crying. And then voluntarily lowers the knife. This is wild. Ahab says “what have I done” and you get the sense that he’s on the verge of being persuaded...when the guy on the masthead spots the whale. 

I like that this version includes Fedallah at all but Kee Chan is simply not given a whole lot to work with. 

OH GOD QUEEQUEG GETS BADLY INJURED—I THINK HE SOMEHOW GETS HARPOONED?—AND HIS LAST WORD IS “ISHMAEL” AND THEN HE SINKS UNDER AND ISHMAEL SCREAMS AND DIVES AFTER HIM AND TRIES TO PULL HIM UP BUT QUEEQUEG SHAKES HIM OFF I’M GONNA DIE

AND THEN WHEN ISHMAEL RESURFACES HE SCREAMS AGAIN I AM DEVASTATED 

The cook and the carpenter are both trying to get the doubloon. Guys...priorities.

Starbuck is just hanging out inside the boat this whole time and then the whale rams into the boat and Starbuck and Pip both get overwhelmed by the water :(

As the carpenter dies, there’s a shot of the doubloon in his hand. I like that. 

As with the 2011 version, the “epilogue” feels a little rushed. I guess maybe it just doesn’t translate all that well to the screen. Oh well.

[marcherarrant]

It may seem a stupid question but... How do you leave? How do you leave your home, your job, your career, your friends, your gf, your life? And then, how do you live away? I'd love to escape too, but... How?

I love this question, thank you. Fantasy is my answer! Create your own world and Philosophy in your head in which leaving is meaningful. Part of this fantasy, or self creation I call it, is to see oneself in a long tradition of people who left. For me this is Nietzsche and Rimbaud and many others. I read them, and about them a lot and it gives me strength. But thanks to an amazing website called Cynical Reflections (http://www.cynicalreflections.net/2012/10/a-philosophy-of-tramping-introduction.html?m=1) I see myself as part of a tradition going all the way back to Diogenes of Sinope and beyond. This helps give courage and spirit! They don’t have to be real either! I also claim Don Quixote and Bulkington as well! You also have to develop your own reasons and give meaning to your leaving. This is important because by leaving you are going against all of society, meaning all traditional values which also live in your head. You have to have some kind of story for when the hard times come, the fears, fears which have all of society behind them. I have many stories and meanings that help me. Just one example is that for me leaving is a form of art, of self expression. The greatest experience I have had in life is that of becoming. For most of my life I wanted a metaphorical place to be. I searched so hard. I was a fundamentalist Christian for awhile. I lived in a Zen monastery for a year spending a lot of time in meditation. I studied Philosophy in the university. All in hopes of finding a home. But I never could find one. Things always changed, interpretations and perspectives always changed. This is my experience. So I leave, move, as a way to express this truth in me. That is just one story of mine. Another one is almost biological (I’m not sure thats the word I’m looking for), it’s one Nietzsche would love, and can be summed up in the chorus of the song Domesticated by Profane Sass: “And I’m starting to feel...domesticated and I’m trapped in repetition,my instincts are yelling “what the hell are you thinking!?” Right now run as fast as you can, any much longer and you’ll be like the rest of them.” Anyway, those are just two of my minor reasons. The point is is that leaving is really hard because you are going against traditional values. You need to create your own reasons and meanings that give you courage when times are hard. And don’t go the nihilistic route! Yes that can be insanely fun and full of epic darkness which ironically feels meaningful but ultimately the nihilistic path leads to drugs and destruction.

[literaryromps]

Whale Facts #8 🐳🐳🐳🐳🐳🐳🐳🐳

“And all I ask is a tall ship and a Star to steer her by.” - John Masefield “Sea Fever”

Let’s talk about Cetus! The “Whale” Constellation 🐳⭐️

(^you can kinda see a whale in it right?)

Cetus constellation is located in the northern sky. Also known as the Whale, it is one of the largest constellations in the sky. (4th biggest!)

The constellation was named after Cetus, the sea monster from the Greek myth about Andromeda. In the myth, the princess was sacrificed to the monster as punishment for her mother Cassiopeia’s boastfulness. (Never a good idea).

Most often though Cetus in reference to mythos was a sea monster and not a whale liked we’d normally think of today- less Moby Dick and more Lovecraftian nightmare or Frankenstein patchwork:

The constellation Cetus lies in the region of the sky called the Water, along with several other constellations with names evocative of water: Eridanus (the river), Aquarius (the water bearer), Pisces (the fish), etc.

Honestly I think the constellation looks much more like a whale than these weird sea unicorn puppies?

Also stupid fun fact: Cetus is the first monster sent by Eris in the delightful move Sinbad: Legend of the Seven Seas!

These stellar whale facts are brought to you by Moby Dick:

Chapter 23 ~ The Lee Shore {In memoriam} Of Bulkington’s six inches 

Chapter 24 ~ The Advocate Of an ivy league education

Chapter 25 ~ Postscript Of “one more thing!”

Chapter 26 ~ Knights and Squires Of the wild watery loneliness

Chapter 27 ~ Knights and Squires Of the Pequod’s Dramatis Personae

[la-baleine]

Critical Response 2

It’s very interesting that this long epic novel about the hunt for the white whale, takes chapter after chapter for the Captain Ahab to even appear on deck of the ship. My mother called me last night to ask me to give one word to describe Moby Dick so far, and I said descriptive. Melville is so skilled with is ability to turn even a very simple scene into a rich, vivid experience. If you lose your excitement, these long passages of description, like in Chapter 23 when Ishmael is describing Bulkington, can start to seem very dull. Long books like Moby Dick, or Ulysses, require a kind of loving dedication and for the reader to have the Inner Resources to make the most long-winded text interesting. I think that Chapter 24 (The Advocate) is extremely important in context of the world outside of the ship. Ishmael advocates for the whaling profession, saying that it’s a “heroic” profession, important economically and has greatly expanded cartography/geographical knowledge. Which, the geographical thing is really true, but mammals harming mammals is really hard for me to support. In his support of whaling, he really taps into a really strong cultural phenomenon of the Islands/Cape Cod life: the family names. What last name you have, and if you’re a “Landsman” (Cape Cod native) or an “Nantucketer” or an “Islander” is really important historically and culturally in this realm of the world. Ishmael rationalizes whaling by basically saying why would these noble families have any involvement in a “bad” industry. Ishmael also discusses the biblical mentions of whales, as well. I think that this chapter did not HAVE to be included in Moby Dick, but the fact that it was included, especially this far into the text, feels very intentional. The importance of the color white is starting to appear in Chapter 28 (Ahab). In Ishmael’s description of Ahab, we learn that he’s been obviously mentally scared by the encounter with the white whale and physically since he lost a leg during said encounter. But Ishmael makes a point to highlight Ahab’s white scar that runs down one side of his face that looks like a lightening strike. The whispers around the ship say that the scar suddenly appeared on Ahab’s face during an “elemental strife at sea.” Something pretty intense for me too is that Ahab’s fake leg is carved from a whale’s jaw- that seems pretty spooky to me.

[myrnan]

These few days before Whale Weekly starts has the vibe of the New Bedford Inns being overcrowded with new and old sailors waiting for their journey to begin.

[marcherarrant]

Hey Marcher! I'm following you on Instagram and as we couldn't meet in the Pyrenees for a chat, there's something I'd love to know. I'm a cataphile, and as such I always wonder what's behind the wall; what's the part we can't see; who's Marcher? How can you afford your trips? Do you also sell your art for a living? I wonder because you seem to be so free from everything, but money isn't easy to free ourselves from! Thanks man!

Yo what’s up cataphile brother/sister! It’s a good question. I’m actually very bound by money and it stresses me out quite a bit. I get money by selling art but mainly by teaching English and nannying and babysitting as well as cleaning houses. These are great jobs if you want to travel because you work under the table and don’t need a visa. You can do it anywhere too. I get 10 to 15 euros an hour for this work. I live very cheap too. The last year I managed to not pay rent! It was a mix between squatting (7 months), being homeless (3 months) and living rent free with a friend (2 months). Being homeless while working is an amazing way to save money. But I saved good with a place too. You just have to find a cheap place and have roommates. I was paying 250 a month before and making a thousand a month. I purposely live very minimally too. I don’t drink or smoke. I don’t eat at restaurants. I don’t smoke weed or habitually do drugs. I don’t have a car or insurance. I don’t have a social life. Don’t go to clubs or concerts. I’m not saving for the future. Another really important thing for me is that through searching and reading a lot I have created a certain ethos behind what I do. I have my heroes and inspirations. I even have my soundtrack. “Man does not live on bread alone.” I have found a way to make this lifestyle of mine very meaningful to me. These may be the most important things that help me. They give me strength when things are so hard, when I’m so poor and hungry and worried what the hell am I going to do if I get sick. I know I will die broke and alone. Nobody wants this kind of life. But I find strength through these fears when I think about my heros such as Nietzsche, Rimbaud, Vaschel Lindsay, Diogenes the Cynic, Bulkington, Mildred Norman etc. They all died poor and alone too. But they inspired me, made me feel life is something most fucking awesome and that’s amazing, that’s what I need and want. That’s what I was searching for all my life, to feel that. So they give me strength to face the fears society has given me for not following the normal life. I have poems that give me strength “...not to autumn will I yield...not to winter even (Bitch!!!!! The Vagabond by Robert Louis Stevenson is hands down the most badass of all mother fucking tramp poems holy fuck!!!! On the Road to Nowhere by Vachel Lindsay is a close second!). I have my tramp songs, folk songs, bluegrass and folk punk which give me strength. Songs that speak of travel and adventure and also about being lonely and poor. Sun Don’t Shine by Profane Sass. Lay Me Down by 2nd Street Rag Stompers. Freight Train by Elizabeth Cotton. Hitched Up Kids by Rosa. Wait at Milano by Tim Barry. Of course books have helped me immensely. Thus Spoke Zarathustra by Nietzsche I have read so many times. The mother fucking essay titled Walking by Henry David Thoreau!!! “Not chevaliers, not Ritters or Riders, but Walkers, a still more ancient and honorable class, I trust. The Chivalric and heroic spirit which once belonged to the Rider seems now to reside in, or perchance to have subsided into, the Walker–not the Knight, but Walker, Errant. He is a sort of fourth estate, outside of Church and State and People.” Fuck that’s good!!! Also the Book Erring by Mark C Taylor! I read that book more than any other. Anyway, all of this gives me a mythos, an ethos, a belief system of sorts, a community, and all this works together to give me meaning and strength. This is perhaps what keeps me going no matter what. It is what enables me to go through discomforts and face fears that most are not willing to.