Moby-Dick™

Leben mit Herman Melville

Archive for February 2010

München am Meer XII: Childhood Winter’s End

with 5 comments

Update zu To sail you home,
Golddublone für mich!
und What I Heard about the Apple Barrel:

Boys get discovered as winter melts,
Flowers competing for the sun.
Years go by and I’m here still waiting,
Withering where some snowman was.
Mirror, mirror, where’s the crystal palace?
But I only can see myself
Skating around the truth who I am
But I know dad, the ice is getting thin.

When you gonna make up your mind?
When you gonna love you as much as I do?

Tori Amos: Winter, in: Little Earthquakes, published in the USA on February 25, 1992.

Why tell the whole? The blows of the basement hammer every day grew more and more between; and each blow every day grew fainter than the last; the wife sat frozen at the window, with tearless eyes, glitteringly gazing into the weeping faces of her children; the bellows fell; the forge choked up with cinders; the house was sold; the mother dived down into the long church-yard grass; her children twice followed her thither; and the houseless, familyless old man staggered off a vagabond in crape; his every woe unreverenced; his grey head a scorn to flaxen curls!

Chapter CXII: The Blacksmith.

Now, as it shortly turned out, what made this incident of the Rachel‘s the more melancholy, was the circumstance, that not only was one of the Captain’s sons among the number of the missing boat’s crew; but among the number of the other boat’s crews, at the same time, but on the other hand, separated from the ship during the dark vicissitudes of the chase, there had been still another son; as that for a time, the wretched father was plunged to the bottom of the cruellest perplexity; which was only solved for him by his chief mate’s instinctively adopting the ordinary procedure of a whale-ship in such emergencies, that is, when placed between jeopardized but divided boats, always to pick up the majority first. […]

But the captain, for some unknown constitutional reason, had refrained from mentioning all this, and not till forced to it by Ahab’s iciness did he allude to his one yet missing boy; a little lad, but twelve years old, whose father with the earnest but unmisgiving hardihood of a Nantucketer’s paternal love, had thus early sought to initiate him in the perils and wonders of a vocation almost immemorially the destiny of all his race. Nor does it unfrequently occur, that Nantucket captains will send a son of such tender age away from them, for a protracted three or four years’ voyage in some other ship than their own; so that their first knowledge of a whaleman’s career shall be unenervated by any chance display of a father’s natural but untimely partiality, or undue apprehensiveness and concern. […]

But by her still halting course and winding, woeful way, you plainly saw that this ship that so wept with spray, still remained without comfort. She was Rachel, weeping for her children, because they were not.

Chapter CXXVIII: The Pequod Meets The Rachel.

On the second day, a sail drew near, nearer, and picked me up at last. It was the devious-cruising Rachel, that in her retracing search after her missing children, only found another orphan.

Epilogue.

25. Februar 2010: Die Little Earthquakes von Rotschopf Tori Amos wird volljährig. Wir hatten schon viel Spaß miteinander.

Cover Tori Amos, Little Earthuquakes

Freundliche Begegnung:

“Hast seen the White Whale?”

“Aye, yesterday. Have ye seen a whale-boat adrift?”

Chapter CXXVIII: The Pequod Meets The Rachel:

Friendly Encounter bei mir im Hinterhof, 17. Februar 2010:

Freundliche Begegnung. Friendly Encounter

Written by Wolf

25. February 2010 at 12:01 am

Posted in Fiddler's Green

Klüger werden in den Rotschopfwochen

leave a comment »

Update zu Cabidoulin is too seldom,
Die Zukunft war noch nie, was sie mal werden sollte
und Two Years Before the Mast:

Auf den ersten Seiten von Die Eissphinx gelernt: Eine Seemeile ist so lang wie eine Winkelminute zwischen zwei Breiten- oder Längengraden auf der Erdoberfläche, was unter Berücksichtigung einer unregelmäßig gekrümmten solchen bei der Längenmessung stört.

Memo an mich: Endlich den Erdradius auswendig merken. Und wenigstens so viele Stellen von π, wie auf dem Taschenrechner angezeigt werden. Und neue Telefonnummern.

I'm Like You, Tree, How I Wish I Could Talk to You Now, July 9, 2009Alina Rudya, Sea 6, August 10, 2009Danceboy, July 26, 2009

Erdgekrümmte Rotschöpfe: I’m Like You, Tree: How I Wish I Could Talk to You Now, 9. Juli 2009;
Alina Rudya: Sea 6, 10. August 2009;
Danceboy, 26. Juli 2009.

Written by Wolf

22. February 2010 at 4:03 am

Posted in Rabe Wolf

Rotschopfwochen auf Moby-Dick™: François Villon: Ich hab mich in dein rotes Haar verliebt

with one comment

Im Sommer war das Gras so tief,
daß jeder Wind daran vorüberlief.
Ich habe da dein Blut gespürt
und wie es heiß zu mir herüberrann.
Du hast nur meine Stirn berührt,
da schmolz er auch schon hin, der harte Mann,
weils solche Liebe nicht tagtäglich gibt…
Ich hab mich in dein rotes Haar verliebt.

Im Feld den ganzen Sommer war
der Mond so rot nicht wie dein Haar.
Jetzt wird es abgemäht, das Gras,
die bunten Blumen welken auch dahin.
Und wenn der rote Mond so blaß
geworden ist, dann hat es keinen Sinn,
daß es noch weiße Wolken gibt…
Ich hab mich in dein rotes Haar verliebt.

Du sagst, daß es bald Kinder gibt,
wenn man sich in dein rotes Haar verliebt,
so rot wie Mohn, so weiß wie Schnee.
Im Herbst, mein Lieb, da kehren viele Kinder ein,
warum solls auch bei uns nicht sein?
Du bleibst im Winter auch mein rotes Reh
und wenn es hundert schönere gibt…
Ich hab mich in dein rotes Haar verliebt.

Die lasterhaften Balladen und Lieder des François Villon.
Nachdichtung [nicht “Übersetzung”]: Paul Zech, 1946, gesammelt 1962.

Reaus v.d. O, Me, July 8, 2008

Beitrittsempfehlung: Ginger and Redhead Appreciation Society:

I came across a news article about “Kick a Ginger Day” a group that had been set up on Facebook to incite hatred towards ginger/redheaded people. This resulted in many children being attacked in school and on the street. Being a mother of a gorgeous red head it made my blood boil. This site is to show that the human race are not Neanderthals, sheep or insane bullys. To celebrate what it is to be a readhead. Love a readhead… or have a readhead as a friend or family member.

Bild: Reaus v.d. O: Me, 8. Juli 2008.

Written by Wolf

21. February 2010 at 12:01 am

Posted in Laderaum

Kein Krimi wie ein Gedicht

with one comment

Jürgen Jessebird SchmitteJürgen wird heute zarte 42, das Alter, in dem man das Leben, das Universum und den ganzen Rest versteht, und kriegt als Geschenk seinen eigenen Eintrag vom 20. September 2009 geklaut: John Burnside: Glister. Glückwunsch auch vom Rest der P.E.Q.U.O.D.!

Jürgen hielt berufsbedingt die Neuerscheinung Glister von John Burnside als einer der ersten in Händen. “Ein Buch wie ein Gedicht”, fasst er zusammen, und versteht einen im weiteren Verlauf richtig neugierig darauf zu machen. Scheint gut zu sein.

Und für uns gräbt er eine Freundliche Begegnung aus:

Nathalie by An Sophie & Bart, Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam IV, 13. Januar 2010Plötzlich wusste ich, dass er mich nur auf den Arm genommen hatte, und von diesem Augenblick an mochte ich ihn irgendwie. Schließlich verdankte ich es John, dass ich noch einmal zu Herman Melville griff. Ich kannte eine überarbeitete Fassung von Moby Dick aus der Kinderbücherei, nicht aber den eigentlichen Roman. Irgendwelche allgewaltigen Mächtigen hatten aus irgendeinem unerfindlichen Grund schon vor vielen Jahren beschlossen, dass sich Moby Dick als Kinderbuch eigne, woraufhin allerlei seltsame Ausgaben herausgebracht worden waren, samt und sonders gekürzt und illustriert und auf das bloße Skelett einer Abenteuergeschichte reduziert. Schlimmer noch, man hielt Melville für jemanden, der nur ein einziges Buch geschrieben hatte, weshalb ich, bis John kam, nichts von Maskeraden wusste, von Bartleby, der Schreiber oder Billy Budd. Niemand aber sollte je den ewigen Dank vergessen, den er jenem Menschen schuldet, der ihn zum ersten Mal dazu bringt, den wahren Herman Melville zu lesen. Laut John gehörte der ungekürzte Moby Dick ebenfalls zur fesselnden Lektüre – und er hatte recht, so wie er mit Proust und all den anderen Autoren recht hatte.

John Burnside: Glister; deutsch: Glister bei Albrecht Knaus, seit 28. September 2009.

Danke für deine Aufmerksamkeit und gute Arbeit, Jürgen! Schreib mal wieder was für uns!

Rotschopf Nathalie: An Sophie & Bart: Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam IV, 13. Januar 2010,
mit Juan Eusebio Nieremberg (1595–1658): De la diferencia entre lo temporal y eterno, Madrid 1640.

Written by Wolf

19. February 2010 at 1:07 am

Posted in Moses Jürgen

Further Etching

with 3 comments

Update zu Kapitel 24: Der Anwalt, Guardian of public virtue und Ahab geht von Bord:

I must here state that Bill Mann was a very distinguished character on board the styx. In person he was large and unwieldy, and possessed of great strength. He wore a pair of tremendous black whiskers, which he regarded as the greatest ornament to the human face divine; and altogether had the regular “damn-my-eyes” look of an old salt. Bill was unquestionably a hero, if great deeds entitle any man to that distinction. According to his own account, he had killed more whales, broken more girls’ hearts, whipped more men, been drunk oftener, and pushed his way through more perils, frolics, pleasures, pains, and general vicissitudes of fortune than any man in the known world. Nevertheless, Bill was a great grumbler. He had the happy knack of seeing through every thing at a glance, and making evil omens out of the smallest trifles. If a cloud appeared on the horizon, we were going to have “tough weather, and, like as not, the blamed old spars wouldn’t stand it, and we’d fetch up in Davy Jones’s locker.” He always “knew what he was about.” If he fell over a handspike and bruised his shins, he “knew what he was about.” Nay, for that matter, he could foretell every accident about to happen; but, unfortunately, seldom made particular reference to any special accident until after it did happen. Whenever any of the crew broke a looking-glass, he had fifty tragical stories to relate in proof of his position that it was a sure omen of bad luck. He was always “growling;” from morning till night he had something to growl at. If he had to do a job on the rigging, he went at it growling; be growled his way aloft twice a day; growled at the wheel; growled in the forecastle; growled in his sleep; and, although he could tell some amusing stories, he invariably wound up with a growl. Bill was every thing under the sun: a sailor; an actor, a musician, a pugilist; and, in short, considered himself an adept in seamanship, literature, politics, law, and every other pursuit that engages the attention of man. In all forecastle disputes touching questions in art; science, or literature, Bill was the great Sir Oracle, and clinched every argument by the assertion, that “there was nothing green in the corner of his eye; he knew what he was about.” His songs — for he could sing too — were never less than sixteen or eighteen verses. Every thing he did bore the peculiar stamp of his genius. Nothing pleased him; nothing went as he had seen things go. His last voyage was pleasant and prosperous; the last ship was a good sailer; the last crew were fine, clever fellows; the last forecastle wasn’t a hog-pen. He was continually cursing his “top-lights” if it wouldn’t be a source of infinite satisfaction to him if this crazy old tub of a barque would sink, spars, tackling, try-works, and all, and go crock to the bottom. He had seen salt water before; nobody could tell him about salt water; he knew what a sailor’s life was as well as any man; but he had never seen such doings aboard any other ship. He’d be blowed if he wouldn’t like to see the studding-sails dragging overboard, the top-masts swinging by the rigging, the yards braced to Halifax, and the whole bloody ship’s crew drifting on to a lee shore in the cook’s galley. Divers and sundry afflictions might befall him if he wouldn’t sooner be rammed and jammed into the fore-peak of purgatory than in such a ditty, lubberly, tub-sided blubber hunter as the barque styx.

Browne’s account on Captain Bill Mann, Chapter IX.

ohkayeor, Etching Workshop, Flickr June 15, 2009

Etchings of a Whaling Cruise, with Notes of a Sojourn on the Island of Zanzibar; With a History of the Whale Fishery, Its Past and Present Condition. By J. Ross Browne. Illustrated by Numerous Engravings on Steel and Wood. New York: Harper & Brothers, Publishers, 82 Cliff Street, 1846.

Herman Melville: Etchings of a Whaling Cruise: Rezension.

Rotschopfbild: ohkayeor: Etching Workshop, 15. Juni 2009.

~~~|~~~~~~~|~~~

Further Reading Lied: Lisa Hannigan: Lille, Debütsingle aus: Sea Sew, 2008.

Written by Wolf

16. February 2010 at 2:09 am

Posted in Reeperbahn

Speaking words of wisdom

with one comment

Update zu Chiemgirl Blues:

Johannes Waechter ist einen großen Teil der Süddeutschen Zeitung wert. Der Mann führt dort in einem schnauzigen, unterkühlten Tonfall den bestrecherchierten Musikblog diesseits des Hudson, ohne Verherrlichung und ohne Ressentiment; jedenfalls erwischt erimmer die richtige Musik, über die man auch einige Vertiefung erfahren will. Falls jemand einen besseren kennt, her damit, ich glaube ihm seit Monaten jedes Wort.

Waechter hat gemerkt, dass “unser” Friedhelm Rathjen 130 Stunden Bootleg-Material der Beatles durchgehört hat und uns in einem Buch darüber erzählt: Von GET BACK zu LET IT BE: Der Anfang vom Ende der Beatles. Was er nicht sagt: Rathjen findet — wie meistens — vorerst nicht im normalen Sortimentsbuchhandel statt, sondern bei Rogner & Bernhardt und somit nur bei Zweitausendeins.

Was er doch sagt:

Cover Friedhelm Rathjen, Von Get Back zu Let it Be, 2010Am 2. Januar 1969 traf man sich im Filmstudio in Twickenham, und von Anfang an filmte das Team des Regisseurs Michael Lindsay-Hogg alles, was sich ereignete. Ende Januar hatte Lindsay-Hogg 130 Stunden Material aufgenommen, Bild und Ton. Die Tonspur seines Films gelangte kurze Zeit später in die Hände von Bootleggern, und in den kommenden Jahrzehnten erschien eine riesige Anzahl von Raubpressungen mit Outtakes von den Sessions und Versionen der zahlreichen Rock’n’Roll-Klassiker, die die Beatles zum Warmwerden gespielt hatten. Das Bootleg-Label Purple Chick trieb das Ganze im Jahr 2004 auf die Spitze und brachte auf 83 CDs eine Komplettedition der Sessions heraus.

Friedhelm Rathjen hat sich nun die Mühe gemacht, dieses Material anzuhören und eine genaue Chronologie der Sessions zu erstellen. In seinem Buch erfahren wir, was die Beatles an jedem einzelnen Tag der Sessions spielten, was sie redeten, wie sie sich stritten und herumalberten. Das ist in gleichem Maße faszinierend wie ernüchternd.

Ernüchternd deshalb, weil Rathjen keinen Zweifel daran lässt, dass die berühmteste Band der Welt damals kurz davor stand, das Musikmachen zu verlernen: Wenn die Beatles zu den Instrumenten griffen, kam in der Regel lahmes, uninspiriertes Zeug heraus; außerdem litten sie an einem Mangel an neuen Songs, vor allem weil John Lennon, damals heroinsüchtig, nichts Brauchbares zu den Sessions beitrug. […]

Rathjens Buch kulminiert im berühmten Rooftop-Konzert vom 30. Januar 1969. Nach dem Ende der Sessions gingen die Probleme der Beatles aber erst richtig los. Der Nachteil von Rathjens Ansatz, eine begrenzte Periode im Schaffen der Beatles wie unter dem Mikroskop zu betrachten, liegt natürlich darin, dass er keine großen Zusammenhänge schildern kann; die Charaktere der Gruppenmitglieder, ihre tief sitzenden Rivalitäten und geschäftlichen Differenzen, werden in seinem Buch nur angerissen. All das, was man in Rathjens Buch vermisst, steht jedoch in Peter Doggetts You Never Give Me Your Money: The Battle For The Soul Of The Beatles, das meines Erachtens in Kürze zu einem Standardwerk werden wird.

Johannes Waechter: Das schmerzhafte Ende der Beatles, 12. Februar 2010.

Written by Wolf

15. February 2010 at 12:01 am

Posted in Moses Wolf

München am Meer XI: The great live Squid, which they say, few whale-ships ever beheld, and returned to their ports to tell of it

with 5 comments

Update zu 50 Jahre alte Fischstäbchen:

Slowly wading through the meadows of brit, the Pequod still held on her way north-eastward towards the island of Java; a gentle air impelling her keel, so that in the surrounding serenity her three tall tapering masts mildly waved to that languid breeze, as three mild palms on a plain. […]

Whatever superstitions the Sperm Whalemen in general have connected with the sight of this object, certain it is, that a glimpse of it being so very unusual, that circumstance has gone far to invest it with portentousness. So rarely is it beheld, that though one and all of them declare it to be the largest animated thing in the ocean, yet very few of them have any but the most vague ideas concerning its true nature and form; notwithstanding, they believe it to furnish to the Sperm Whale his only food. For though other species of whales find their food above water, and may be seen by man in the act of feeding, the Spermaceti Whale obtains his whole food in unknown zones below the surface; and only by inference is it that any one can tell of what, precisely, that food consists. At times, when closely pursued, he will disgorge what are supposed to be the detached arms of the squid; some of them thus exhibited exceeding twenty and thirty feet in length. They fancy that the monster to which these arms belonged ordinarily clings by them to the bed of the ocean; and that the Sperm Whale, unlike other species, is supplied with teeth in order to attack and tear it.

There seems some ground to imagine that the great Kraken of Bishop Pontoppodan may ultimately resolve itself into Squid. The manner in which the Bishop describes it, as alternately rising and sinking, with some other particulars he narrates, in all this the two correspond. But much abatement is necessary with respect to the incredible bulk he assigns it.

Chapter LIX: Squid.

Fachliteratur:

Unerforschtes Glockenbachviertel:
Ecke Blumenstraße/Pestalozzistraße/An der Hauptfeuerwache,
7. Februar 2010.

Written by Wolf

12. February 2010 at 12:01 am

Posted in Fiddler's Green