So I've decided to write about Moby Dick.

Daunting. Overwhelming. Infuriating. Fascinating.

Concerning writing the paper there are several challenges I think I am sure I will face. This kind of thinking is along the lines of there are things I know, things I don't know, and things I don't know I don't know.

Among the things I know is, this is a long book, and almost every morsel of it is useful for an argument. I hope I allow myself enough time to write a paper I can really stand by. This is a research paper, and I borrowed five books from the library to help. So far, so good. Although when you read essays at a graduate and post graduate level, terms sometimes sound confusing and pretentious and confounding and intended to confuse. Malicious, I suppose. But if I keep google handy I will probably be okay.

Tangents. I love to go on tangents. Focus. I know the structure of an essay, but with literary criticism it's so easy to want to expound on some aspect of the text that is so juicy, and with Moby Dick, that seems far too easy a trap to fall into. I've got to really use my noodle on this one. Really push the limits of what I'm able to wrap my mind around and tell you about. I've got to go on my own sort of journey in writing about this book.

I hope it ends well. I cannot give up, and just write about slavery. I won't do it! I'll write about desire, and hopefully come up with a thesis that inspires warm fuzzy feelings in the hearts of my readers. The book is so tricky; it dares the reader to come up with a thesis, but once that is accomplished, the evidence is ample.

Movie Break

I think the next three movies that are in my que are John Huston movies. I'm leaning toward him as my favorite American Director. He's slightly ahead of Wes Anderson, who loses simply because he hasn't filmed as many movies as Huston; on a side note it is of note that Anderson uses Angelica Huston in his movies. The Darjeeling Limited was great. I feel almost as good about it as the Royal Tenenbaums. Well, that might be pushing it. But I do want to see it again. I also love Sofia Coppola's work, but she too has yet to put even five films under her belt. I really loved Marie Antionette. But when I browse through Huston's titles, I can't believe I never made the connection.

The African Queen
Chinatown
The Maltese Falcon
The Misfits
The Man Who Would Be King
Moby Dick
The Night of the Igauna

I really like what Houston was able to pull from Bogart, Ava Gardener, and Gregory Peck. I never thought I could get emotional about anything that Clark Gable does, but his performance in The Misfits disturbed me for days. Although many may feel that Bogart's performance in Casablanca was his finest, but I really remember his best for African Queen. I dont think that I'm an expert -- I just love movies, and the image of a cranky Bogie floating down a river, love-hating Katherine Hepburn sticks. I think the emotion in that movie seriously rivals that of Rick in Casablanca. The first time I saw Iguana I couldn't believe the issues that were raised in this film -- until I realised that it was a Willams play. This of course leads me to a conclusion I came to a while ago, that I also love Elia Kazan, who is responsible for:

Streetcar Named Desire
On the Waterfront
East of Eden
Baby Doll
The Last Tycoon

I mean THAT is a list.

I think Hitchcock's list is also overwhelming. I love North By Northwest.

I found out that you can get a package on Netflix where you get like, 40 movies at a time. Hmm. Anything to get out of writing this novel. I was so enthused for National Novel Writing Month, and now I'm afraid I'm out of steam. Maybe watching some John Huston will inspire me to squeeze out some paragraphs.

Spermcetti -- With Meatballs, Please

Actually, I'm not sure if Melville ever gets to whale meatballs, either as a dish or location. It is interesting, though, that the sperm whale is called such becuase of the vast amounts of spermaceti in its head, and they called it spermaceti, that is, sperm of the whale, because it was originally thought that it was whale sperm, or whale spawn, that is, eggs.

My point? Ha. Well, I have to say that Melville's work reads as a thoroughly provacative work discussing and laboring over male sexuality. I couldn't possibly be the first to have this reation, but the work does scream phallocentrism to me in the worst way. I don't know that Melville knows what his argument is. I know the interaction and descriptions of the interaction between Ishamel and Queequeg are so giggle worthy, but I don't think the whole reason for their closeness is to reveal male sexuality as played out between males so much as the capacity for males to have a closeness, but the dread or the threat of homosexuality that it arouses in the reader is Melville's trap -- like, see! I knew you would go there with your judgemental mind! It's hard to me to make sense of what I feel is an impression that Melville constantly sets you up to reveal how your reaction to the novel is precisely what is wrong with society. I don't know if I think that Ishmael and Queequeg's relationship is supposed to expose the sexual nature of men in a ranked order, free from the immediate influence of women, or if it's to show that Queequeg is someone to revere, not to abhor, for his "savage" nature. But the depictions of the whale hunt, and the conversations about the whale, and there seem to be so many phallic references, that the work becomes a sort of portrait of a man struggling with desire. I have only read Bartleby and only skimmed Benito Serino (sorry Blythe), and of course, per our drawn out banter about Bartleby, I think that where Hawthorne was obsessed with the outward manifestations and restrictions on desire, Melville appears to be drowning in desire, shaken by its very existence within himself. Perhaps Melville feared that his penis was the very matirix of his desire, and all subsequent actions were controlled by it. Ahab is maimed, and although it is a leg, we, okay, me, suggested that he lost his OTHER leg as well. The loss of his member has resulted in a quashed lust for life, he only thinks of the whale, his ability to enjoy life at all lost with his penis. The knowledge of this, and the search for meaning either within this notion or outside of this notion, makes Ishmael an outcast, and causes him existential pain.

It's the most sense I can make out of the novel as a whole.