Moby Dick sat unread on my shelf for almost twenty years. Its daunting heft kept me at bay. As did its reputation as the great American novel. It was, so speak, my white whale (#sorrynotsorry). I finally got to it about ten years ago and, laboriously drawn-out passages on flensing notwithstanding, found it to be an absolute blast. On its surface, Jean Giono’s much-lauded Melville seeks to pull back the curtain on how Moby Dick came to be written. It is, of course, much more - a meditation on creativity itself, as well as love, fidelity, truth and obsession.
When we first meet Herman Melville, he has has just handed the manuscript of White Jacket to his publisher. Certain that he is finished with writing, and eager to move on, he sets off across England disguised as a sailor. He hitches a ride on a mail coach, where he meets a beautiful young woman. He regales her with splendid imagery. She returns serve with tales of courage and revolution. Sexual tension abounds. They part but he remains obsessed.
Melville is clearly an act of projection by Giorno, an exorcism of frustrated desires. Still, it sure says a lot about art.
Melville by Jean Giono (Tr. Paul Eprile)
NYRB Classics, 2017 (First pub. 1941)
105 pages
I bounced off of this recently. Maybe I will have to give it another chance.