Another Measure

One of the measures by which I weigh the value of a book is the number of other authors that book inspires me to read. Reading Moby Dick, and its many criticisms, inevitably leads me to Shakespeare.

Now that's a name I haven't considered in a long time. Years ago, in the far away land of Tacoma Washington, I was a young romantic. One day my English teacher tasked me to read Shakespeare. Like a lot of young romantic fools, I reached for Romeo and Juliet. Though I tried to learn, both my romanticism and my interest in Shakespeare evaporated.

Today, as I oscillate in the multifaceted and multicolored rainbow of meanings emanating from Moby Dick, I find a renewed interested in learning Melville's great influence.This time, being of brooding mind and always vested in black, I reach for Hamlet. The play starts out with a melancholy Hamlet. His father has died. His mother gently begs him to make peace with his father's death. Hamlet's reply attracts me in a peculiar way.

'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,
Nor customary suits of solenm black,
Nor windy suspiration of forc'd breath
No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,
Nor the dejected haviour of the visage,
Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief,
That can denote me truly. These indeed seem,
For they are actions that a man might play;
But I have that within which passes show,
These but the trappings and the suits of woe.

I am the Fates' Leutenant

Writing 122 is drawing to a close, and, having received the final assignment, we, the students, retire to our homes, our libraries, our silent secluded sanctuaries, to write the longest and most important essays of our budding academic lives. Indeed, this essay, which shall account for half our grade, which shall contain a minimum of surface errors, which shall be of seven to eight pages in length, will separate the wheat from the chaff.

I will write a straight ahead essay, with neither mythical nor literary allusions. Just a whole lot of Constitutional law crap. When I find myself reading Supreme Court decisions late into the night, when I find myself reviewing the Fourteenth Amendment, due process, and the equal protection clause with increasing weariness, when I find, after hours of legal review, that I am invested with a gray November in my soul, I look forward to returning to the one book that stirs my imagination. To be away from my study of Moby Dick tasks me. It heaps me.

Alright, I'm exaggerating, but just a tad.

My Submission

I see that The Oregonian has a new crop of Community Writers. Wondering what you have to do to become part of the community, I read the bios of the people who were selected. In addition to being a good essayist, it appears the right college degree, owning a business, or being a freelance writer helps.

I do not own a business, and I do not earn a living by my words. But even if my writing skills suffice, The Oregonian would find me of no use. The subjects of my writing include neither politics nor social issues, and will not maintain or increase the newspaper's circulation. However, I know someone who the editors of The Oregonian would find helpful to their community of writers, as his thoughts, profound and provocative, are born from a "rich palette of experience." It is my conviction that, upon seeing the type and quality of his opinions, the editors will understand that his inclusion will greatly increase the level of public conversation generated by their community of writers. Therefore, The Byronic Cat submits his candidate for the next crop.

Captain Ahab

Years in Oregon: Many

Occupation: Captain of The Pequod

Fun fact: While in the middle of a typhoon, as the three masts of the ship glowed with St. Elmo's fire -a warning directed at myself- I proclaimed my defiance to God, and extinguished his reply. I had things to do and didn't need any interferrence.

My Words: [Speaking to "thou omnipotent" in the middle of that typhoon] "Light though thou be, thou leapest out of darkness, but I am darkness leaping out of light, leaping out of thee!"

All This Month

Somebody, somewhere out there, has to be saying "Hey, he changed The Alley." True, the template and the background are once again re-visioned, and I've got a good reason.

I've finished reading Moby Dick this week, and am here to proclaim that it is the best book I will probably ever read. Aye shipmates, that's a bold statement. I know there's Faulkner, Tolstoy, Mailer, and many others. I encourage anyone who disagrees with me to comment and explain their reason(s). As for me, I will spend the rest of this month talking about Herman Melville and Moby Dick.