“Nantucket is no Illinois.”
Ishmael spins a tale about the Nantucketers, who learned to sail from the natives, and then overran the watery world “like so many Alexanders.”
Queequeg and Ishmael eat fabulous chowder at the Try Pots, where the cook is a Mrs. Hussey, not the nicest name. There are very few female characters in this novel, but does this detract from its greatness? Perhaps it does. As a commentary on 19th-century racist, classist society, it has little insight into the role that women played in the emergence of White Supremacist ideology and class oppression. Indeed Melville demonstrates little insight into women all together.
Queequeg and Ishmael agree, upon the advice of Yojo, Queequeg’s god, that Ishmael will chose the ship that they will take a-whaling. Ishmael describes the Pequod as “apparalled like any barbaric Ethoipian emporer; “ a “thing of trophies, a cannibal of a craft” and meets Captain Peleg and Captain Bildad, one hot, the other cold. The latter is the more blood-thirsty, parsimonious, and cruel of the two. He is also a staunch Quaker who quotes Bible verses to justify his selfishness. Ishmael learns about Captain Ahab, and finds out he has a wife and a child.
Ishmael argues for tolerance for Queegueg’s “absurd notions about Yojo and his Ramadan,” and then concludes that “Presbyterians and Pagans alike—we are all dreadfully cracked about the head, and sadly need mending.” Ishmael tries to persuade Queequeg that his Ramadan fast is bad for him but admits, finally, that he has had little influence over him.
Son of Darkness
Capatin Peleg suspects Queequeg on account he is a pagan and Captain Bildad addresses him as a “Son of darkness.” Ishmael insists that his friend is a member of the church to which they all belong, “the great everlasting First Congregation of this whole worshipping world,” and Peleg commends him as a missionary.
This ragged Elijah
“A Soul’s a Sort of fifth wheel to a wagon,” mutters a strange old sailor, called Elijah. He is talking to our hero and our hero’s favorite “savage,” Queequeg. What could he mean? Do you believe you have a soul, dear reader? Why do you think so? Who told you to think this way? Why should you believe the people or the institutions who want you to believe that you are so burdened? How do you imagine it? What makes your soul so special, anyways? What good is it?
I just sent an email to my son’s father. I wrote, “I don’t know what to do, to say. I am trying.” I want to help B but do not know how. He seems determined to be homeless. I don’t understand why.