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This novel is, I see now on second reading, a proto-Moby Dick without the hyper-intrusive narrator (Ishmael) but with the usual gay (overt?) subtext.
Melville rarely, almost never, wrote extensively about women. “As for ladies, I have nothing to say concerning them; for ladies are like creeds; if you cannot speak well of them, say nothing.” (p. 347)
Redburn is the often amusing story of a young man’s first crossing as “boy” on a merchant ship from New York to the Liverpool. The traveler’s name is Willingborough Redburn and he is the narrator.
Published in 1849 it remains highly readable. And sometimes – there are pages which take the breath away. For example, on the return trip a plague runs through steerage which is occupied by 500 mostly Irish immigrants. This is the quote.
“But those who had lost fathers, husband, wives, or children, needed no crape to reveal to the others who they were. Hard and bitter indeed was their lot; for with the poor and desolate, grief is no indulgence of mere sentiment, however sincere, but a gnawing reality, that eats into their vital beings; they have no kind condolers, and bland physicians, and troops of sympathizing friends; and they must toil, though tomorrow be the burial, and their pallbearers throw down the hammer to lift up the coffin.” (p.379)
This among the blackest moments in a book which otherwise evinces a broad range of tones and moods—in other words, nothing like Thomas Bernhard.
Melville rarely, almost never, wrote extensively about women. “As for ladies, I have nothing to say concerning them; for ladies are like creeds; if you cannot speak well of them, say nothing.” (p. 347)
Redburn is the often amusing story of a young man’s first crossing as “boy” on a merchant ship from New York to the Liverpool. The traveler’s name is Willingborough Redburn and he is the narrator.
Published in 1849 it remains highly readable. And sometimes – there are pages which take the breath away. For example, on the return trip a plague runs through steerage which is occupied by 500 mostly Irish immigrants. This is the quote.
“But those who had lost fathers, husband, wives, or children, needed no crape to reveal to the others who they were. Hard and bitter indeed was their lot; for with the poor and desolate, grief is no indulgence of mere sentiment, however sincere, but a gnawing reality, that eats into their vital beings; they have no kind condolers, and bland physicians, and troops of sympathizing friends; and they must toil, though tomorrow be the burial, and their pallbearers throw down the hammer to lift up the coffin.” (p.379)
This among the blackest moments in a book which otherwise evinces a broad range of tones and moods—in other words, nothing like Thomas Bernhard.
