Turtle Was Gone a Long Time Volume 3 E-Book

John Moriarty

• Herausgeber: The Lilliput Press
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 1998

Beschreibung

Anaconda Canoe concludes a remarkable spiritual journey undertaken in volumes one and two, in which Turtle dives to the floor of the abyss to recover hidden intuitions about the world in a journey from ignorance to knowledge, darkness to light, from paradise lost to paradise regained. This third and final volume derives from an Amazonian myth in which, on the first morning of the world, a woman of defining importance for religion and culture ascends the primeval river in an Anaconda Canoe. As she ascends it we cannot but acknowledge her as a kind of Cortez, Ishmael, Kurtz or Jonah, come to challenge us in our most fundamental beliefs about ourselves and our universe. From the classical-Christian shores of Europe and the Mediterranean, to the farther reaches of Africa, Asia, Australia and the Americas, John Moriarty trawls the deeps of world literatures, mythology and sacred texts. The metaphoric richness in which his work is elaborated lends Anaconda Canoe, and this entire trilogy, its power to arouse and re-open the road to civilization and culture, establishing Moriarty as a major contemporary figure in Irish literature. As Thomas Mann said of The Magic Mountain, 'This is a book of departure, its service is to life, its will is to health, its goal is the future'. 'With the publication of its third and final volume, John Moriarty's magisterial trilogy, a treasure of the mystical tradition, offers all of us encouragement and an escort for the forced march into the dreadful, deserted millennium before us. Call him Ishmael, call him Isaac, call him Israel, this god-wrestling nightwalker has brought back bread and wine from the world of Melchizedek to the bread and circuses of our narcotised inertia. Moriarty's odyssey traverses the stories and sacraments of innumerable human communities, in a grand pan-ethnic reconnaissance of the forms of faith in a planet at prayer to find and found himself again and again in the simple passion narratives of the Jewish Christian gospels.' - Aidan Mathews, The Irish Times 'There is something magical here. His profound dialogue with all the great sages and writers whom you feel are within him. He has enlarged himself to contain it all. One feels the intensity of his knowing, the emotions, the soul, the rocks, the mountains, the seas.' - Camilla O'Callaghan, Network Ireland

Leseprobe

TURTLE WAS GONE

A LONG TIME

Volume Three

ANACONDA CANOE

John Moriarty

THE LILLIPUT PRESS

DUBLIN

Introduction

SERVING AS BOTH PROLOGUE AND EPILOGUE

At the end of the last volume all seemed well. Approaching it on a Maidu Raft, we set foot on Buddh Gaia. Now however we find ourselves ascending the primeval river. And not only that: we find ourselves ascending it in a theriomorphic canoe. Or is it a theriozoic canoe which might at any moment turn upon us and constrict us? What has happened? In the synapse between these volumes, what has happened? Have we regressed?

Let us take our bearings. In the last volume, vicariously in Ahab, we harpooned our way out of Time into Tehom. As the evolving narrative would soon disclose, this meant that we had harpooned our way to humble beginnings, to destitute beginnings, to Maidu beginnings:

In the beginning there was no sun, no moon, no stars. All was dark and everywhere there was only water. A raft came from the north, and in it were two persons – Turtle and Father-of-the-Secret-Society …

In Turtle, again vicariously, we endured the age of the world’s night. We endured the abyss. Eventually, we came ashore, we set foot on Buddh Gaia, but you will I think agree that we didn’t do so in a mood of Rousseauistic optimism. The hope is that this side of Nero’s fiddle and Hitler’s jig we know ourselves better than that. But we don’t only live this side of the Coliseum and Auschwitz. We live this side of Gethsemane and Golgotha. In a redemptive sense, all geological ages live this side of Gethsemane and Golgotha. And that means we can come ashore in a way we previously didn’t. It means we can come ashore at Punta Alta. It means that, bringing all of what we phylogenetically are with us, we can ascend the river. Be it Congo, Amazon, Rio Negro or Rhine, we can ascend it not into the heart of darkness but into Tenebrae.

We in other words dare to hope that Anaconda Canoe is Kundalini canoe. We dare to hope that for all it’s terrors the river is in some sense the Earth’s sushumna. And that’s why, in the third section of this volume, we think of Linn Feic as a chakra. And what else but the crown chakra is Nectan’s Well?

Are you, in all of this, continuing in a direction set for us by D.H.Lawrence in his poem called Snake?

I’m attempting to continue in a direction set for us by Christ in Gethsemane. It was here, in agonized resignation, that we realigned ourselves with evolution. From now on we would seek to emerge not from but with the earth. And since, as I see it, we can hope backwards as well as forwards from the Triduum Sacrum, I invite you, seeing it with your mythic imagination, to behold a wonder: Horus, the young sun god of ancient Egyptians, ascending the Nile in Apophis Canoe. That is Good News from below. It is Good News from the phylogenetic foundations of our psyches. It allows us to hope that the great reconciliation and integration that occurred in Christ can occur in us. Not over night of course, and not to all of us all at once. Horus ascending the Nile in Apophis Canoe does not mean that we can now expect an end to bad dreams. Nor does it mean that the wolf will now lie down with the lamb. And yet Old Man is right. Among some of the native peoples of North America, the creator or maker of all things is known as Old Man. His work finished, and ready now to retire from view, he had this to say:

Now if you are overcome, you may go to sleep and get power. Something will come to you in your dream, and that will help you. Whatever those animals who come to you in your sleep tell you to do, you must obey them. If you want help, are alone and travelling, and cry aloud for aid, your prayer will be answered – perhaps by the eagles, or by the buffalo, or by the bears. Whatever animal answers your prayer you must listen.

There is a way of being in the world that enables the world to be on our side.

This we know from some of our oldest fairy stories.

This we know from The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. An emanation as it were of the favouring world, the albatross made a favouring breeze to blow.

We know it from the Book of Job. Undergoing his agon, Job became heir to a promise:

For thou shalt be in league with the stones of the field and the beasts of the field shall be at peace with thee.

At some level of his being and of our being, Anaconda is at peace with us. At some level of his being and of our being Apophis is at peace with us. At some level of our being and of their being Apophis is willing to be our Mesektet boat, Anaconda is willing to be our canoe.

It’s as if waking up one morning in his house in South Molton Street, Blake were to find that Tyger had left a medicine bundle behind.

However dangerous it is, however dangerous it will continue to be, the primeval can be on our side. Inside ourselves and outside ourselves, it can be on our side. Anaconda Canoe can be Mucalinda Canoe, Mucalinda protecting us as he did the Buddha.

In the course of his voyage on a whaler called the Acushnet, Melville went ashore on the Encantadas, an archipelago of volcanic islands better known to us nowadays as Galapagos. Reflecting on the hissing, reptile life that he encountered there, he concluded:

In no world but a fallen one could such islands exist.

But supposing Melville had gone ashore on those islands in the way that Old Man would go ashore on them?

Supposing Old Man’s state of mind were to become our state of mind?

Could it be that the precosmic raft of the Maidu is a life-boat drawing alongside the Acushnet?

Could it be that Anaconda Canoe is a life-boat drawing alongside sputnik?

Or, if it is indeed a fallen world we live in, will anything less than the Triduum Sacrum be life-boat to us?

Did you write this book in the belief that it is time to lower the life-boat?

Given so much that is so appallingly true of ourselves and our world, it has always been time to lower the life-boat. And if it is the Triduum Sacrum you are talking about, it is of course God not Lenin who lowers it. And it isn’t just onto the surface of our red, revolutionary square that he lowers it. And, given a frightful recalcitrance in things, our voyage from here on won’t be all plain sailing.

It is above all I suppose when we look at an image of Mucalinda Buddha that we in the West can see what Lawrence saw, that we have missed our chance with a Lord of Life, that we have something to expiate. In the pit in Lascaux, our oldest garbhagriha, we must expiate it. In the dust of Esagila we must expiate it. On the wake of thePequod, our Marduk Street at sea, we must expiate it. And if we should ever wish to acknowledge that it isn’t just a pettiness that we must expiate, then, the better to picture it, we might imagine Ishmael reading Moby Dick to the Fisher King. In particular, we might imagine Ishmael reading a chapter called The Cassock to the Fisher King. Listening, the king will see that it is our collective protarchos ate, repeated now again in our day, that he is wounded with.

Shiva Linga

Taures Linga

Cetu Linga

Moby Dick is our modern Enuma Elish. And the wake of thePequodisn’t only Marduk Street at sea. It is Fifth Avenue at sea. It is the Champs Elysees at sea. In a tragic sense, and all our revolutions notwithstanding, our Eiffel Tower and our Empire State are Ziggurats: not even in desire has either one of them raised its head above our continuing Babylonian captivity. And, be he a Napoleon or a Lenin, the modern liberator must confess – if only in his dreams he must confess that his Marseillaise hasn’t brought his medulla with it. And that’s what this book attempts to do. Or rather, the Christ you encounter in this book, that’s what he sets out to do. Only it isn’t Christs’ fault if, having brought eohippus-anthropus to the Kedron, he can’t make him drink.

Anyway, the very title of this last volume suggests that we’ve taken our biblical foot off the Serpent’s head. But in case anyone should conclude that this is an invitation to instinctive anarchy let us be quite clear that it is on the contrary an invitation to Gethsemane.

To come forth by day is not to come forth into another world but into another way of being in this world. And so wherever we settle, it will not for the moment be safe for a sucking child to play by the hole of the asp nor for a weaned child to put its hand in the cockatrice’s den. To be at peace with the beasts of savannah and sea does not mean that they won’t menace us or kill us. This side of redemption expect blessedness but also the ‘rush dreadful’ of tiger and lion on God’s holy mountain. Expect terror. Expect that your bed will sometimes be a liz de la mervoille. Expect a continuing need for Kwakiutl firelight. And yet the mind altering alters all. Ordinariness is tremendous. The universe is as stupendous in a daisy as it is in a galaxy. And evenings there are when we see, in a seeing not blinded by practical eyesight we see, how unworldly the world is. And any philosophy that isn’t a Song of Songs and any geology that doesn’t sing with the earth and any astronomy that doesn’t sing with the stars is defamation.

Early in the second volume we encounter Narada. Early in this volume we encounter Yaje Woman. The least we can say of them is that they are philosophically disruptive visitors to our shores and it is likely, isn’t it, that we will find it as difficult to welcome them as Montezuma found it difficult to welcome Cortez?

This question falls I think within the ambit of a larger concern in the book. I’ve gone over the ground elsewhere so I hope that on this occasion a less elaborate response will suffice.

Let us begin with Aristotle. ‘The more solitary and retired I become’ he says, ‘the more I love the myth’. In this mood, deliberately echoing the word philo-sophos, meaning lover of wisdom, he coined the word philo-mythos, meaning lover of myth. His thinking was as follows: philosophy has its origin in wonder, in mind come into a state of wonder. Myths are instinct with wonder. Like nothing else perhaps in our culture, they uncompromisingly mediate the difficult strangeness of self and of world. Therefore the philomythos has as good a chance of reaching and living in the Truth as the philosophos has.

Hegel was surely right to insist that the familiar, precisely because it is familiar, remains unknown.

Coleridge would concur:

In poems, equally as in philosophic disquisitions, genius produces the strongest impressions of novelty, while it rescues the most admitted truths from the impotence caused by the circumstance of their universal admission. Truths of all others the most awful and mysterious, yet being at the same time of universal interest, are too often considered as so true, that they lose all the life and efficiency of truth, and lie bed-ridden in the dormitory of the soul, side by side with the most despised and exploded errors.

Elsewhere he considers the need to awaken our minds from what he calls ‘the lethargy of custom’ and the ‘film of familiarity’.

How unknown, because of our familiarity with them, are our myths?

Don’t we occasionally need an exotic myth or two to awaken something in us?

Maybe Yaje Woman will open our minds and eyes in ways that Morgan Le Fay no longer can.

Maybe Yaje Woman ascending the Dee in her very strange canoe will reawaken the folklore lobes.

It will of course seem to be going too far but I’ll say it anyway: with or without Aristotle’s approval, I welcome the Mabinogion as my Treatise of Human Understanding, because, ever and again, it is while I am reading it, not while I am reading Hume, that I find myself at home in the wonder of self and of world. I have often yearned for a philomythic Mabinogion, a suite of myths, traditional or modern, that would mediate the highest truths to us. I am persuaded that myths can bring the whole psyche into conformity with their apprehensions in a way that arguments, however cogent, cannot. If this book can be said to be in any way philosophical it is philomythically that it is so.

Something that Yeat’s said is relevant here:

There is for every man some one scene, some one adventure, some one picture, that is the image of his secret life, for wisdom first appears in images and this one image, if he would but brood over it his whole life long, would lead his soul, disentangled from unmeaning circumstance and the ebb and flow of the world, into that far house-hold where the undying gods await all whose souls have become simple as flame, whose bodies have become quiet as an agate lamp.

Could it be that Narada coming through the pass at Thermopylae is such a scene or image? Could it be that Yaje Woman ascending the Rhine in her anaconda canoe is such an image? Could it be that Yaje Woman and King Soma standing either side of Christ as he looks down into Adam’s empty skull is such an image?

As I’ve suggested elsewhere, this book is a Trojan Horse of such images. Think of Tiamat giving sensuous suck, chakral suck, to six marvellous mornings. Think of Prometheus undergoing re-education in Blue Thunder Tipi. Think of Bright Angel lifting his lamp, as Liberty lifts hers, at the mouths of the Yukon and the Hudson, at the mouths of the Dordogne and the Tiber. Think of Eo Fis in Linn Feic. Think of Nectan’s Otherworld Well. It is in that well that the seven rivers of Ireland have their source.

In the hope that they will help us in the way that Yeats says they can, this book is a rosary of such recurring images, it is a mother tongue of such recurring images, it is a Hozhonji song of such recurring images, and who knows, they might have it in them to bring us to where we are, they might have it in them to bring us to Buddh Gaia.

Arnold tells us that the strongest part of our religion today is its unconscious poetry. That’s why this book relies so much more on myth, metaphor and parable than it does on logic, dialectics or discursive reason. That’s why, instead of Kants’ arguments, we have Vishnu revealing the secret of his Maya to Narada. That’s why, instead of Schopenhauer’s persuasions, we have Yaje Woman ascending our river in anaconda canoe. Narada’s story and the story of Yaje Woman could, with some concessions to local colour, claim unobtrusive inclusion in a philomythic Mabinogion, or, dare I say it, in a philomythic Critique of Pure Reason.

The claim that Yeats makes for the contemplation of images does not, of course, contradict the need of mystics to go beyond images into what Christians call Tenebrae, into what Hindus call Nirvikalpasamadhi.

But why, from among all the parables available, did you choose the Narada parable? And why, from among all the myths available, did you choose the myth of Yaje Woman?

There are in our culture many myths in which the phylogenetically thinking depths of our psyches are in seance with us. The myth of Andromeda menaced by Ketos or of Cretan civilization menaced by the suppressed Minotaur come to mind. Because they help us to articulate and picture ourselves to ourselves, these myths comfort us in a way that his comforters couldn’t comfort Job. Because there was no pre-existing myth that could speak to his condition, Job had to become the myth, he had to be willing to be lived by the myth, that could comfort him. And there are few situations so lonely as this. Think of Jesus in Gethsemane. Knowing their own limits, any Middle Eastern or Near Eastern myths that came with him malingered this side of the Torrent. They most certainly malingered this side of Golgotha.

Strange to say, there are in our culture hardly any myths of immediate epistemological import. The few that Plato invented read like inventions. Perhaps the best we can expect in this regard is the odd parable and the odd story.

And so, there they are, Narada and Yaje Woman, and I sometimes think that, meeting him before he crossed the Torrent, they might have had something to say to Jesus. Meeting him as he crossed into Good Friday, they might have been able to say something to him, something helpful but not immediately comforting about the nature of mind.

Relentlessly, in almost all of its sects and schools, Mahayana Buddhism asks and answers questions about the nature of mind. And in this regard, particularly in its continuing advaitavedanta phase, Hinduism is no less tireless. And there was a morning when Chuang Tzu asked a disturbing question not just about the nature of mind but about the nature of self. During the night he dreamed that he was a butterfly flitting from flower to flower. When he woke up he couldn’t decide whether he was Chuang Tzu dreaming that he was a butterfly or a butterfly dreaming that he was Chuang Tzu.

But it isn’t only in the Orient that questions about the nature of mind have been asked and answered. In much of what some Christian mystics have to say there is an implicit philosophy of mind. It is when we are drawing close to God in contemplation, it is when we go beyond mental activity into the cloud of unknowing or into the dark night of the soul or into Tenebrae that the nature and limits of mind become clear to us. It isn’t hesitatingly that St John of the Cross tells us what he knows:

O wretched condition of this life wherein it is so dangerous to live and so difficult to find the truth. That which is most clear and true is to us most obscure and doubtful and we therefore avoid it though it is most necessary for us. That which shines the most and dazzles our eyes, that we embrace and follow after though it is most hurtful to us and makes us stumble at every step. In what fear and danger then must man be living seeing that the very light of his natural eyes by which he directs his steps is the very first to bewilder and deceive him when he would draw near unto God. If he wishes to be sure of the road he travels on he must close his eyes and walk in the dark if he is to journey in safety from his domestic foes which are his own senses and faculties.

The light of our natural eyes bewildering us and deceiving us – our senses and faculties charged as it were and arraigned as our domestic foes – that, surely, doesn’t fall far short of the Hindu or the Buddhist diagnosis. How far are we here from a doctrine of maya, from a doctrine of mind-maya? How far are we here from Mayashakti or Yajeshakti ascending our river in her serpent canoe, in her ropesnake canoe?

Morgan Le Fay. Fata Morgana.

Had Morgan Le Fay evolved with an evolving mysticism, or had she evolved with the evolving articulation of a mysticism, she might now be our Mayashakti, our Yajeshakti. What I’m trying to say is that Yaje Woman isn’t as exotic to our culture as she might at first sight seem to be.

Yaje Woman ascending our river is a question about the nature of mind ascending our river. Seeing her, we might well ask is she our Cortez? Is she our epistemological conquistador? Does her coming signify our philosophical Year One Reed?

What will it mean or what might it mean for Plato and his philosophy when Narada knocks on his door?

Towards the end of Timaeus, Socrates says:

Now, when a man abandons himself to his desires and ambitions, indulging them incontinently, all his thoughts of necessity become mortal, and as a consequence he must become entirely mortal, because he has nourished his mortal part. When on the contrary he has earnestly cultivated his love of knowledge and true wisdom, when he has primarily exercised his faculty to think immortal and divine things, he will – since in that manner he is touching the truth – become immortal of necessity, as far as it is possible for human nature to participate in immortality.

The highest of our faculties heightening and brightening its awareness of the highest and brightest objects of thought – that, Plato believes, is how we will regain the life of transcendent dignity and glory we have declined from. Not a few mystics would disagree, their testimony leaving us in no doubt that in the course of their return to Divine Ground they crossed into a state beyond all objects of thought and all thinking about them.

This state beyond thinking, imagining, remembering, this state beyond mental activity, Hindus call nirvikalpasamadhi. The classic statement is in the Chandogya Upanishad:

Yatra na anyat pasyati, na anyat srinoti, na anyad vijanati, sa bhuma.

Where nothing else is seen, nothing else is heard, nothing else is thought, there’s the Infinite.

Thinking eclipses Divine Ground. And thinking about an angel eclipses it as much as thinking about a sod of turf does. It isn’t thinking that makes us immortal. We are immortal because of immortal ground in us.

To say however that thinking eclipses Divine Ground is not to say that, mystically therefore, thinking is dispensable. On the contrary, the mystical journey will normally involve us in thinking of the most daring kind, persistently pursued. It isn’t thoughtlessly that we come to stand beyond thought.

Both as map of reality and road map, Plato’s map is seriously flawed. And Narada knocking at his door is the Chandogya mahavakya knocking at his door. It is the single Sanskrit word, jneyavarana, knocking at his door.

Jesus crossed the Torrent and, falling silent, all of Plato’s dialogues ceded ground to the nocturnes of Tenebrae.

Imagine it: St Paul setting up a Tenebrae harrow in Plato’s Academy. At that moment, no Leonidas and his men opposing him, Narada walks thorough the pass at Thermopylae. At that moment, even here in Athens, metaphysics gives way to metanoesis. At that moment, a ghost herself now, Atossa calls out to her husband and son: where thousands failed, at Marathon failed, at Salamis failed, a single one has won. And Aeschylus too, with ghostly eyes he sees it:

Seven against Thebes

One against Athens

But lo, the one who comes has no sword, no shield, no torch.

The one who comes only has his own story.

Waiting alone in the Theatre of Dionysus, Melpomene takes off her tragic mask and welcomes him to ground haunted by Clytemnestra, Electra, Oedipus, Hippolytus, Orestes, Agave, Pentheus, Phaedra, Medea and Jocasta.

Hearing Narada’s story, they know that they too can wake up from the plays they have for so long been so ignorantly trapped in. And far away in Thebes, in the silence of her underground tomb, Antigone hears what seems for the moment to be a very strange question:

Did you bring the water?

With that question the stasima of her play, of all Greek plays, become the nocturnes of a mystical rite of passage.

Its the Hindu way of asking the apocalyptic question, isn’t it?

Yes, and I’ve often thought that we should be confronted by it at the beginning not at the end of our holy book.

Are you replacing the Dionysian and the Christian grapevine with the Desana yajevine?

No. As I’ve indicated, I’m concerned with the nature of mind. And what I am saying is this: my spinal cord is more like a yajevine than it is like a grapevine. And on Golgotha we come down totally from the veiling consciousness it gives rise to.

Anaconda Canoe is in some sense a ropesnake canoe. And a good day it will be for us all when it ascends our river. A good day it will be for Christianity when it ascends the Jordan, the Ilissus and the Tiber. On that day it is as Tenebrae harrow that the Grail will enter the hall at Camelot.

This last volume opens with six stories. You have elsewhere referred to them as a hexameron of stories. This suggests a likeness to the six days of creation with which the Bible opens. If there is such a likeness, is it a serious likeness seriously intended?

When I think of beginnings I think not of creation but of emanation and yet, since it would I believe be an irreverence to do so, I am careful not to let this preference degenerate into a doctrine or a dogma. Some days, sitting among mountains, the only good way to pray is to call all our thinking about them back from them and let them be. But this isn’t entirely germane to your question, so I’ll put it this way: working with the biblical story of origins, there is, in there somewhere, a yearning that the six days of cosmic creation would continue into six days of culture creation. In this view of things, cosmos and culture can be a continuum, a single emanation in an unbroken series of pulsations out of Divine Ground.

What I’m attempting to say is very different from Vaughan’s vision:

I saw Eternity the other night

Like a great ring of pure and endless light

All calm as it was bright

And round beneath it, Time in hours, days, years

Driven by the spheres

Like a vast shadow moved, in which the world

And all her train were hurled …

Time isn’t beneath Eternity. There is no objectively existing gulf that separates Time and Eternity. And when you go and sit among the mountains and are finally as silent as they are, then you will know thatworlddoesn’t rhyme withhurled.

In one sense, but only in one sense, these stories are a Native American Mayflower that might one day bring us to vita nuova here at home.

As I understand it, vita nuova implies that we needn’t forever be victims of the calamity remembered and depicted in the pit in Lascaux. It implies that cosmos and culture can be what they aboriginally were, a continuum. It implies that Uvavnuk’s song not Vaughan’s song will be the sea-shanty of our voyage to the Mundus Novus we were born into.

Are we back to Job?

Yes. His addiction to his civic day so forcibly and so terribly overcome, Job walked abroad. Within as well as without he walked abroad, and now again culture is out of Divine Ground, now again when we come to build our temple the stones of mountain and canyon will be in league with us and the beasts of savannah and sea will dream our dream with us. Job coming home is Old Man coming home.

He isn’t cast down by the sight of Leviathan.

In our biblical vision of him, Leviathan has seven heads.

Un-biblical it will be to say it, but I’ll say it nonetheless: sinking down, in a swoon sinking down, onto the floor of an Eastern ocean, Ahab dreams that Moby is his Mucalinda, dreams that with each of his seven heads he sings the song that Tiamat sings, she singing it in the beginning, singing it, she also, with her seven heads.

Transformed archetypes imply the possibility of transformed culture. Alternative archetypes imply the possibility of an alternative culture. It is as important for ancient Egyptians as it is for us that we would imagine Yaje Woman ascending the Nile. For us and for them it is important that we would imagine her ascending it in a cobra canoe – the same cobra which, as Uraeus, transfixes us from Pharaoh’s brow. Already in this ascent, the Pharaoh’s cobra is becoming the Pharaoh’s Mucalinda, his Mucalinda Canoe. Already, with this ascent, the Egyptian Book of the Dead is beginning to read like the Tibetan Book of the Dead.

Alike for ancient and modern peoples, the new epistemology is the new Mayflower that will bring us to a new understanding of ourselves and our world.

Yaje Woman ascending the Nile in her cobra canoe will give to religion and culture an ethos and an orientation very different from that given to them by Mary, mother of Christ, standing as crushingly as she does on the biblical head of our biblical serpent. Mary standing on the head of the serpent gives religious recognition to repression. Undergoing an agony in Gethsemane, Jesus gives religious recognition to integration. And here it is that cobra canoe, apophis canoe, anaconda canoe become available to evolving humanity. In this we must of course be careful not to assume that evolving humanity is synonymous with those relatively recent peoples who have become addicted to making history. Looked at from Bright Angel Trail, history might well be hiatus.

That Narada and with him the mysticism’s of the Orient might walk through the pass at Thermopylae is one thing. Altogether more menacing is the possibility that Pleistocene or Arctic shamans would dance their buffalo or caribou dance on the Plain of Marathon. Your defence of them notwithstanding, I put it to you that these six stories are a threat to the values of Classical-Christian culture.

Almost thirty years ago now I spent a summer in Mexico. Partly I suppose because I had read so much about it, I was everywhere aware of the old Aztec and Toltec world. Even where nothing of it was visible I was aware of it. In Chapultepec Park Museum, which I regularly visited, it was almost as threateningly real to me as it was to Bernal Diaz listening to the big, booming drum that announced and accompanied the sacrifices to Huitzilopochtli and Tezcatlipoca. One morning I caught the bus to Teotihuacan and spent the day there. I did what most people who go there do. I walked Miccaotli, the Way of the Dead. I climbed the pyramid of the moon and the pyramid of the sun. I wandered in and out of the priests’ chambers. More than ever now, there being no escape here from our common humanity, I was tempted to take refuge in a simple answer: an old and very powerful priest ate the psilocybe or stropharia mushrooms, he had a bum trip and by sheer force of his personality he institutionalized his delusions.

For the first time in my life, wilfully and with full consent, I was heir to the Greek enlightenment. How glad I was to walk with Socrates to the Ilissus, to walk with Aeschylus to Areopagus Rock. How glad I was that someone had questioned and again questioned my inherited habits of feeling and thought.

Here however on the summit of the pyramid of the sun, here where hot human hearts were fed to the awful apparitions of the Smoking Mirror, here I had to acknowledge a common humanity with the priests who so sanguineously served this Pantheon. I acknowledged a not so uncommon proclivity to derangement and delusion – to these as they looked back at me from sun, moon and stars, to these to the extent that they had become cosmologies.

Here, in the most literal sense, the snake in the rope was a blood-thirsty pantheon in the rope. It was a hunger for still palpitating, still hot human hearts in the rope.

By blood we live, the hot, the cold,

To ravage and redeem the world:

There is no bloodless myth will hold.

Is it so?

Given the carnivorous savagery of the world, given our own carnivorous dentition, is it so that there is no bloodless myth will hold?

Will the Buddha sitting uncarnivorously in the lotus position not hold?

Odour of blood when Christ was slain

Made all Platonic tolerance vain

The Kwakiutl open a sacred ceremonial door to a Being they call the Crooked Beak of Heaven and Hindus have long acknowledged the terrible as well as the lovely face of Divinity.

Ghora murti: the terrible face

Sundara murti: the lovely face

Nature in ghora murti mood

Therefore

Divinity in ghora murti mood

Nature in sundara murti mood

Therefore

Divinity in sundara murti mood

Our own ghora murti moods we project into the rope

Our own sundara murti moods we project into the rope

We know what Coatlicue looks like in terrible mood. What does she look like in lovely mood?

Religion must be able for the terrible. Christianity is able for the terrible and yet, standing on the pyramid of the sun, I nonetheless yearned for a religion without blood-letting. I yearned for a Christianity in which the chalice had given way to the Tenebrae harrow.

Golgotha is more like Borobudur in Java than it is like the pyramid of the sun in Teotihuacan.

Whatever else it is, Golgotha is our ascent into the Cloud of Unknowing, it is our ascent into Tenebrae.

With Aeschylus we came, bringing our religious inheritance, to Areopagus Rock.

In Jesus we climbed in our human condition to the summit of Golgotha-Borobudur.

Good Friday is our exodus from Golgotha as pyramid of the sun to Golgotha as Borobudur.

And yet Golgotha isn’t only Borobudur. It is Golgotha-Borobudur.

What I’m saying is, the Classical-Christian tradition isn’t immutable.

How could it be given Aeschylus and Christ.

How could it be given Areopagus Rock and Golgotha.

There are times when we go to Thermopylae to resist. There are times when we go to make welcome.

To welcome change from within as well as change from without.

As I understand them, the six stories you have such difficulty with could be the lost, last chapters of the Book of Job. Certainly, it wouldn’t be altogether inappropriate to imagine that Job’s agon opened a door to them.

There is a Leonidas who defends the pass. There is a Job who suffers in it. In the end, deepened and opened by his sufferings, he is himself the pass. He is our biblical Thermopylae. In him the tradition suffers. In its myths and in its metaphors it suffers. In every book of its holy book it suffers. In its rituals it suffers. In its vision of God it suffers. And then, his agon over, Job walks through. Unopposed by Moses, he walks through the pass into a changed religion.

In what way changed?

Changed so as to meet the needs of a people who have come ashore at Punta Alta.

Within himself, Nietzsche came ashore there and was ever afterwards in more trouble than he could handle.

Right there on the shore at Punta Alta, what happened to Hippolytus happened to Nietzsche.

What happened to Nietzsche can happen to Anthropus.

And so, knowing how phylogenetically implicated in the evolving earth we have been and are, what do we do?

Either we come ashore, it seems to me, or we become extinct.

Either Nietzsche can integrate his phylogenetic awareness of himself or we go the way of trilobite and dinosaur. Integrating this awareness is the next great step in evolution.

And now again I come back to Gethsemane.

As I understand them, Gethsemane and Punta Alta are one and the same ground.

Christ in Gethsemane is Christ coming ashore.

Christ in Gethsemane is Anthropus coming ashore.

In Christ we have come through the evolutionary challenge. And what we need is a Christianity that can watch with Jesus as he comes through.

To watch with Jesus is to watch with evolving humanity.

To watch with Jesus is to watch with the evolving earth.

And now we are ready to ascend the primeval river, are we? But how sure can we be that this time also the adventure won’t end with those terrible words, ‘The horror! The horror!’

Inland at night we will know what Blake knew:

The roaring of lions, the howling of wolves, the raging of the stormy sea and the destructive sword are portions of eternity too great for the eye of man.

And yet we must run the risk of commonage consciousness. And that is why this volume includes two stories that I think of as sacraments of reconciliation with animal and plant. Having these sacraments, we have now no need to excavate a labyrinth or to build a city wall. City wall and labyrinth became extinct in Job. In Job, right there at the heart of the biblical world-view, animals and plants began to draw shamanically close to us. There is a good and a blessed way of being a brother to dragons and a companion to owls. There is Old Man’s way. There is the way of St Francis.

Also included is a story that celebrates our reconciliation with Takanakapsaluk, the Mother of sea beasts, she who lives sometimes shut up in anger on the floor of the ocean or if you like on the floor of Anima Mundi. Since Coleridge so misconceived it, this story needs retelling. And thinking of Takanakapsaluk’s anger, it might be timely to suggest that it isn’t only a dead albatross that must fall from the neck of our European humanity, the terribly wounded bison bull in the pit in Lascaux must fall from it also. This is how I imagine it happening: at a time of famine in the Pleistocene a girl, still adolescent in her thoughts and feelings, climbed a rock-wall in the Dordogne. Seeing a herd of bison shimmering darkly under a red horizon, she called out or was it that she heard herself calling out: if you will come and be food for my people, I will marry your Chief. The Bull that led her away that night had a spear through his anus, bowel and penis. Up from the pit in Lascaux he had come. He was the Chief, not just of bison. He was Pasupati, Lord of Animals. It was by his leave that all other animals came and went. It was by his leave that one of them, or two of them, or a few of them would consent to be killed by us. And then we speared him. At sea we harpooned him. Famine followed. And he only fell from our necks when we learned to say ‘we’ where formerly we used to say ‘us and them’.

Given his biblical attitudes, it was difficult and very dangerous for Mistah Kurtz to attempt to ascend the primeval river. As for ourselves, all we can do is hope that our attempt will bring us, not into the heart of darkness in which we are overcome by the snake we project into the rope, but into Tenebrae.

Our roots in Time are roots in Eternity. And for as long as we are in the world a blessed way of being reconciled to Divine Ground is to be reconciled to all that has emerged from it. Inside and outside, the primeval can work with us. And this brings us back to the voice of Old Man.

It brings us back to the medicine bundle that Tyger might yet leave behind in a house in South Molton Street, or that Stegosaurus might leave in anaconda canoe.

Q.Or that the bison bull might leave in the pit in Lascaux?

Or that Moby might leave in the Whaleman’s Chapel in New Bedford. The Whaleman’s Chapel is a Christian continuation of the pit in Lascaux. Our Palaeolithic spear embedded in the Bull is our modern harpoon embedded in Moby. It is a terrible tableau, isn’t it, Taurus Dei, Agnus Dei, Cetus Dei, all three of them speared and, sad though it is to say it, the centuries of the Grail Quest and a century of psychoanalysis have left us more or less where we were – not knowing what question to ask and having as a consequence to live with our Amfortas wound. In this book we go down into the pit and in the hope that it will be sacramentally efficacious to do so, we tell the Native American story of our re-entry or re-initiation into commonage consciousness. That’s us attempting to live this side of Nietzsche’s discovery, of Conrad’s discovery. That’s us attempting to ascend the Dordogne into our lost Serengeti on a new first morning of the world. It is in six stories, become six sacraments in the telling, that we begin to ascend it.

Those six stories are our canoe. They are anaconda canoe transforming itself into six ascending rites of passage. It is by rites of passage not by steam-boat that we seek to ascend to civilisation and culture.

But we don’t only need a religion that will help us to live this side of Nietzsche’s discovery or, if you like, this side of the voyage of the Beagle. No less urgently, we need a religion that can help us to live this side of Kants’ Critique of Pure Reason. The religious correlative of that Critique is Tenebrae, a ritual quenching, as though they were candles, of our senses and faculties. Not everything is quenched when our senses and faculties are quenched. It’s as if mind is no longer blinded by mental activity. It’s as if a kind of mirageing were out of the way. And this reminds me of a faded fresco in a thirteenth century church in France. It depicts the temptation of Eve. Astonishingly, in so far as we can make it out, the Serpent is coiled not about a big, broad-leaved, fruiting tree but about an amanita muscaria mushroom. Without warrant of course, I take it to mean that the Fall was a bum-trip. It was a wandering out of Unity into awareness-of-self-and-other-than-self. As the Mandukya Upanishad might have it, it was a wandering out of Turiya into experience of Duality. In this reading of it, the fresco is a philosophy of mind. And so, Yaje Woman isn’t so exotic after all. Naturalized in our culture, we could call her Amanita Muscaria Woman.

Before colours caused

Or curved my eyes,

I was curved

Where the moon

Pulls its red face from:

Red and green

And by Circe swined,

I was pulled from the roots

Of my mandrake mind.

My split-level skull

Divided my mouth:

As its witch and high priest

I served cauldron and cup.

And tonight by the sea

I’m awash, I’m aware

I am barnacle boned

And my skull opens up.

We have wandered into the world of Mayashakti, Yajeshakti, Mandragorashakti, Who-Has-An-Illusion, Tatei Hikuri and Grandfather Teonanacatl, all of whom Jesus must resist and walk past on his way into his transtorrentem destiny.

We have wandered into the Kalahari desert where, his voice like wind in withered scrub, a Bushman tells us that a Dream is dreaming us.

How long till we hear the great question:

Did you bring the water?

How long till we see that, having Tenebrae, we have the great answer.

Erat autem fere hora sexta et tenebrae factae sunt in universam terram usque in horam nonam. Et obscuratus est sol: et velum templi scissum est medium.

The Gospels have no special claim to the Christ who has come this far.

Christianity has no special claim to the Christ who has come this far.

It is for the religions of the world to attempt to comprehend what it means to come this far.

Amanita Muscaria Woman has come to stay, has she?

Her coming among us only means that questions about the nature of mind are now being asked, and answered maybe, in another way. In an Oriental way.

In spite of everything you have said, it isn’t yet obvious to me why there is such a sense of heavy foreboding about our attempt to ascend the river.

George Steiner likens the will to scientific discovery to a will to open doors in Bluebeards’ castle. Knowing that, no matter what, we must and will open the final door, he is alarmed:

The real question is whether certain major lines of enquiry ought to be pursued at all, whether society and the human intellect at their present level of evolution can survive the next truths. It may be – and the mere possibility presents dilemmas beyond any which have been in history – that the coming door opens on to realities ontologically opposed to our sanity and limited moral reserves … it may be that the truths which lie ahead wait in ambush for man …

It is my belief that in so far as human inwardness is concerned all doors have long ago been opened. Here for a certainty, the next truths are old truths and it isn’t today or yesterday that they first ambushed us.

They ambushed us in the Psalmist:

I am fearfully and wonderfully made.

They ambushed us in Sir Thomas Browne:

There is all Africa and her prodigies in us.

They ambushed us in Nietzsche:

I have discovered for myself that the old human and animal world, indeed the entire prehistory and past of all sentient being, works on, loves on, hates on, thinks on in me.

They have ambushed us in Hopkins:

O the mind, mind has mountains, cliffs of fall

Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed. Hold them cheap

May who ne’er hung there …

They have ambushed us in Conrad:

The mind of man is capable of anything – because everything is in it, all the past as well as all the future.

Such self-apprehensions have brought us into canyon country. Into inner canyon country. To back out is not the way out. The only way out is through. And that’s what I mean when I say we must attempt to ascend the primeval river.

To attempt to ascend the primeval river is to run the risk of total exposure to all that is phylogenetic in us, and as Nietzsche discovered, even in civil surroundings the phylogenetic in us is neither dormant nor inactive.

Seig heil, the first rose:

Were it not for that day

And the robin’s first song,

The Rhine might have shovelled

The Dark Ages away.

Although God’s Gulf Stream

Flows all night long

He was Israels’ unclean pig,

The one all Europe would eat

Between Nero’s fiddle and Hitler’s jig.

This is a poem about the heart of our European darkness. Not one of our well-known, well-loved rivers but reaches into it, and when we yet again attempt to ascend into it, as far into it as the pit in Lascaux, as far into it as the quarter deck of thePequod, as far into it as Sophie’s choice, it isn’t only the possibility of regression that should give us pause. As well as all that we phylogenetically are, we are spirit, and in us therefore is the possibility not just of regression but of Fall.

Neither Nebuchadnezzar nor Lucifer is irrelevant to our condition.

Kurtz didn’t only become a Nebuchadnezzar of the place. He became a demon of the place.

‘How many powers of darkness’, Marlow asks, ‘claimed him for their own’?

And if they claimed Kurtz, how sure can we be they can’t also claim us? As individuals claim us? Claim us collectively? Claim us to such an extent that the collective life becomes Mein Kampf life?

In one of his sonnets to Orpheus, Rilke says:

Everything perfect reverts

To the primeval

Civically perfect or nearly so, Job underwent such a reversion. He came home inwardly and outwardly enriched beyond what was normal or normative in his religion and culture.

The question is: is there in the primeval some essential nourishment without which individuals and civilizations will sicken and die?

Contact with the primeval, let alone a reversion to it, is not without stupendous risks of course.

Talking about his steamboat ascending the Congo, Marlow says: ‘Where the pilgrims imagined it crawled to I don’t know. To some place where they expected to get something, I bet! For me it crawled towards Kurtz...’

In this volume we can only hope that it is towards St Kieran in his cluain not towards Kurtz in his clearing that we are crawling.

Our journey through Bluebeard’s Castle is but a journey through the outer courts of an Interior Castle. Travelling inward by degrees of orison, Teresa of Avila travelled farther than Kurtz, travelled farther than Freud.

Will all our attempts to ascend the river in a steamboat fail? Will we only ever successfully ascend it in a zoomorphic canoe? Will we only ever successfully ascend it in other words when the primeval itself is with us? When, specifically in this case, Anaconda is with us?

Most certainly, Old Man would not attempt to ascend it in a steamboat.

And it wasn’t by mechanical movement-local that Job ascended it.

Yet again, the Book of Job is the great alternative to our Westernpolla ta deinaway. Way of fantastic tricks. Way that makes the angels weep. Way that has ended in those terrible words, ‘The horror! The horror!’.

In his contact with behemoth and ostrich and hawk and horse, Job is our contact with our lost Serengeti. There where it underlies our city, where it underlies our eighteenth-century park, he is our contact with Lucy’s savannah. Astonishingly, he became neither a Nebuchadnezzar of the place nor a demon of the place.

In his contact withLeviathan the crooked serpent, even Leviathan the piercing serpent, Job is our contact with the primordial.

Job is a sacrament of openness to savannah and sea we should annually enact.

That openness the Kwakiutl enact and celebrate in Tsetsekia.

In that openness of our temple door to savannah and sea, our civilization is beginning to have a chance.

As you have imagined it, to ascend the river is to ascend into canyon country. It is to ascend beneath and between all the old seafloors of earth and psyche. Am I right in thinking that it is your view that we can only survive this awakening to all that we phylogenetically are if it is accompanied by another simultaneous awakening, an epistemological awakening, a Narada awakening?

Think of how ancient Egyptians prepared themselves for their post-mortem journey through the underworld. Forgetting for the moment all other awe-full hazards, there was in that underworld a long river which the wayfarer must ascend. It was called the River of the White Hippopotamus.

The Egyptian Book of the Dead assumes that in our post-mortem ascent this hippopotamus exists independently of our perception of him. The Tibetan Book of the Dead assures us, over and over again, that we need not fear him, the reason for this being that he is a creation of our karmically conditioned minds.

It is because I incline to the epistemology of the Tibetan Book of the Dead rather than to the epistemology of its Egyptian counterpart that this volume begins where it does, with Yaje Woman ascending our river in Anaconda Canoe or, if you like, with Narada ascending our river in Ropesnake Canoe.

And if it is the Amazon we are ascending, then we might one day come among the Uitoto. In their story of origins the creator or maker of all things is called Who-Has-an-Illusion:

Was it not an illusion?

The Father touched an illusory image. He touched a mystery. Nothing was there. The Father, Who-Has-an-Illusion, seized it and, dreaming, began to think.

Had he no staff? Then with a dream-thread he held the illusion. Breathing he held it, the void, the illusion, and felt for its earth. There was nothing to feel. “I shall gather the void” he said. He felt, but there was nothing.

Now Who-Has-an-Illusion thought the word “Earth”. He felt for the void, the illusion, and took it in his hands. Who-Has-an-Illusion then gathered the void with dream-thread and pressed it together with gum. With the dream-gum iseike he held it fast.

He seized the illusion, the illusory earth, and he trampled and trampled it, flattening it. Then as he seized it and held it, he stood on it, on this that he’d dreamed, on this that he’d flattened.

As he held the illusion, he salivated, salivated, salivated, and the water flowed from his mouth. Upon this, the illusion, this, as he held it, he settled the sky roof. This, the illusion, he seized, entirely, and peeled off the blue sky, the white sky.

Now in the underworld, thinking and thinking, the maker of myths permitted this story to come into being. This is the story we brought with us when we emerged.

It is my belief that the Uitoto and the Desana can help us to ascend our river. Thanks to them we have two myths that will light our way in the heart of our modern epistemological and phylogenetic darkness.

For religion, as for philosophy, questions about the nature of mind are, in the literal sense of the word, crucial.

Narada ascending the Rhine in Ropesnake Canoe is an invitation to Kant to cross, in Good Friday imitation of Christ, from metaphysics to metanoesis. It is an invitation to him to cross from Prolegomena To Any Future Metaphysics to The Cloud of Unknowing, from the Critique of Pure Reason to The Dark Night of the Soul.

It is in this crossing over that our Copernican revolution in philosophy will complete itself.

All of this notwithstanding, there are times in your book when you talk like a naive realist. Are you aware of this?

Yes, I am. And the reason is simple: I am a naive realist. By moral imperative, categorical in its demands upon me, I am a naive realist. Let me try to explain.

In the presence of Jesus in Gethsemane or on Golgotha, it would never occur to me to attempt to console him by telling him that he should think of his sufferings as the unreal sufferings of an unreal ropesnake. Nor would it occur to me to recite Emerson’s jingles to a raped woman. It is Brahma who speaks in his poem:

If the red slayer thinks he slays,

Or if the slain thinks he is slain,

They know not well the subtle ways

I keep, and pass, and turn again.

Far and forgot to me are near;

Shadow and sunlight are the same;

The varnished gods to me appear;

And one to me are shame and fame.

They reckon ill who leave me out;

When me they fly I am the wings;

I am the doubter and the doubt,

And I am the hymn the Brahmin sings.

The strong gods pine for my abode,

And pine in vain the sacred seven;

But thou, meek lover of the good!

Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.

If Longinus thinks that he has speared Jesus, and if Jesus thinks that he has been speared, then look at me, Ralf Waldo, transcendently wise, emerging unperturbed and refreshed from a siesta which, Brahma be praised, continued from the sixth to the ninth hour. Good heavens! All this Good Friday turbulence! It is so uncivil. No need at all, I say, for a Lamb of God who takes upon himself the sin of the world. Do but climb to the summit of the nearest hill and you will see that the shame of child abuse is in no way different from the fame of St. Francis of Assisi’s sanctity.

No. I’m not a Docetist.

There is an epistemological way of being Judas not just to Dr. Johnson’s hurt toe but also to the stone he has kicked.

Under God, and in conscience, the demands of morality over-rule the permissions, if that’s what they are, of epistemology.

The Christian Borobudur is Golgotha-Borobudur.

And some of the most resplendent of our Christian mahavakyas are agonistic in character:

I have chosen suffering for my consolation and I will gladly bear this and all other torments in the name of the Saviour for as long as it shall please His Majesty.

Thou seemest, Lord, to give severe tests to those who love you, but only that in the extremity of their trials they may learn the greater extremity of thy love.

God felt, God tasted and enjoyed, is indeed God, but God with those gifts which flatter the soul. God in darkness, in privation, in forsakenness, in insensibility, is so much God, that He is so to speak God bare and alone.

Since suffering is real, I conclude that the world in which it occurs is real, even if its reality is best described as will and representation, even if its reality is a dream from which we will one day wake up:

Oubli du monde et de tout hormis Dieu

So yes. I am, for moral reasons, a naive realist. And yet, without permission from the Christianconsensus gentiumI have welcomed Narada and Ropesnake into Christian Good News.

Having come to the Hill of the Koshaless Skull, Jesus is Thales to an alternative philosophical tradition. Down the centuries, this tradition has fostered metanoesis not metaphysics.

The Tenebrae harrow is the mystic’s Holy Grail.

Big Mike in the first volume, Ishmael in the second and, if only as a haunting possibility, Kurtz in the third. Is this a counter movement to the movement from Paradise Lost to Paradise regained that you talked about in the general introduction?

Somewhere in the text I explicitly say: if you open the door wide enough to let in God you open it wide enough to let in the devil; if you open it wide enough to let in the light you open it wide enough to let in the dark; if you open it wide enough to let in heaven you open it wide enough to let in hell; if you open it wide enough to let in the great sanity you open it wide enough to let in the great insanity.

In saying this I am neither proposing nor promoting a Manichaean dualism. But it is true that, very shortly after the heavens opened above him in Jordan, Jesus was confronted by Satan. It does seem that no sooner do we wake up spiritually than there he is, the Great Adversary. Whether or not this Great Adversary is a creation of our own terror is not, just for the moment, the issue. No one who has encountered him, as the Buddha did on the night of his enlightenment, as Mahavira did in incarnation after incarnation, will be tempted to make light of his numinous enormities.

In the Book of Job he is called the King of Terrors.

King of Terrors. King of Illusions. King of Delusions.

There are Japanese Zen Buddhists who will talk to you about makyo, a realm of devil’s illusions you can wander into or be lured into. And it wasn’t only once in the course of his conjurings that Yeats was perturbed to find that his via sacra had become a Hodos Chameleontos.

People who in Conrad’s phrase live between the butcher and the policeman in a well trodden, tamed land will tend not to credit this, but

They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters, they see the works of the Lord and his wonders in the deep …

Wonders and works they see and seeing them they cannot believe that the Lord, their Lord, had any hand in creating them.. And that’s when the trouble begins:

Ne wonder if these did the knight appall;

For all that here on earth we dreadful hold,

Be but as bugs to fearen babes withall,

Compared to creatures in the sea’s entrall.

Big Mike, Ishmael and Kurtz did business in great waters. Ishmael knows what can happen:

Alone, in such great waters, that though you sailed a thousand miles, and passed a thousand shores, you would not come to any chiselled hearthstone or ought hospitable beneath that part of the sun; in such latitudes and longitudes, pursuing too such a calling as he does, the whaleman is wrapped by influences all tending to make his fancy pregnant with many a mighty birth.

It recalls the old Anglo-Saxon Seafarer:

min modsefa mid mereflode

ofer hwaeles ethel hweorfeth wide

In Pounds’ translation it reads

my mood mid the mereflood

over the whale’s acre would wander wide.

I am trying to draw attention to the dangers of extravagance, to the dangers, in the literal sense of that word, of extra-vagare, of wandering beyond.

Big Mike was extravagant. So in their different ways were Ishmael and Kurtz.