Sea Voyages & Insanity

[argirios zias]

JP

"And on another note...the Revd's knowledge that his name is not his own 
(his name, that is, rather than a body part) drives him to insanity. 
Insanity "cured" by a cruise.

This passage brought to mind the Soviet asylums, but perhaps that's too much 
of a strech.

Comments?

Call me Ishmael. Some years ago- never mind how long precisely-
having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to
interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see
the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the
spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself
growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly
November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing
before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral
I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me,
that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from
deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking
people's hats off- then, I account it high time to get to sea as
soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a
philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly
take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but
knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish
very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.

Of course Wicks will not to sea for very long.
And one is also reminded that the sea, for Melville,
is also America, the Prairie immense, the voyage, a
Dickinsonian carriage ride through the unfathomable
depths of life and death or a line straight through the
very heart of American (the Mississippi River) Confindence.

I am also reminded, although I have here only excerpts,
of Foucault's Madness and Civilization. The part I have
to hand is "The Birth of the Asylum," but more on that
later, when we will begin reading more about Society of Friends.

Still,
the quick flames burst through the hulking
remains,   Faint infernal gasps crackling over stunned silence
creep
Like whispers from the souls departing.
And while, for words, we search these twisted limbs
of  steel,  these crumbled and broken monoliths, our mouths are
stopped  with
mortal dust,  Yet not our hearts to your
condolences.

Gary






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