Travelling Aboard the Sea Wolf

Lately I've been reading some of Jack London's Sea Wolf, in which, through chance, the aristocratic and idealistic Humphrey Van Leyden finds himself aboard a seal-hunting ship bound for Japan at the turn of the twentieth century. The ship is captained by the towering Wolf Larsen, a man whose cruelty is a reflection not of the oppression of the capitalist economic regime--the socialist London uses other characters to make that point--but of the vacuousness of modern materialism.¹

An excerpt:

Before closing this incident, I must give a scrap of conversation I had with Wolf Larsen in the cabin, while I was washing the dishes.

"You were looking squeamish this afternoon," he began. "What was the matter?"

I could see that he knew what had made me possibly as sick as Harrison, that he was trying to draw me, and I answered, "It was because of the brutal treatment of that boy."

He gave a short laugh. "Like seasickness, I suppose. Some men are subject to it, and others are not."

"Not so," I objected.

"Just so," he went on. "The earth is as full of brutality as the sea is full of motion. And some men are made sick by the one, and some by the other. That's the only reason."

"But you, who make a mock of human life, don't you place any value upon it whatever?" I demanded.

"Value? What value?" He looked at me, and though his eyes were steady and motionless, there seemed a cynical smile in them. "What kind of value? How do you measure it? Who values it?"

"I do," I made answer.

"Then what is it worth to you? Another man's life, I mean. Come, now, what is it worth?"

The value of life? How could I put a tangible value upon it? Somehow, I, who have always had expression, lacked expression when with Wolf Larsen. I have since determined that a part of it was due to the man's personality, but that the greater part was due to his totally different outlook. Unlike other materialists I had met and with whom had something in common to start on, I had nothing in common with him. Perhaps, also, it was the elemental simplicity of his mind that baffled me. He drove so directly to the core of the matter, divesting a question always of all superfluous details, and with such an air of finality, that I seemed to find myself struggling in deep water with no footing under me. Value of life? How could I answer the question on the spur of the moment? The sacredness of life I had accepted as axiomatic. That it was intrinsically valuable was a truism I had never questioned. But when he challenged the truism I was speechless.

"We were talking about this yesterday," he said. "I held that life was a ferment, a yeasty something which devoured life that it might live, and that living was merely successful piggishness. Why, if there is anything in supply and demand, life is the cheapest thing in the world. There is only so much water, so much earth, so much air; but the life that is demanding to be born is limitless. Nature is a spendthrift. Look at the fish and their millions of eggs. For that matter, look at you and me. In our loins are the possibilities of millions of lives. Could we but find time and opportunity and utilize the last bit and every bit of the unborn life that is in us, we could become the fathers of nations and populate continents. Life? Bah! It has no value. Of cheap things it is the cheapest. Everywhere it goes begging. Nature spills it out with a lavish hand. Where there is room for one life, she sows a thousand lives, and it's life eats life till the strongest and most piggish life is left."

"You have read Darwin," I said. "But you read him misunderstandingly when you conclude that the struggle for existence sanctions your wanton destruction of life."

He shrugged his shoulders. "You know you only mean that in relation to human life, for of the flesh and the fowl and the fish you destroy as much as I or any other man. And human life is in no wise different, though you feel it is and think that you reason why it is. Why should I be parsimonious with this life which is cheap and without value? There are more sailors than there are ships on the sea for them, more workers than there are factories or machines for them. Why, you who live on the land know that you house your poor people in the slums of cities and loose famine and pestilence upon them, and that there still remain more poor people, dying for want of a crust of bread and a bit of meat, (which is life destroyed), than you know what to do with. Have you ever seen the London dockers fighting like wild beasts for a chance to work?"

He started for the companion stairs, but turned his head for a final word. "Do you know the only value life has is what life puts upon itself? And it is of course overestimated, since it is of necessity prejudiced in its own favor. Take that man I had aloft. He held on as if he were a precious thing, a treasure beyond diamonds or rubies. To you? No. To me? Not at all. To himself? Yes. But I do not accept his estimate. He sadly overrates himself. There is plenty more life demanding to be born. Had he fallen and dripped his brains upon the deck like honey from the comb, there would have been no loss to the world. He was worth nothing to the world. The supply is too large. To himself only was he of value, and to show how fictitious even this value was, being dead he is unconscious that he has lost himself. He alone rated himself beyond diamonds and rubies. Diamonds and rubies are gone, spread out on the deck to be washed away by a bucket of sea-water, and he does not even know that the diamonds and rubies are gone. He does not lose anything, for with the loss of himself he loses the knowledge of loss. Don't you see? And what have you to say?"

"That you are at least consistent," was all I could say, and went on washing the dishes.

And later on:

I do not forget one night, when I should have been asleep, of lying on the forecastle-head and gazing down at the spectral ripple of foam thrust aside by the Ghost's forefoot. It sounded like the gurgling of a brook over mossy stones in some quiet dell, and the crooning song of it lured me away and out of myself till I was no longer Hump the cabin-boy, nor Van Weyden, the man who had dreamed away thirty- five years among books. But a voice behind me, the unmistakable voice of Wolf Larsen, strong with the invincible certitude of the man and mellow with appreciation of the words he was quoting, aroused me.

"`O the blazing tropic night, when the wake's a welt of light

That holds the hot sky tame,

And the steady forefoot snores through the planet-powdered floors

Where the scared whale flukes in flame.

Her plates are scarred by the sun, dear lass,

And her ropes are taut with the dew,

For we're booming down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

We're sagging south on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new.'"

"Eh, Hump? How's it strike you?" he asked, after the due pause which words and setting demanded.

I looked into his face. It was aglow with light, as the sea itself, and the eyes were flashing in the starshine.

"It strikes me as remarkable, to say the least, that you should show enthusiasm," I answered coldly.

"Why, man, it's living! it's life!" he cried.

"Which is a cheap thing and without value," I flung his words at him.

He laughed, and it was the first time I had heard honest mirth in his voice.

"Ah, I cannot get you to understand, cannot drive it into your head, what a thing this life is. Of course life is valueless, except to itself. And I can tell you that my life is pretty valuable just now -- to myself. It is beyond price, which you will acknowledge is a terrific overrating, but which I cannot help, for it is the life that is in me that makes the rating."

He appeared waiting for the words with which to express the thought that was in him, and finally went on.

"Do you know, I am filled with a strange uplift; I feel as if all time were echoing through me, as though all powers were mine. know truth, divine good from evil, right from wrong. My vision is clear and far. I could almost believe in God. But," -- and his voice changed and the light went out of his face, -- "what is this condition in which I find myself? this joy of living? this exultation of life? this inspiration, I may well call it? It is what comes when there is nothing wrong with one's digestion, when his stomach is in trim and his appetite has an edge, and all goes well. It is the bribe for living, the champagne of the blood, the effervescence of the ferment -- that makes some men think holy thoughts, and other men to see God or to create him when they cannot see him. That is all, the drunkenness of life, the stirring and crawling of the yeast, the babbling of the life that is insane with consciousness that it is alive. And -- bah! To- morrow I shall pay for it as the drunkard pays. And I shall know that must die, at sea most likely, cease crawling of myself to be all acrawl with the corruption of the sea; to be fed upon, to be carrion, to yield up all the strength and movement of my muscles that it may become strength and movement in fin and scale and the guts of fishes. Bah! And bah! again. The champagne is already flat. The sparkle and bubble has gone out and it is a tasteless drink."

1. Although I'm waiting for London to point out how the social Darwinism is used to justify economic exploitation. In a later chapter I suppose. I wonder what would happen if London and Nietszche had a conversation?

WOW! In reading Wikipedia on Nietszche's "Ubermensch" (or Super-Man), I just read this:

Jack London dedicated both his novels The Sea-Wolf and Martin Eden to criticizing Nietzsche's concept of the Übermensch and his radical individualism, which London, in his interpretation of Nietzsche's concept, considered to be selfish and egoistic.

Well, that answers that question.

Pseudofaith

AW Tozer:

The man of pseudo faith will fight for his verbal creed but refuse flatly to allow himself to get into a predicament where his future must depend upon that creed being true. He always provides himself with secondary ways of escape so he will have a way out if the roof caves in. What we need very badly these days is a company of Christians who are prepared to trust God as completely now as they know they must do at the last day.

Via Justin Taylor

Return of the Blogroll; or Shout-Out Time!

Some of you don't know what a blog roll is, and may think it is a tasty pastry to go with those lady finger sandwiches I wrote about in the last post.  Actually, it's new-fangled code words for "links to other blogs that are lined up on the side of your blog---just move the pointy arrow on your screen over, click on them, and you go there like magic."

So here's a run-down of friends of mine who have blogs.  If you have a blog, and are a friend of mine, lemme know and you can be up there to.  Traffic to your site will increase by leaps and bounds: both of my readers (Hi Mom and Dad!) will visit you on your website.

So, without further adieu:

Embracing the Passion

My friend good friend Lieutenaint J writes about life as an officer in the United States Marine Corps in Iraq.

An American in Paris Phoenix

My friend writes (formerly) about the travails of cooking in Paris, and now about beating the heat in the desert.  (It's a dry heat, they say.  So's the surface of the sun).

Mark&Ali

I did a quick stint in New Orleans, and the wonderful lady who helped organize our trip, Ali, is now working with her husband in ministry in Brazil.  His name is Mark, in case you were wondering :)

The Grande Adventure

My friend Chris, reaching out in the Eternal City.  Plus he links to music all the time.

Crash

My friend Chad, working with Young Life at Central Crossing

Among the Lampstands

Wes writes as only Wes can.

Well that is it for now, folks.  Bye everybody!

Blake's Story

OK, my friend Chris posted a remarkable story from a kid who just graduated from my high school (yay, Golden Bears! Three straight state championships in hoity-toity sports like lawn bowling, horseback polo, and competitive formal dining--how many lady finger sandwiches can you eat in 15 minutes and still down a cup of Earl Grey? Out school record is 32--hollandaise sauce included¹--by Morton Mortington III--I jest because I love).

Anyway, my friend Chris reported on it first, so just go over to his place. I have a comment at the bottom, or at least I will as soon as Chris accepts it, which he better, or else I'll throw a ladyfinger sandwich at him.

¹I've long maintained that hollandaise sauce is just Dutch mayonnaise.

The Death of a Good Man

Apropos of my last post, here is an obituary of Billy Raftery, a man I never knew, but a friend of Francis Beckwith, of What's Wrong with the World.

William Paul "Billy" Raftery, 57, of Las Vegas, a loving son, brother and uncle, passed away suddenly May 27, 2009. He was born May 22, 1952, in Norfolk, Va., and was a 45-year resident of Las Vegas. Billy was employed as a room service waiter at Bally's Las Vegas since 1973, and was on duty during the 1980 MGM Grand fire. Although he graduated from Valley High School in 1971, he was a true-blue Bishop Gorman Gael. Billy was honored for his loyal support to the

If hope fails, is nothing left but to make the final cut?

Bishop Gorman Athletic Department as the equipment manager for the football, basketball and baseball teams from 1979 through 2001. Billy's devotion to the Gaels did not end with the sports he managed, his passion for everything orange and blue emanated from him. His attendance at every Gorman sporting event possible never faltered. The two things that were most important to Billy were Gorman and his family....Billy, you've touched all of our lives and will be deeply missed. We love you "Soulman."

Beckwith writes:

I forgot to mention that Billy was born mentally challenged. But, you see, it really did not matter, since Billy was more than the sum total of his parts. He was, and is, a person made in the image of God. He lived a good life, and for that, we are all better off for having known him and having witnessed the example he set for his community.

Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord, and may perpetual Light shine upon him; may his soul and all souls, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.

I never knew Mr. Raftery.  But I hope I will someday.

I wonder what suprises will we see when we have pierced the veil and walk on the other side of eternity.  Whose voices of love will we hear for the first time, because we considered silence more humane than the sound sobbing, presuming that pain cannot strengthen hearts.

If we are so impoverished as to think that that tragedies are curses, inescapable and inevitable, and can never be transformed into blessings, to what purpose is endurance? To what purpose is hope?

Yes, the world, and its people, are broken.  Some may think that we can remake the world anew.  But we do not have that kind of transformative power.  We can only remove or conceal our flaws, but this is not life, but death by a thousand small amputations.  And when we are honest with our brokenness, where does the incision end?  If hope fails, is nothing left but to make the final cut?

Can we live by suicide?

"Sorrow is better than laughter, for by the sadness of the countenance the heart is made better."

-Ecclesiastes 7:3

"And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes, and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor crying, neither shall there be any pain: for the former things are passed away.

And He that sat upon the throne said, Behold, I make all things new.  And he said unto me, Write: for these words are true and faithful."

-Revelation 21:4-5.

A Bioethics of Love

This is by far the most interesting thing you will read this week.

Helen Rittelmeyer has written a piece detailing caring for a sister who is mentally retarded, and considering the ramifications of contemporary bioethics: namely, clarifying the crucial differences between the elimination and alleviation of suffering, and whether our impulses to eliminate suffering, rather than endure it, make us poorer in the long run.

A more mature version might be: A healthy interest in happiness is good, but only when tempered by a suspicion that happiness is less an ultimate goal than a side effect. A man could live a good life by pursuing virtue, personal excellence, love, or salvation, but, if he does nothing but chase pleasure for its own sake, his life will be happy—and very, very small.

So far, so uncontroversial. The missing link between the above summary and a grand narrative of cultural decline is this: As idle pleasures become more and more alluring, they become harder and harder to resist. One need not be a paranoiac about the decline of civilization to admit that leisure is more appealing than virtue, which demands greater sacrifices and promises less straightforward rewards. As our entertainments offer greater thrills at cheaper rates, the choice between the good fight and good fun starts to look obvious.

It used to be that crotchety bellwethers of decadence would nudge our country towards self-discipline by holding up its manliest heroes and reciting Teddy Roosevelt’s paean to men who dare (which made those Americans who could not so much as go to the store without assistance begin to feel very nervous). But different ages need different heroes. Other generations had to contend with the temptations of consumerism, luxury, and ever-increasing opportunities for laziness; ours has to contend with science. The fantasy is the same: the eradication of pain, and the eventual obsolescence of all those habits that feel awful but build character. Science in our day, like leisure in others, has improved so rapidly that its champions have begun to suspect that the age of painlessness is finally at hand.

...

To frame the idea in a different way, we all hope for our friends’ continual self-improvement: that our favorite penny-pincher will become more charitable, that our directionless nephew will discover some driving passion, that the melancholic next door will find inner peace. But in none of these cases would we want our friend to become someone else. They should become better, but should stay recognizably themselves. When a man’s disability is fundamental to his character, then there is no difference between wishing for a cure and wishing he were someone else. As Jim Sinclair put it in 1993, “It is not possible to separate autism from the person. Therefore, when parents say, ‘I wish my child did not have autism,’ what they’re really saying is, ‘I wish the autistic child I have did not exist and I had a different (non-autistic) child instead.’”

...

Love—whether it’s love for a sport, love for one’s sister, or love for humanity in all its forms, however grotesque—is the thing that makes a man say, “Sacrifice. That’s all.” Its yoke is easy, its burden light. Life with a disability involves sacrifices, some of which are merely onerous and should be eliminated, some of which cannot be eliminated without implicitly disputing love’s power to turn sacrifice into a gift.

Science has asked us to endorse its vision of a perpetually comfortable and easy world, and so we cannot help but make a firm choice, now, whether to celebrate self-discipline or to resent its necessity. If we choose the latter, we may soon find ourselves living in the world of Wall*E—painless, and pointless. If we choose the former, we may find that the prophets of our new asceticism are the deaf parents who decline cochlear implants for their newborn, the wheelchair-bound employee who finds nothing undignified about asking a co-worker for help every morning, the mother who carries a Down Syndrome baby to term—those who have had hardship thrust upon them and, nevertheless, have found some nobility in it.  Science and disability law will both continue to develop, but we must be careful in choosing the goal toward which their progress is directed.

You must read the piece in its entirety.

Pistons and Punches

Well everybody, here's a couple great things you need to read.

First is a quick history of boxing from the Art of Manliness.

Second is an essay on the tragic downfall of the automobile, by PJ O'Rourke.

If all this has you hankerin' for past boxing glory, I would recommend this.  

The photo is Rocky Marciano in a 1952 De Soto, as pictured in LIFE Magazine.