{"id":"01KJNXJV80YF2AP0441CR1TXF5","cid":"bafkreigxuobjsmd2pi2waikepgld6ewljmmloi3a2jqvxdrb2odxydirnu","type":"text_chunk","properties":{"char_end":944710,"char_start":936817,"chunk_index":132,"chunk_total":178,"estimated_tokens":1974,"source_file_key":"moby-dick","text":"hint of the hitching tiller; believe not the artificial fire, when its\r\nredness makes all things look ghastly. To-morrow, in the natural sun,\r\nthe skies will be bright; those who glared like devils in the forking\r\nflames, the morn will show in far other, at least gentler, relief; the\r\nglorious, golden, glad sun, the only true lamp—all others but liars!\r\n\r\nNevertheless the sun hides not Virginia’s Dismal Swamp, nor Rome’s\r\naccursed Campagna, nor wide Sahara, nor all the millions of miles of\r\ndeserts and of griefs beneath the moon. The sun hides not the ocean,\r\nwhich is the dark side of this earth, and which is two thirds of this\r\nearth. So, therefore, that mortal man who hath more of joy than sorrow\r\nin him, that mortal man cannot be true—not true, or undeveloped. With\r\nbooks the same. The truest of all men was the Man of Sorrows, and the\r\ntruest of all books is Solomon’s, and Ecclesiastes is the fine hammered\r\nsteel of woe. “All is vanity.” ALL. This wilful world hath not got hold\r\nof unchristian Solomon’s wisdom yet. But he who dodges hospitals and\r\njails, and walks fast crossing graveyards, and would rather talk of\r\noperas than hell; calls Cowper, Young, Pascal, Rousseau, poor devils\r\nall of sick men; and throughout a care-free lifetime swears by Rabelais\r\nas passing wise, and therefore jolly;—not that man is fitted to sit\r\ndown on tomb-stones, and break the green damp mould with unfathomably\r\nwondrous Solomon.\r\n\r\nBut even Solomon, he says, “the man that wandereth out of the way of\r\nunderstanding shall remain” (_i.e._, even while living) “in the\r\ncongregation of the dead.” Give not thyself up, then, to fire, lest it\r\ninvert thee, deaden thee; as for the time it did me. There is a wisdom\r\nthat is woe; but there is a woe that is madness. And there is a\r\nCatskill eagle in some souls that can alike dive down into the blackest\r\ngorges, and soar out of them again and become invisible in the sunny\r\nspaces. And even if he for ever flies within the gorge, that gorge is\r\nin the mountains; so that even in his lowest swoop the mountain eagle\r\nis still higher than other birds upon the plain, even though they soar.\r\n\r\n\r\nCHAPTER 97. The Lamp.\r\n\r\nHad you descended from the Pequod’s try-works to the Pequod’s\r\nforecastle, where the off duty watch were sleeping, for one single\r\nmoment you would have almost thought you were standing in some\r\nilluminated shrine of canonized kings and counsellors. There they lay\r\nin their triangular oaken vaults, each mariner a chiselled muteness; a\r\nscore of lamps flashing upon his hooded eyes.\r\n\r\nIn merchantmen, oil for the sailor is more scarce than the milk of\r\nqueens. To dress in the dark, and eat in the dark, and stumble in\r\ndarkness to his pallet, this is his usual lot. But the whaleman, as he\r\nseeks the food of light, so he lives in light. He makes his berth an\r\nAladdin’s lamp, and lays him down in it; so that in the pitchiest night\r\nthe ship’s black hull still houses an illumination.\r\n\r\nSee with what entire freedom the whaleman takes his handful of\r\nlamps—often but old bottles and vials, though—to the copper cooler at\r\nthe try-works, and replenishes them there, as mugs of ale at a vat. He\r\nburns, too, the purest of oil, in its unmanufactured, and, therefore,\r\nunvitiated state; a fluid unknown to solar, lunar, or astral\r\ncontrivances ashore. It is sweet as early grass butter in April. He\r\ngoes and hunts for his oil, so as to be sure of its freshness and\r\ngenuineness, even as the traveller on the prairie hunts up his own\r\nsupper of game.\r\n\r\n\r\nCHAPTER 98. Stowing Down and Clearing Up.\r\n\r\nAlready has it been related how the great leviathan is afar off\r\ndescried from the mast-head; how he is chased over the watery moors,\r\nand slaughtered in the valleys of the deep; how he is then towed\r\nalongside and beheaded; and how (on the principle which entitled the\r\nheadsman of old to the garments in which the beheaded was killed) his\r\ngreat padded surtout becomes the property of his executioner; how, in\r\ndue time, he is condemned to the pots, and, like Shadrach, Meshach, and\r\nAbednego, his spermaceti, oil, and bone pass unscathed through the\r\nfire;—but now it remains to conclude the last chapter of this part of\r\nthe description by rehearsing—singing, if I may—the romantic proceeding\r\nof decanting off his oil into the casks and striking them down into the\r\nhold, where once again leviathan returns to his native profundities,\r\nsliding along beneath the surface as before; but, alas! never more to\r\nrise and blow.\r\n\r\nWhile still warm, the oil, like hot punch, is received into the\r\nsix-barrel casks; and while, perhaps, the ship is pitching and rolling\r\nthis way and that in the midnight sea, the enormous casks are slewed\r\nround and headed over, end for end, and sometimes perilously scoot\r\nacross the slippery deck, like so many land slides, till at last\r\nman-handled and stayed in their course; and all round the hoops, rap,\r\nrap, go as many hammers as can play upon them, for now, _ex officio_,\r\nevery sailor is a cooper.\r\n\r\nAt length, when the last pint is casked, and all is cool, then the\r\ngreat hatchways are unsealed, the bowels of the ship are thrown open,\r\nand down go the casks to their final rest in the sea. This done, the\r\nhatches are replaced, and hermetically closed, like a closet walled up.\r\n\r\nIn the sperm fishery, this is perhaps one of the most remarkable\r\nincidents in all the business of whaling. One day the planks stream\r\nwith freshets of blood and oil; on the sacred quarter-deck enormous\r\nmasses of the whale’s head are profanely piled; great rusty casks lie\r\nabout, as in a brewery yard; the smoke from the try-works has besooted\r\nall the bulwarks; the mariners go about suffused with unctuousness; the\r\nentire ship seems great leviathan himself; while on all hands the din\r\nis deafening.\r\n\r\nBut a day or two after, you look about you, and prick your ears in this\r\nself-same ship; and were it not for the tell-tale boats and try-works,\r\nyou would all but swear you trod some silent merchant vessel, with a\r\nmost scrupulously neat commander. The unmanufactured sperm oil\r\npossesses a singularly cleansing virtue. This is the reason why the\r\ndecks never look so white as just after what they call an affair of\r\noil. Besides, from the ashes of the burned scraps of the whale, a\r\npotent lye is readily made; and whenever any adhesiveness from the back\r\nof the whale remains clinging to the side, that lye quickly\r\nexterminates it. Hands go diligently along the bulwarks, and with\r\nbuckets of water and rags restore them to their full tidiness. The soot\r\nis brushed from the lower rigging. All the numerous implements which\r\nhave been in use are likewise faithfully cleansed and put away. The\r\ngreat hatch is scrubbed and placed upon the try-works, completely\r\nhiding the pots; every cask is out of sight; all tackles are coiled in\r\nunseen nooks; and when by the combined and simultaneous industry of\r\nalmost the entire ship’s company, the whole of this conscientious duty\r\nis at last concluded, then the crew themselves proceed to their own\r\nablutions; shift themselves from top to toe; and finally issue to the\r\nimmaculate deck, fresh and all aglow, as bridegrooms new-leaped from\r\nout the daintiest Holland.\r\n\r\nNow, with elated step, they pace the planks in twos and threes, and\r\nhumorously discourse of parlors, sofas, carpets, and fine cambrics;\r\npropose to mat the deck; think of having hanging to the top; object not\r\nto taking tea by moonlight on the piazza of the forecastle. To hint to\r\nsuch musked mariners of oil, and bone, and blubber, were little short\r\nof audacity. They know not the thing you distantly allude to. Away, and\r\nbring us napkins!\r\n\r\nBut mark: aloft there, at the three mast heads, stand three men intent\r\non spying out more whales, which, if caught, infallibly will again soil\r\nthe old oaken furniture, and drop at least one small grease-spot\r\nsomewhere."},"relationships":[{"peer":"01KJNXEDHZCC8DR4EPSQD0QP4P","peer_label":"moby-dick","peer_type":"text","predicate":"derived_from"},{"peer":"01KJNXECF9R1EZKS5Z7J8A8ZSB","peer_type":"collection","predicate":"collection"}],"ver":1,"created_at":"2026-03-02T00:01:19.104Z","ts":"2026-03-02T00:01:19.104Z","edited_by":{"method":"manual","user_id":"01KJ6WPT018SDDANE6N7Q8E428"}}