Wednesday, November 24, 2010

The Ocean's Voice (on Jules Michelet's The Sea)

by Douglas Messerli

Jules Michelet The Sea, translated from the French by Katia Sainson (Los Angeles: Green Integer, 2011)

Upon reflection, it seems a little odd that I, born in the land-locked state of Iowa in the US—a state which has but a few small lakes—should be standing here in Korea speaking of "The Poetic Spirit of the Sea." For a while as a child, I lived with my parents on one of those tiny lakes, Clear Lake (which today, I am told, is overgrown with algae, being anything but "clear"); and one day my mother gasped and rushed from the house to save me as I was led to the end of the pier by a slightly older child. I am sure I would not have jumped in, for I was afraid of water through most of my childhood, and only learned to swim in college.

For all that, I have spent most of my life since age 16 near the seas, living my senior year of high school in a small Norwegian town on the Oslo fjord, and shifting a few years later to New York, Washington, D.C. and Philadelphia before settling—now for some 25 years—in Los Angeles, which is the largest seaport, incidentally, in the US.

Perhaps it was in restitution for my long dry childhood that I drifted to the Atlantic and Pacific shores. What is also clear is that I discovered during my adult years how very much I enjoy traveling by any water-going vessel, being attracted to everything from large ships, to sizeable ferries (by which I traveled a few years ago from Oslo to Copenhagen and commuted several times from Naples to Ischia and back) and even small rowing boats by which I traveled by night from Praiano to Positano on the Amalfi coast one dark midnight and recently floated for an afternoon along the canals of Ghent. I have never been sea-sick despite the obvious sufferings of some of those around me.

Despite all of this love of water, however, I must admit that I am not the beach-going type. My doctor has long ago warned me of sitting in the sun for more than five minutes, and I have never enjoyed the grate of sand and rock upon the surface of my body. The light, moreover, is usually far too intense, so that even my favorite activity, reading, becomes difficult. If I were to live directly on the ocean I suspect I would prefer the coast of Brittany in France or Maine in the USA on a winter day, when large storms toss about the ocean's tumultuous waves. I would love to be inside a well-protected sea-side cottage on those days!

This is, of course, a Romantic conception of the sea. Today we need only to look to the oil-slicked tides in the once pristine Gulf of Mexico and remind ourselves of Hurricane Kathrina's 2005 devastation of New Orleans to perceive that the sea is quickly being transformed by man into something that is dangerous to live near or even transverse. In a few decades from now the lovely and fascinating cities and beaches of Venice, Santa Monica, and Malibu near my home may no longer exist, having been flooded over by the rising oceans.

I've not come here, however, to lecture on the obvious: the fears we all share for those waters that sustain and connect our shores. Instead of abandoning that "Romantic" concept of the sea, I thought I might return to it in the guise of the great French naturalist and historian of the 19th century, Jules Michelet, who wrote on everything from women, birds, and insects to religion, education, and the history of the French Revolution. One of his most important books, moreover, was titled The Sea (1861)—a book which, coincidentally my publishing house, Green Integer, has just published—which I thought might be appropriate to share with you in this conference dedicated to that very subject. Although Michelet may treat the great oceans less like a scientist than a devoted lover, perhaps the latter is what we most need today, a wise admirer, who will help us all realize the beauty and importance of the matter that covers most of the earth and, as the ice caps melt, may roll over even more of our planet's surface.

Michelet begins his book, surprisingly, by relating stories from the shore, beaches, and cliffs the powerful forces and fearful behavior of the ocean waters. Like me at the edge of that childhood pier, he seems, a first, so terrified of even looking at the great roll of waves, that it appears he will never jump in.

Throughout his highly poetic recounting Michelet gives the sea voices, but the first of these voices presents "her" (and for Michelet the sea is not just linguistically but psychologically a feminine force) as having a most "formidable character:

"...we feel or we believe that we feel the vibrant intonations of life. In fact, at high tide when one wave—immense and electric—rises above another, the sound of shells and of thousands of diverse creatures brought in with the tide mixes with the stormy rumble of the waters.... And the sea has still other voices! When she is emotional, the sea's moan and deep sighs contrast with the silence of the mournful shore. In fact, the shore seems to be quietly meditating, in order to better hear the threats coming from the one who just yesterday was flattering it with a caressing wave. What will the sea be telling to the shore next? I don't want to predict. I do not to speak here of the frightful concerts that the sea may give, of her duets with the rocks, of the basses and the muffled thunder that she produces deep inside the caves, nor the astonishing cries in which one thinks one hears: "Rescue me!"

Even witnessing the sea from atop a cliff or other promontory can be a dangerous act:

At the highest point of the Mont-Saint-Michel, one can see a platform called
the Madman's Terrace. I know of no place more apt to drive someone
crazy than this vertiginous structure. Imagine being surrounded by a vast
secluded plain of what looks like white ash—dubious sand whose mis-
leading smoothness is its most dangerous trap. It is land and yet it's not.
It is the sea and yet again, not. It's not fresh water either although beneath
the sands rivers constantly burrow through the ground. Rarely, and only
for a few short amounts of time, a boat will venture forth. And, if passing
by when the water is receding, you are likely to be swallowed up. I speak
from experience. I myself was almost engulfed.

By the time he gets to the great storms, quoting seafaring explorers such as James Cook, François Péron, and Jules Dumont d'Urville, we are nearly overwhelmed by the power of this dreadful force:

"...At the shore of the Aiguilles Banks also known as the D'Urville Banks" quotes
Michelet, "the waves reached heights of eighty to one hundred feet. I had never
seen such a monstrous sea. ...At times the sailors on deck were submerged. There
was awful chaos that lasted no less than four hours that evening...a century that
was enough to turn your hair white!... -This is what southern storms are like,
so horrible that even on land the natives that can sense their arrival are horrified
by them in advance and hide in their caves."

One particular storm of 1859 on the Western coast of France was witnessed by Michelet himself, and his recounting of that event, with its "shifting and bizarre winds," is perhaps one of the best written descriptions of the fierceness of ocean storms.

It is no wonder that in a later chapter, the author writes what seems almost like an ode to lighthouses, beacons that call out to the frightened sailor: "Persist! One more try!...if the wind and the sea are against you, you are not alone. Mankind is there watching out for you." The naturalist is understandably proud of the France's "ring of these powerful flares," each armed with the Fresnel lens (invented by the French physicist Augustin-Jean Fresnel, and first used at the Cordouan lighthouse in 1823).

If the drama of the sea is what the reader seeks, Michelet does not disappoint either in his sections on storms nor in his recountings of various sea-lives, particularly of the giant octopus (which, he admits, no longer exists) and his tales of whales and sharks. Jules Verne used the former as a major figure in his Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea and Lautréamont parodied the author in his Chant de Maldoror. In short, Michelet is determined to engage his reader with numerous exciting adventures regarding his subject.

However, the author warns us, early on, that despite all this seeming fury, the sea itself "is quite innocent."

Moreover, one cannot be fooled by the tremendous illusions she
creates, by the immensity of her wonders or by what on the surface
appears to be moments of fury that are often in fact acts of kindness.

And it is already here, in the second chapter of the book, that Michelet takes up one of his major themes, which elevates this text to stand as a significant work even today. After describing the terrible landscape around Mont-Saint-Michel, the naturalist ponders:

Is it the sea's fault if this beach is so treacherous? Not at all. The sea
arrives thee, as she does elsewhere, noisy and strong but loyal. The
true fault lies with the land whose cunning immobility always seems
so innocent, and who, below the beach, is filtering stream water—a
sugary and whitish mixture that undermines solidity. It is especially man's
fault, because of his ignorance and neglect [italics mine]. During
the long barbarian ages, while he thought only of legends and
establishing this great place of pilgrimage dedicated to the archangel,
who had vanquished the devil, the devil took possession of
that neglected plain. ...Far from doing harm, this madwoman carries
in her menacing waves a treasure of fertile salt. Superior to the Nile's
silt, it enriches the area's cultivated fields and is the source of the
charming beauty of Dol's former marshlands, which today have
been transformed into gardens.

This culpability of man is at the heart of Michelet's plea for the survival of things relating to the oceans. First, he establishes the oceans as the source of life itself by noting the great fecundity of the sea, which he describes as "the sea of milk," a kind of gelatinized water. A single drop of water, he insists, carry thousands of infusorium, "moving about and vibrating," coming together to create links of maidenhair. "This is not fable," he argues, "it is natural history. This hair with its dual nature—plant and animal—is life's eldest child."

Importantly, Michelet goes on to establish the international patterns of the sea's movements, and the shifts in the oceans' currents, from hot to cold, around the globe. It is, accordingly, only by seeing the sea globally that we can truly comprehend its importance. Describing different sealife throughout the planet, Michelet gracefully takes, as his favorite explorer, Vasco da Gama (he dismisses Columbus' journey as a mere repetition of what the Normans and Icelanders had done long before), in their travels. And in doing so we gradually come also to be fascinated with the abundance in our oceans.

By the time Michelet comes round to talking about the whales, he quite clearly anthropomorphizes his subject:

Because such a life form is inherently shaped like a ship, the mother's
waist is narrow and this means that she cannot have the profuse waist of
a woman—that adorable miracle of life on land, that stable and harmonic
life, where everything disappears into tenderness. No matter how tender
the whale—that great woman of the sea—is, she still must make everything
dependent on her battle against the waves. Moreover, her organism is the
same under this strange mask—the shape, the same sensitivity. Fish
on the surface, woman beneath it. [This analogy continues for a few more

By doing this, however, Michelet has created a true link between the nursing whale and his readers that can only shock when, a few pages later, he decries what have become of these wonderful leviathans:

The strongest of the strong, the ingenious one, the active one, the cruel king
the world has finally arrived. My book is flooded with light. But what will it
show? And how many sad things do I now have to bring into this light?
This creator, this tyrannical God was able to produce a second nature
within nature. But what did he do to the other one, the original one, his
wet-nurse and his mother? With the teeth that she gave him, he bit her
The freest of beings, who formerly brought joy to the sea, those good-
hearted seals, the gentle whales, the peace-loving pride and joy of the Ocean,
all have fled to the polar seas and to the awful world of the ice floe. But they
cannot bear such a difficult life, and soon, they will completely disappear.

Soon after, the author introduces a chapter on The Harpoon, and moves forward to the discovery of the three oceans. And it is now, in the newly discovered world that he truly cries out against the barbaric acts of mankind. After describing the conquerors treatment of the native populations, Michelet continues:

It is obvious that if Man has treated Man in this way, he was no more merciful,
no kinder to the animals. He carried out a horrific slaughter of the gentlest
species. He made them savage and barbaric forever more...
In the New South Shetland Islands, Dumont d'Urville says, the English and
the Americans exterminated all the seals in four years. In a blind rage, they
would slit the throats of the newborns, and would kill the pregnant females.
Often they killed for the skins alone and wasted enormous amounts of oil
that could have been use.

"The water gushes forth with the red droplets..." the naturalist ends his description of the "drunken butchery" of tuna by men and women alike on a European shore.

As a solution to some of this mad abuse, Michelet proposes, along with other writers, a new bill, a "Declaration of the Rights of the Sea" to change regulations on the periods of coastal fishing, to create more humane ways of killing, and to ban fishing entirely during the season when each species reproduces. "As for the precious species that are on the verge of disappearing, especially the whale, the world's largest and creation's richest life form, we need absolute peace for a half-century," concluded Michelet in 1861.

Not only does Michelet argue for these prescient measures of conservation, what he describes as a Truce of God, but, more important, he recognizes in the ocean's many voices, a kind of international (perhaps even universal) community that will bring world harmony. I quote this powerful passage at length:

There is one extremely big difference between these two elements—land is
silent and the Ocean speaks. The Ocean is a voice that speaks to distant stars
and responds to their movement in its deep and solemn language. It speaks
to the land and the shore, conversing with their echoes in poignant tones.
In turn plaintive and threatening it rumbles or sighs. Above all, it speaks to
man. Since the Ocean is the fertile crucible in which creating began and
within whose strength it continues, it possesses creation's animated eloquence.
This is life speaking to life. The beings, which are born from the Ocean in
the millions and billions, are its words. It speaks, even before the white and
foaming sea of milk—from which they emerge—with its fertile marine jelly,
is organized. All this, combined together is the great voice of the Ocean.
What does it say? It speaks of life, the eternal metamorphosis. It speaks of
a fluctuating existence. It puts the petrified ambitions of terrestrial life to shame.
What does it say? Immortality. An indomitable force of life can be found
in the lowest rungs of nature. And yet, theirs are so much more superior!
What does it say? Solidarity. Let's accept the rapid exchange, which
occurs between the different parts of an individual. Let's accept the superior
law that unites the living members of a single entity: humanity. And beyond
that, let's accept the supreme law that means that we cooperate and create,
with the great South, that we are associated (to the best of our ability) with this
world's loving Harmony and that we show solidarity with the life God has

Romantic? Yes. A few of Michelet's topics may even appear, in retrospect, a bit silly (his discussion of the restorative powers of the ocean are outdated and somewhat quaint, to say the least). But when it comes to describing that vast and troubled lake that surrounds all our continents, I can best hear his voice—the voice he has given to our Oceans.

Los Angeles, July 10, 2010
This essay was first read to a Korean audience on the occasion of the 2010 World Writers' Festival, "The Poetic Spirit of the Sea," hosted by Dankook University in Seoul, Jukjeon, and Cheonan, Korea on October 5, 2010. It was published in both Korean and English in the programme for that event, From the Sea of Discovery to the Sea of Communication (Seoul/Jukjeon: Dankook University, 2010).

Friday, November 5, 2010

Moscow Thanksgiving (travel to Moscow in 1989)

Rossiya Hotel

GUM Department store

Dining room at the Rossiya

by Douglas Messerli

After a relatively pleasant time in the moderne world of Tallinn, it was quite a shock to return to the Soviet Union, where the 19th century seemed still to exist. The dust of the Moscow streets blurred our eyes, and the buildings, about which we had been forewarned, were notably Stalinist in look. Our hotel was the vast Rossiya Hotel, consisting of 3,200 rooms. Even the nearby Kremlin seemed lost in its hovering shadow. If one found ones way back to the room, it was comfortable enough, but almost unbearably overheated. In 2006 it was torn down to make way for a new, grander hostelry.

Although I continued the pointless activity of shopping in Moscow, it meant little. Hardly anything existed in the shops. Even in the famous GUM Department store across from Red Square there was not even a coat to be found. Numerous shops stood empty. The trinkets left in the few open stores seemed valueless.

ROVA continued their concerts, thank heaven, which provided wonderful entertainment each evening, but in my daily walks I had grown tired of Moscow's ugly streets. I felt after more than a week in this cold country, we all wanted to go home.

One evening we were bused to a large theater on the edge of the city to hear Soviet poets read, our friend Ivan Zhdanov being one of the readers. But of course, the reading was in Russian and most of us could not comprehend what was being said.

Lyn Hejinian met up with a young Russian writer there, whose name I cannot remember. He must have been still in his teens, a handsome and very gentle young man whom she invited for a walk the next day as well.

That day, November 23, 1989, was Thanksgiving back in the USA, and as a surprise our tour guide had ordered a special Thanksgiving dinner so that we might celebrate and be free, at least for one meal, of the standard Russian fare. After our walk, we encouraged our young poet friend to join us.

Russian citizens, despite Arkadii's rejection of the law, were not allowed in the international hotels; and the boy, accordingly, demurred. "Oh, I can't do that!" he insisted.

"Oh yes, you have to join us," Lyn insisted.

"Do come share dinner with us," I added.

"But I can't," he pleaded. "What if they find me out?"

"You're with us," Lyn added.

"But I don't speak English well enough."

"Yes, you do," I insisted. "Besides we'll do all the talking. Just pretend to listen."

And we quickly moved him through the lobby and into our dining room, as we chattered away, placing him at the center of the long table the staff arranged for us.

The dinner was edible, if I remember, although many complained loudly throughout. I believe chicken was served instead of turkey, stringy and without taste. But the potates were fine; even gravy. Did they add any of the other "trimmings?" I can't recall, but just having a change was good for the soul.

And despite regulations, black market dealers approached the tables with bottles of vodka and cans of cavier. I bought both, sharing the vodka.

Several of our group, however, grumpily continued in their commentary on the quality of the cuisine.

I turned to our the young guest. "How did you like the food?"

He turned his fresh face in my direction, a smile creating a crater in its path. "It was the best meal I have ever had in my life."

He was serious! Tears welled up in my eyes.

Los Angeles, November 4, 2010
(c) copyright 2010 by Douglas Messerli