This Day in Literary History (Melville Meets Hawthorne)

August 5, 1850—In one of the most consequential picnics in American literature, the brooding ex-sailor Herman Melville, searching for a voice that would allow him to burst the mold of his traditional sea fiction, met saturnine, sin-obsessed Nathaniel Hawthorne (in the image accompanying this post) as part of a small literary group that went on a small day’s hike from Stockbridge to Monument Mountain in Western Massachusetts.

The two writers, both living in the Berkshires, found themselves in different stages—even moving in different directions—in their careers at the time of their momentous encounter. 

The 31-year-old Melville, though he had five books to his credit already, had lost readers as he moved away from the conventional realistic mode that had made Typee a bestseller. In contrast, Hawthorne, 15 years his senior, had found his commercial niche at last only a few months before with The Scarlet Letter, a heavily symbolic novel. 

When a rainstorm made the literary picnickers (who also included publisher David Dudley Field and poet Oliver Wendell Holmes) seek shelter, Hawthorne and Melville had an opportunity to talk at greater length, discovering that they were kindred spirits. 

As Melville would shortly put it, in an essay on his new friend: “In this world of lies, Truth is forced to fly like a scared white doe in the woodlands; and only by cunning glimpses will she reveal herself, as in Shakespeare and other great masters of the great Art of Telling the Truth—even though it be covertly and by snatches." 

Melville made his most heroic attempt at “the great Art of Telling the Truth” thousands of miles from where he could smell the spray of the Pacific Ocean or hear the cries of the whaling crews that sailed it in a quiet farmhouse deep in Pittsfield, not far from where he encountered Hawthorne. 

 In one way, the millions of readers enthralled by Moby Dick should not be surprised by the distance between the turbulent world Melville created and the tranquil environment in which he did so. For the novelist’s imagination brought all things close to him, with such power that as he looked eastward from his study, he likened the twin peaks of Saddleback and Mount Greylock looming in the distance to the humps of a whale. 

“My room seems a ship’s cabin,” Melville wrote his friend Evert Duychinck, “and at nights when I wake up and hear the wind shrieking, I almost fancy there is too much sail on the house, and I had better go on the roof and rig in the chimney.” 

One hundred and fifty years after the sailor-turned-novelist moved his family here, RUVs and pickup trucks rumble more loudly and more often down the road that passes Arrowhead, the Melville homestead in Pittsfield, than the haywagons of his day did. 

On the two occasions I visited the home over the last decade, I found that the mountain landscape that inspired the great novelist remains majestically impervious to developers’ depredations. 

Even as a child, years before he bought the property, Melville had found these hills a source of serenity amid the financial catastrophe that overwhelmed his parents. 

Once settled here, he quickly made friends with Hawthorne, who lived in nearby Tanglewood and whose example encouraged him to explore new dark, richly symbolic territory in his fiction. 

 For the next two years, Melville and Hawthorne visited and wrote each other frequently. During this time, Melville wrote Moby Dick, which he dedicated to the older man. 

Longtime readers of this blog know of my fascination with F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway. Now, it might at first seem a bit of a stretch to compare the two Lost Generation authors with Hawthorne and Melville, but I think a case can be made for some fascinating similarities. 

In each case, a younger writer—one who craved action—benefited by direct exposure to an older craftsman, and the results became quickly apparent. 

Melville took his cues from Hawthorne more by example than anything else; Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises benefited greatly from judicious editing by Fitzgerald, who wisely urged his friend to cut almost all of the wise-guy opening that threatened to overshadow reader recognition that the situation of Jake Barnes and his circle was inherently tragic. 

Both sets of writers found common ground by perfectly capturing the prevailing zeitgeist. Fitzgerald and Hemingway, writers with deeply ambivalent views of faith, wrote of characters who tried to find grace in blasted moral landscapes.

Characters in Hawthorne’s and Melville’s most famous novels suffer wounds that initiate wider tragedies. Hawthorne’s Roger Chillingworth becomes guilty of what Hawthorne called “the unpardonable sin” when he tries to discover what is in the soul of the man he rightly suspects of cuckolding him, the Rev. Arthur Dimmesdale. Melville’s Captain Ahab is literally wounded, so maimed by a past encounter with Moby Dick that he will pursue the great white whale to the far corners of the world—and take every member of his (characteristically American) multicultural crew (except narrator Ishmael) down with the ship in the mad attempt. 

The friendship between Fitzgerald and Hemingway fractured, for a thousand reasons chronicled by themselves and their associates. The more reticent times in which Hawthorne and Melville lived ensured that at this juncture, we’re unlikely to know the precise reasons why they drifted apart after two years. 

The following conjectures have been offered, with varying degrees of probability: 

* Hawthorne was embarrassed by his failure to secure gainful employment for Melville. The author of The Scarlet Letter did not make a huge number of friends, but one was important indeed—Franklin Pierce, winner of the 1852 Presidential election. Hawthorne, the college classmate of the Democratic victor in this election, lent Pierce key support in what is believed to be the first American Presidential campaign biography. Pierce would reward him eventually by naming him the American Consul stationed in Liverpool. Yet, for all that, Hawthorne couldn’t secure a post for Melville, who by this time needed such a job much more than the older man.

* Melville grew too emotionally needy for the reticent Hawthorne. Coming to Arrowhead as a best-selling writer of adventure stories—a kind of combination of Sebastian Junger and John Irving—Melville proceeded to write at breakneck speed a series of challenging metaphysical novels and short stories. But he also could be, as Hawthorne’s beloved wife Sophia noted, “generally silent and uncommunicative.” Hawthorne’s brilliance drew the younger man out of his shell, something that Melville acknowledged in a tone that more than one modern critic has described as “homoerotic”: “Already I feel that this Hawthorne has dropped germinous seeds into my soul. He expands and deepens down, the more I contemplate him.” The handsome Hawthorne had felt squeamish about being stared at by female admirers openly on the street; can you imagine his discomfort, in that more straitlaced time, about being the object of an unabashed male’s adulation?

* Melville’s literary and personal situation was deteriorating so drastically that he might not have felt he could reach out to Hawthorne. Melville’s follow-up to Moby Dick, Pierre, with its hints of incest, still has the capacity to shock today. In its time, it must have seemed like an act of literary self-immolation. Neighbors and relatives were remarking this time on his habit of working relentlessly at night, leaving him exhausted and depressed the next day, and his tendency toward metaphysical speculation in his novels. In recent years, scholarly speculation has grown that Melville might have been an alcoholic and a wife-beater.

Quote of the Day (Sarah Palin, Showing Skill With English)

“Ground Zero Mosque supporters: doesn’t it stab you in the heart, as it does ours throughout the heartland? Peaceful Muslims, pls refudiate.”—Sarah Palin, Twitter post July 18, 2010, quoted in “Sarah Palin Calls on 'Peaceful Muslims' to 'Refudiate' Their Own Religion,” "Little Green Footballs" blog, July 18, 2010

For a long time, I’ve felt, after watching thank-yous at the Oscars, that actors should not be allowed anywhere near a computer because of the damage they might do to the English language. Now comes Sarah Palin, making me wonder if the same restriction should apply to politicians.

In his great essay “Politics and the English Language,” George Orwell noted that “In our time, political speech and writing are largely the defense of the indefensible.” I suppose that Sassy Sarah’s tweet—calling on the abandonment of the mosque near the World Trade Center, in a country dedicated to freedom of religion—constitutes that.

But most of all, I think Orwell would break out in bitter laughter, not just at this tweet—which, Palin might have argued, was simply a typo—but by its follow-up correction, which called on “Peaceful New Yorkers” to “refute” the plan. It somehow escaped the former Vice-Presidential candidate's notice that the verb was still incorrect.

Someone wasn’t paying attention in English class in some Alaskan high school 30 years ago…

Quote of the Day (A.J. Burnett, on His Pie-Throwing Technique)

"I don't exactly go full-sprint at somebody with a pie. Stuff happens, I guess. I always try to somewhat think safety first - unless I'm snapping - even when I'm pie-ing."—New York Yankee pitcher A.J. Burnett, explaining how his celebratory pie-throwing motion has enabled him to escape injury while the Florida Marlins’ Chris Coghlan fell victim to injury, quoted in Mark Feinsand, “A.J. to ‘Pie’ On With Caution,” The Daily News (New York), July 28, 2010

Well, that’s just great. I'm really glad to hear that A.J. Burnett doesn’t lose his footing over “pie-ing” (which, incidentally, I find the worse neologism in recent memory).

But I’ll bet I’m not the only Yankee fan who wishes he didn't lose command of what’s supposed to be an awesome arsenal of pitches. And lose his mental equilibrium, too.

Let’s put it this way: A.J., your latest performance, on Sunday--four strikeouts, two walks, eight hits, eight earned runs, heading to the showers before the fifth inning—was hardly the occasion for pie-ing, let alone a demonstration of why management or your teammates should have confidence in you whenever you walk to the mound.

Hall of Fame football coach Paul Brown used to tell players intent on victory dances in the end zone, “Act like you’ve been there before.” Good advice for you to remember, A.J., whether you’re at the giving or receiving end of “pie-ing” (though at this point, it looks like it'll be a long time before the latter for you).

Movie Exchange of the Day (“Darling,” on Sex and Children)

Diana Scott (played by Julie Christie, in the accompanying image): “Imagine if...”

Miles Brand (played by Laurence Harvey): “What?”

Diana: “It took three.”

Miles: “Took three?”

Diana: “Sexes. To make a child.”

Miles: “Very entertaining.”

Diana: “Everything would be different, wouldn't it, quite different, with three sexes.”

Miles: “Haven't we got enough problems with two?”—Darling (1965), screenplay by Frederic Raphael, directed by John Schlesinger

A Hard Day’s Night, I believe, blew off, once and for all, the gloom accrued to Britain’s “angry young man” cinema of the early 1960s. But there was a hint the year before, in 1963’s Billy Liar, of similar possibilities. It was embodied in that film by the carefree walk of Julie Christie, representing all the youthful glamour of mod London.

On this day in 1965, the movie that would provide Christie with her sole Oscar to date, Darling, premiered. This cautionary tale of the rise to prominence of a model--and of the men she discarded along the way--was one of two of her films that made a huge splash that year (the other, of course, being Dr. Zhivago).

Cinema, like the memory of a long-ago friend, can freeze an image in time. For me, Christie will always retain the radiance of her twenties. I’m not sure, then, despite her extraordinary gifts, if I’d be able to accept the thought of her as an Alzheimer’s patient in Away From Her. I suspect that those closer in age to her will find this equally challenging to credit.

TV Exchange of the Day (Fred Sanford, in Tender By-Play With His Sister-in-Law)

Aunt Esther (played by LaWanda Page): “Who you calling ugly, sucker?”

Fred Sanford (played by Redd Foxx): “I'm calling you ugly. I could push your face in some dough and make gorilla cookies.”—Sanford and Son, Season 3, Episode 2, “Libra Rising All Over Lamont,” airdate September 21, 1973, teleplay by Ilunga Adell, directed by Jack Shea

This Day in Yankee History (Battlin’ Billy Named Skipper)

August 1, 1975—With his multi-million dollar players falling further and further behind in the pennant race, New York Yankees owner George Steinbrenner did something he would resort to frequently over his next three decades running the team: firing his manager.

Bill Virdon, whose stress on defense and fundamentals had helped the Bronx Bombers in 1974 to their best record since their dynasty years ended after the 1964 season (only two games behind the division-leading Baltimore Orioles), could do nothing to turn the team’s fortunes around by mid-summer. Only a game out at the All-Star game, the Yankees had slipped further behind the Boston Red Sox, who were cruising to the American League East pennant, led by wondrous rookies Fred Lynn and Jim Rice.

A highly competent, self-contained, self-disciplined baseball man, Virdon had, nevertheless, only been The Boss’ second choice for the job, because Dick Williams was still under contract to the Oakland A’s.

The pursuit of Williams was actually a signal, if major-league baseball ever needed it, that this was an owner willing to circumvent the rules. And so Steinbrenner proved in Virdon’s case. Suspended by baseball commissioner Bowie Kuhn for making illegal campaign contributions to the re-election campaign of Richard Nixon, the owner was supposed to be barred from any activities involving the team for two years. But he hadn’t let that be a hindrance in signing free-agent Jim “Catfish” Hunter the prior year, and he wasn’t going to let it stop him now.

The team, the Yanks’ owner decided, needed someone to light a fire underneath it. And it wouldn’t hurt that the man Steinbrenner had in mind not only had a reputation for turning around underachieving teams, but that he was a link to the great dynasty that had existed in the Bronx throughout the 1950s.

Enter Billy Martin, a player who surpassed his everyday totals in the biggest games, a manager with an insatiable hunger for winning—and a man with a recurring instinct for self-destruction.

In the back of Steinbrenner’s mind, I would argue, were other motives, as generous as they were self-aggrandizing: to bring home a prodigal son, and to set right an injustice to a player who was an indelible part of Yankee glory.

Two and a half years later, those motives could be seen in their purest form, when Steinbrenner brought back home run king Roger Maris for opening day of the 1978 season. CBS, the team’s previous owner, he felt, had treated Maris shabbily after baseball’s single-season HR recordholder had fallen victim to injuries, so he wanted Maris to feel part of the Yankee family again.

Martin’s case was more complicated, because he was a far more complicated man than Maris. The two-time MVP in the 1960s was, to the astonishment of at least some sportswriters, a family man who never left a blemish on the team.

The same could not be said for Martin, who had departed the Bombers partly because of his involvement in a 1957 brawl at the Copacabana on the occasion of a birthday party for the Yankees' second baseman. Bristling at a heckler of Sammy Davis Jr., he had challenged the drunk to step outside. Subsequently, the heckler was beaten to a pulp in the men’s room (either by a bouncer or, very possibly, though he escaped indictment, by Martin’s teammate, tough and burly ex-Marine Hank Bauer.)

It was Martin—the player most expendable among the group out that night, by virtue of a replacement waiting in the wings (clean-living Bobby Richardson) and his declining statistics—who was made the scapegoat for the incident, and sent packing, never to return as a player to his old team—the only one he really ever wanted to play for.

With his playing days over, Martin began to establish a reputation as a manager with potential for exploding as much as for winning. Wherever he went—the Minnesota Twins, the Detroit Tigers, the Texas Rangers—he took moribund squads and made them exciting to watch again, as he applied lessons on “small ball” (the bunt, the hit-and-run, the surprise maneuver) he had learned from the Yankee manager (and, one can’t help feeling, surrogate father) who had mentored him early in his playing career, Casey Stengel.

Each time, however, he would self-destruct, getting himself fired, more often than not as a result of fistfights. (Among his “opponents”: his own pitcher, Dave Boswell; two team traveling secretaries; a sportswriter; a marshmallow salesman; and, late in his Yankee tenure, Ed Whitson.) This track record led Yankee general manager Gabe Paul to warn Steinbrenner presciently that “Your temperaments aren’t compatible. There are going to be problems.”

But Steinbrenner wouldn’t listen, and so Martin was hired. It was too late for the Yankees' fiery manager to make his impact felt on the ’75 pennant race, but the next year he led them to the American League pennant.

We all know what happened afterward: the near-firing in ’77, followed by the World Series win; the actual firing in ’78 following an alcohol-fueled tirade against Reggie Jackson and Steinbrenner (“One’s a born liar; the other’s convicted”); the astonishing announcement at the next Old Timers Game that year that Martin would return for the 1980 season; then more hirings and firings over the next decades.

How many of us can still believe that Martin was hired to manage the same team five different times –and that he was set to run the Yankees again when he died in an auto accident (very likely alcohol-related) on Christmas Day in 1989?

In retrospect, I would argue, the Steinbrenner Era was marked by two periods. The first was the Joe Torre age of consistent postseason appearances, not to mention four World Series titles, over the course of a decade. The other was the Billy Martin age. All the honorable men who managed the team in between Martin’s turns at the helm—including (but not limited to) Bob Lemon, Dick Howser, Gene Michael, Lou Piniella, and Yogi Berra—now seem like substitutes for the scrappy little brawler in his opera bouffe duet with the Yankees’ owner.

Quote of the Day (C.S. Lewis, on God’s “Megaphone”)

“God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, but shouts in our pains: it is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world."—C.S. Lewis, The Problem of Pain (1940)