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i'm sorrry mark

  • #1

    im vewwy vewwy sarry i hurt ur feelings... i didn't meen two...

  • #2
    He rights 100 page novels. Get on his level.
  • #3
    will_n wrote:
    He rights 100 page novels. Get on his level.

    the correct spelling is rite...

  • #4

    he rites 100 page novels.

  • #5
    He also lefts them. Do you left 100 page novels? Didn't think so....
  • #6

    I write one hundred one page novels, HAH!

  • #7

    i wrote a novel

     

  • #8

    Loomings.
    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.
    Moby Dick
    23 of 1047
    There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes,
    belted round by wharves as Indian isles by coral reefs—
    commerce surrounds it with her surf. Right and left, the
    streets take you waterward. Its extreme downtown is the
    battery, where that noble mole is washed by waves, and
    cooled by breezes, which a few hours previous were out
    of sight of land. Look at the crowds of water-gazers there.
    Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath
    afternoon. Go from Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip, and
    from thence, by Whitehall, northward. What do you
    see?—Posted like silent sentinels all around the town,
    stand thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in
    ocean reveries. Some leaning against the spiles; some
    seated upon the pier-heads; some looking over the
    bulwarks of ships from China; some high aloft in the
    rigging, as if striving to get a still better seaward peep. But
    these are all landsmen; of week days pent up in lath and
    plaster—tied to counters, nailed to benches, clinched to
    desks. How then is this? Are the green fields gone? What
    do they here?
    But look! here come more crowds, pacing straight for
    the water, and seemingly bound for a dive. Strange!
    Nothing will content them but the extremest limit of the
    land; loitering under the shady lee of yonder warehouses
    Moby Dick
    24 of 1047
    will not suffice. No. They must get just as nigh the water
    as they possibly can without falling in. And there they
    stand—miles of them—leagues. Inlanders all, they come
    from lanes and alleys, streets and avenues—north, east,
    south, and west. Yet here they all unite. Tell me, does the
    magnetic virtue of the needles of the compasses of all those
    ships attract them thither?
    Once more. Say you are in the country; in some high
    land of lakes. Take almost any path you please, and ten to
    one it carries you down in a dale, and leaves you there by
    a pool in the stream. There is magic in it. Let the most
    absent-minded of men be plunged in his deepest
    reveries—stand that man on his legs, set his feet a-going,
    and he will infallibly lead you to water, if water there be
    in all that region. Should you ever be athirst in the great
    American desert, try this experiment, if your caravan
    happen to be supplied with a metaphysical professor. Yes,
    as every one knows, meditation and water are wedded for
    ever.
    But here is an artist. He desires to paint you the
    dreamiest, shadiest, quietest, most enchanting bit of
    romantic landscape in all the valley of the Saco. What is
    the chief element he employs? There stand his trees, each
    with a hollow trunk, as if a hermit and a crucifix were
    Moby Dick
    25 of 1047
    within; and here sleeps his meadow, and there sleep his
    cattle; and up from yonder cottage goes a sleepy smoke.
    Deep into distant woodlands winds a mazy way, reaching
    to overlapping spurs of mountains bathed in their hill-side
    blue. But though the picture lies thus tranced, and though
    this pine-tree shakes down its sighs like leaves upon this
    shepherd’s head, yet all were vain, unless the shepherd’s
    eye were fixed upon the magic stream before him. Go
    visit the Prairies in June, when for scores on scores of
    miles you wade knee-deep among Tiger-lilies—what is
    the one charm wanting?—Water—there is not a drop of
    water there! Were Niagara but a cataract of sand, would
    you travel your thousand miles to see it? Why did the
    poor poet of Tennessee, upon suddenly receiving two
    handfuls of silver, deliberate whether to buy him a coat,
    which he sadly needed, or invest his money in a pedestrian
    trip to Rockaway Beach? Why is almost every robust
    healthy boy with a robust healthy soul in him, at some
    time or other crazy to go to sea? Why upon your first
    voyage as a passenger, did you yourself feel such a mystical
    vibration, when first told that you and your ship were
    now out of sight of land? Why did the old Persians hold
    the sea holy? Why did the Greeks give it a separate deity,
    and own brother of Jove? Surely all this is not without
    Moby Dick
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    meaning. And still deeper the meaning of that story of
    Narcissus, who because he could not grasp the tormenting,
    mild image he saw in the fountain, plunged into it and was
    drowned. But that same image, we ourselves see in all
    rivers and oceans. It is the image of the ungraspable
    phantom of life; and this is the key to it all.
    Now, when I say that I am in the habit of going to sea
    whenever I begin to grow hazy about the eyes, and begin
    to be over conscious of my lungs, I do not mean to have it
    inferred that I ever go to sea as a passenger. For to go as a
    passenger you must needs have a purse, and a purse is but
    a rag unless you have something in it. Besides, passengers
    get sea-sick—grow quarrelsome—don’t sleep of nights—
    do not enjoy themselves much, as a general thing;—no, I
    never go as a passenger; nor, though I am something of a
    salt, do I ever go to sea as a Commodore, or a Captain, or
    a Cook. I abandon the glory and distinction of such offices
    to those who like them. For my part, I abominate all
    honourable respectable toils, trials, and tribulations of
    every kind whatsoever. It is quite as much as I can do to
    take care of myself, without taking care of ships, barques,
    brigs, schooners, and what not. And as for going as
    cook,—though I confess there is considerable glory in
    that, a cook being a sort of officer on ship-board—yet,
    Moby Dick
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    somehow, I never fancied broiling fowls;—though once
    broiled, judiciously buttered, and judgmatically salted and
    peppered, there is no one who will speak more
    respectfully, not to say reverentially, of a broiled fowl than
    I will. It is out of the idolatrous dotings of the old
    Egyptians upon broiled ibis and roasted river horse, that
    you see the mummies of those creatures in their huge
    bake-houses the pyramids.
    No, when I go to sea, I go as a simple sailor, right
    before the mast, plumb down into the forecastle, aloft
    there to the royal mast-head. True, they rather order me
    about some, and make me jump from spar to spar, like a
    grasshopper in a May meadow. And at first, this sort of
    thing is unpleasant enough. It touches one’s sense of
    honour, particularly if you come of an old established
    family in the land, the Van Rensselaers, or Randolphs, or
    Hardicanutes. And more than all, if just previous to
    putting your hand into the tar-pot, you have been lording
    it as a country schoolmaster, making the tallest boys stand
    in awe of you. The transition is a keen one, I assure you,
    from a schoolmaster to a sailor, and requires a strong
    decoction of Seneca and the Stoics to enable you to grin
    and bear it. But even this wears off in time.
    Moby Dick
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    What of it, if some old hunks of a sea-captain orders
    me to get a broom and sweep down the decks? What does
    that indignity amount to, weighed, I mean, in the scales of
    the New Testament? Do you think the archangel Gabriel
    thinks anything the less of me, because I promptly and
    respectfully obey that old hunks in that particular instance?
    Who ain’t a slave? Tell me that. Well, then, however the
    old sea-captains may order me about—however they may
    thump and punch me about, I have the satisfaction of
    knowing that it is all right; that everybody else is one way
    or other served in much the same way—either in a
    physical or metaphysical point of view, that is; and so the
    universal thump is passed round, and all hands should rub
    each other’s shoulder-blades, and be content.
    Again, I always go to sea as a sailor, because they make
    a point of paying me for my trouble, whereas they never
    pay passengers a single penny that I ever heard of. On the
    contrary, passengers themselves must pay. And there is all
    the difference in the world between paying and being
    paid. The act of paying is perhaps the most uncomfortable
    infliction that the two orchard thieves entailed upon us.
    But BEING PAID,—what will compare with it? The
    urbane activity with which a man receives money is really
    marvellous, considering that we so earnestly believe
    Moby Dick
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    money to be the root of all earthly ills, and that on no
    account can a monied man enter heaven. Ah! how
    cheerfully we consign ourselves to perdition!
    Finally, I always go to sea as a sailor, because of the
    wholesome exercise and pure air of the fore-castle deck.
    For as in this world, head winds are far more prevalent
    than winds from astern (that is, if you never violate the
    Pythagorean maxim), so for the most part the
    Commodore on the quarter-deck gets his atmosphere at
    second hand from the sailors on the forecastle. He thinks
    he breathes it first; but not so. In much the same way do
    the commonalty lead their leaders in many other things, at
    the same time that the leaders little suspect it. But
    wherefore it was that after having repeatedly smelt the sea
    as a merchant sailor, I should now take it into my head to
    go on a whaling voyage; this the invisible police officer of
    the Fates, who has the constant surveillance of me, and
    secretly dogs me, and influences me in some
    unaccountable way—he can better answer than any one
    else. And, doubtless, my going on this whaling voyage,
    formed part of the grand programme of Providence that
    was drawn up a long time ago. It came in as a sort of brief
    interlude and solo between more extensive performances.
    Moby Dick
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    I take it that this part of the bill must have run something
    like this:
    ‘GRAND CONTESTED ELECTION FOR THE
    PRESIDENCY OF THE UNITED STATES.
    ‘WHALING VOYAGE BY ONE ISHMAEL.
    ‘BLOODY BATTLE IN AFFGHANISTAN.’
    Though I cannot tell why it was exactly that those stage
    managers, the Fates, put me down for this shabby part of a
    whaling voyage, when others were set down for
    magnificent parts in high tragedies, and short and easy
    parts in genteel comedies, and jolly parts in farces—though
    I cannot tell why this was exactly; yet, now that I recall all
    the circumstances, I think I can see a little into the springs
    and motives which being cunningly presented to me
    under various disguises, induced me to set about
    performing the part I did, besides cajoling me into the
    delusion that it was a choice resulting from my own
    unbiased freewill and discriminating judgment.
    Chief among these motives was the overwhelming idea
    of the great whale himself. Such a portentous and
    mysterious monster roused all my curiosity. Then the wild
    and distant seas where he rolled his island bulk; the
    undeliverable, nameless perils of the whale; these, with all
    the attending marvels of a thousand Patagonian sights and
    Moby Dick
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    sounds, helped to sway me to my wish. With other men,
    perhaps, such things would not have been inducements;
    but as for me, I am tormented with an everlasting itch for
    things remote. I love to sail forbidden seas, and land on
    barbarous coasts. Not ignoring what is good, I am quick to
    perceive a horror, and could still be social with it—would
    they let me—since it is but well to be on friendly terms
    with all the inmates of the place one lodges in.
    By reason of these things, then, the whaling voyage was
    welcome; the great flood-gates of the wonder-world
    swung open, and in the wild conceits that swayed me to
    my purpose, two and two there floated into my inmost
    soul, endless processions of the whale, and, mid most of
    them all, one grand hooded phantom, like a snow hill in
    the air.
    Moby Dick
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    Chapter 2
    The Carpet-Bag.
    I stuffed a shirt or two into my old carpet-bag, tucked
    it under my arm, and started for Cape Horn and the
    Pacific. Quitting the good city of old Manhatto, I duly
    arrived in New Bedford. It was a Saturday night in
    December. Much was I disappointed upon learning that
    the little packet for Nantucket had already sailed, and that
    no way of reaching that place would offer, till the
    following Monday.
    As most young candidates for the pains and penalties of
    whaling stop at this same New Bedford, thence to embark
    on their voyage, it may as well be related that I, for one,
    had no idea of so doing. For my mind was made up to sail
    in no other than a Nantucket craft, because there was a
    fine, boisterous something about everything connected
    with that famous old island, which amazingly pleased me.
    Besides though New Bedford has of late been gradually
    monopolising the business of whaling, and though in this
    matter poor old Nantucket is now much behind her, yet
    Nantucket was her great original—the Tyre of this
    Carthage;—the place where the first dead American whale
    Moby Dick
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    was stranded. Where else but from Nantucket did those
    aboriginal whalemen, the Red-Men, first sally out in
    canoes to give chase to the Leviathan? And where but
    from Nantucket, too, did that first adventurous little sloop
    put forth, partly laden with imported cobblestones—so
    goes the story—to throw at the whales, in order to
    discover when they were nigh enough to risk a harpoon
    from the bowsprit?
    Now having a night, a day, and still another night
    following before me in New Bedford, ere I could embark
    for my destined port, it became a matter of concernment
    where I was to eat and sleep meanwhile. It was a very
    dubious-looking, nay, a very dark and dismal night,
    bitingly cold and cheerless. I knew no one in the place.
    With anxious grapnels I had sounded my pocket, and only
    brought up a few pieces of silver,—So, wherever you go,
    Ishmael, said I to myself, as I stood in the middle of a
    dreary street shouldering my bag, and comparing the
    gloom towards the north with the darkness towards the
    south—wherever in your wisdom you may conclude to
    lodge for the night, my dear Ishmael, be sure to inquire
    the price, and don’t be too particular.
    With halting steps I paced the streets, and passed the
    sign of ‘The Crossed Harpoons’—but it looked too
    Moby Dick
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    expensive and jolly there. Further on, from the bright red
    windows of the ‘Sword-Fish Inn,’ there came such fervent
    rays, that it seemed to have melted the packed snow and
    ice from before the house, for everywhere else the
    congealed frost lay ten inches thick in a hard, asphaltic
    pavement,—rather weary for me, when I struck my foot
    against the flinty projections, because from hard,
    remorseless service the soles of my boots were in a most
    miserable plight. Too expensive and jolly, again thought I,
    pausing one moment to watch the broad glare in the
    street, and hear the sounds of the tinkling glasses within.
    But go on, Ishmael, said I at last; don’t you hear? get away
    from before the door; your patched boots are stopping the
    way. So on I went. I now by instinct followed the streets
    that took me waterward, for there, doubtless, were the
    cheapest, if not the cheeriest inns.
    Such dreary streets! blocks of blackness, not houses, on
    either hand, and here and there a candle, like a candle
    moving about in a tomb. At this hour of the night, of the
    last day of the week, that quarter of the town proved all
    but deserted. But presently I came to a smoky light
    proceeding from a low, wide building, the door of which
    stood invitingly open. It had a careless look, as if it were
    meant for the uses of the public; so, entering, the first
    Moby Dick
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    thing I did was to stumble over an ash-box in the porch.
    Ha! thought I, ha, as the flying particles almost choked
    me, are these ashes from that destroyed city, Gomorrah?
    But ‘The Crossed Harpoons,’ and ‘The Sword-Fish?’—
    this, then must needs be the sign of ‘The Trap.’ However,
    I picked myself up and hearing a loud voice within,
    pushed on and opened a second, interior door.
    It seemed the great Black Parliament sitting in Tophet.
    A hundred black faces turned round in their rows to peer;
    and beyond, a black Angel of Doom was beating a book
    in a pulpit. It was a negro church; and the preacher’s text
    was about the blackness of darkness, and the weeping and
    wailing and teeth-gnashing there. Ha, Ishmael, muttered I,
    backing out, Wretched entertainment at the sign of ‘The
    Trap!’
    Moving on, I at last came to a dim sort of light not far
    from the docks, and heard a forlorn creaking in the air;
    and looking up, saw a swinging sign over the door with a
    white painting upon it, faintly representing a tall straight
    jet of misty spray, and these words underneath—‘The
    Spouter Inn:—Peter Coffin.’
    Coffin?—Spouter?—Rather ominous in that particular
    connexion, thought I. But it is a common name in
    Nantucket, they say, and I suppose this Peter here is an
    Moby Dick
    36 of 1047
    emigrant from there. As the light looked so dim, and the
    place, for the time, looked quiet enough, and the
    dilapidated little wooden house itself looked as if it might
    have been carted here from the ruins of some burnt
    district, and as the swinging sign had a poverty-stricken
    sort of creak to it, I thought that here was the very spot
    for cheap lodgings, and the best of pea coffee.
    It was a queer sort of place—a gable-ended old house,
    one side palsied as it were, and leaning over sadly. It stood
    on a sharp bleak corner, where that tempestuous wind
    Euroclydon kept up a worse howling than ever it did
    about poor Paul’s tossed craft. Euroclydon, nevertheless, is
    a mighty pleasant zephyr to any one in-doors, with his feet
    on the hob quietly toasting for bed. ‘In judging of that
    tempestuous wind called Euroclydon,’ says an old writer—
    of whose works I possess the only copy extant—‘it maketh
    a marvellous difference, whether thou lookest out at it
    from a glass window where the frost is all on the outside,
    or whether thou observest it from that sashless window,
    where the frost is on both sides, and of which the wight
    Death is the only glazier.’ True enough, thought I, as this
    passage occurred to my mind—old black-letter, thou
    reasonest well. Yes, these eyes are windows, and this body
    of mine is the house. What a pity they didn’t stop up the
    Moby Dick
    37 of 1047
    chinks and the crannies though, and thrust in a little lint
    here and there. But it’s too late to make any
    improvements now. The universe is finished; the
    copestone is on, and the chips were carted off a million
    years ago. Poor Lazarus there, chattering his teeth against
    the curbstone for his pillow, and shaking off his tatters
    with his shiverings, he might plug up both ears with rags,
    and put a corn-cob into his mouth, and yet that would not
    keep out the tempestuous Euroclydon. Euroclydon! says
    old Dives, in his red silken wrapper—(he had a redder one
    afterwards) pooh, pooh! What a fine frosty night; how
    Orion glitters; what northern lights! Let them talk of their
    oriental summer climes of everlasting conservatories; give
    me the privilege of making my own summer with my
    own coals.
    But what thinks Lazarus? Can he warm his blue hands
    by holding them up to the grand northern lights? Would
    not Lazarus rather be in Sumatra than here? Would he not
    far rather lay him down lengthwise along the line of the
    equator; yea, ye gods! go down to the fiery pit itself, in
    order to keep out this frost?
    Now, that Lazarus should lie stranded there on the
    curbstone before the door of Dives, this is more wonderful
    than that an iceberg should be moored to one of the
    Moby Dick
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    Moluccas. Yet Dives himself, he too lives like a Czar in an
    ice palace made of frozen sighs, and being a president of a
    temperance society, he only drinks the tepid tears of
    orphans.
    But no more of this blubbering now, we are going awhaling,
    and there is plenty of that yet to come. Let us
    scrape the ice from our frosted feet, and see what sort of a
    place this ‘Spouter’ may be.

     

     

    and thats just an exerpt.

     

  • #9

      Not that again!

  • #10
    Superman that's not 100 pages
  • #11

    thats not the full novel. the full novel is 1047.

  • #12

    That's true

  • #13

    But you didn't write it so don't it count none, do it now?

  • #14

    The Spouter-Inn.
    Entering that gable-ended Spouter-Inn, you found
    yourself in a wide, low, straggling entry with oldfashioned
    wainscots, reminding one of the bulwarks of
    some condemned old craft. On one side hung a very large
    oilpainting so thoroughly besmoked, and every way
    defaced, that in the unequal crosslights by which you
    viewed it, it was only by diligent study and a series of
    systematic visits to it, and careful inquiry of the neighbors,
    that you could any way arrive at an understanding of its
    purpose. Such unaccountable masses of shades and
    shadows, that at first you almost thought some ambitious
    young artist, in the time of the New England hags, had
    endeavored to delineate chaos bewitched. But by dint of
    much and earnest contemplation, and oft repeated
    ponderings, and especially by throwing open the little
    window towards the back of the entry, you at last come to
    the conclusion that such an idea, however wild, might not
    be altogether unwarranted.
    But what most puzzled and confounded you was a
    long, limber, portentous, black mass of something
    Moby Dick
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    hovering in the centre of the picture over three blue, dim,
    perpendicular lines floating in a nameless yeast. A boggy,
    soggy, squitchy picture truly, enough to drive a nervous
    man distracted. Yet was there a sort of indefinite, halfattained,
    unimaginable sublimity about it that fairly froze
    you to it, till you involuntarily took an oath with yourself
    to find out what that marvellous painting meant. Ever and
    anon a bright, but, alas, deceptive idea would dart you
    through.—It’s the Black Sea in a midnight gale.—It’s the
    unnatural combat of the four primal elements.—It’s a
    blasted heath.—It’s a Hyperborean winter scene.—It’s the
    breaking-up of the icebound stream of Time. But at last all
    these fancies yielded to that one portentous something in
    the picture’s midst. THAT once found out, and all the rest
    were plain. But stop; does it not bear a faint resemblance
    to a gigantic fish? even the great leviathan himself?
    In fact, the artist’s design seemed this: a final theory of
    my own, partly based upon the aggregated opinions of
    many aged persons with whom I conversed upon the
    subject. The picture represents a Cape-Horner in a great
    hurricane; the half-foundered ship weltering there with its
    three dismantled masts alone visible; and an exasperated
    whale, purposing to spring clean over the craft, is in the
    Moby Dick
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    enormous act of impaling himself upon the three mastheads.

    The opposite wall of this entry was hung all over with a
    heathenish array of monstrous clubs and spears. Some were
    thickly set with glittering teeth resembling ivory saws;
    others were tufted with knots of human hair; and one was
    sickle-shaped, with a vast handle sweeping round like the
    segment made in the new-mown grass by a long-armed
    mower. You shuddered as you gazed, and wondered what
    monstrous cannibal and savage could ever have gone a
    death-harvesting with such a hacking, horrifying
    implement. Mixed with these were rusty old whaling
    lances and harpoons all broken and deformed. Some were
    storied weapons. With this once long lance, now wildly
    elbowed, fifty years ago did Nathan Swain kill fifteen
    whales between a sunrise and a sunset. And that
    harpoon—so like a corkscrew now—was flung in Javan
    seas, and run away with by a whale, years afterwards slain
    off the Cape of Blanco. The original iron entered nigh the
    tail, and, like a restless needle sojourning in the body of a
    man, travelled full forty feet, and at last was found
    imbedded in the hump.
    Crossing this dusky entry, and on through yon lowarched
    way—cut through what in old times must have
    Moby Dick
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    been a great central chimney with fireplaces all round—
    you enter the public room. A still duskier place is this,
    with such low ponderous beams above, and such old
    wrinkled planks beneath, that you would almost fancy you
    trod some old craft’s cockpits, especially of such a howling
    night, when this corner-anchored old ark rocked so
    furiously. On one side stood a long, low, shelf-like table
    covered with cracked glass cases, filled with dusty rarities
    gathered from this wide world’s remotest nooks.
    Projecting from the further angle of the room stands a
    dark-looking den—the bar—a rude attempt at a right
    whale’s head. Be that how it may, there stands the vast
    arched bone of the whale’s jaw, so wide, a coach might
    almost drive beneath it. Within are shabby shelves, ranged
    round with old decanters, bottles, flasks; and in those jaws
    of swift destruction, like another cursed Jonah (by which
    name indeed they called him), bustles a little withered old
    man, who, for their money, dearly sells the sailors
    deliriums and death.
    Abominable are the tumblers into which he pours his
    poison. Though true cylinders without—within, the
    villanous green goggling glasses deceitfully tapered
    downwards to a cheating bottom. Parallel meridians rudely
    pecked into the glass, surround these footpads’ goblets. Fill
    Moby Dick
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    to THIS mark, and your charge is but a penny; to THIS a
    penny more; and so on to the full glass—the Cape Horn
    measure, which you may gulp down for a shilling.
    Upon entering the place I found a number of young
    seamen gathered about a table, examining by a dim light
    divers specimens of SKRIMSHANDER. I sought the
    landlord, and telling him I desired to be accommodated
    with a room, received for answer that his house was full—
    not a bed unoccupied. ‘But avast,’ he added, tapping his
    forehead, ‘you haint no objections to sharing a
    harpooneer’s blanket, have ye? I s’pose you are goin’ awhalin’,
    so you’d better get used to that sort of thing.’
    I told him that I never liked to sleep two in a bed; that
    if I should ever do so, it would depend upon who the
    harpooneer might be, and that if he (the landlord) really
    had no other place for me, and the harpooneer was not
    decidedly objectionable, why rather than wander further
    about a strange town on so bitter a night, I would put up
    with the half of any decent man’s blanket.
    ‘I thought so. All right; take a seat. Supper?—you want
    supper? Supper’ll be ready directly.’
    I sat down on an old wooden settle, carved all over like
    a bench on the Battery. At one end a ruminating tar was
    still further adorning it with his jack-knife, stooping over
    Moby Dick
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    and diligently working away at the space between his legs.
    He was trying his hand at a ship under full sail, but he
    didn’t make much headway, I thought.
    At last some four or five of us were summoned to our
    meal in an adjoining room. It was cold as Iceland—no fire
    at all—the landlord said he couldn’t afford it. Nothing but
    two dismal tallow candles, each in a winding sheet. We
    were fain to button up our monkey jackets, and hold to
    our lips cups of scalding tea with our half frozen fingers.
    But the fare was of the most substantial kind—not only
    meat and potatoes, but dumplings; good heavens!
    dumplings for supper! One young fellow in a green box
    coat, addressed himself to these dumplings in a most
    direful manner.
    ‘My boy,’ said the landlord, ‘you’ll have the nightmare
    to a dead sartainty.’
    ‘Landlord,’ I whispered, ‘that aint the harpooneer is it?’
    ‘Oh, no,’ said he, looking a sort of diabolically funny,
    ‘the harpooneer is a dark complexioned chap. He never
    eats dumplings, he don’t—he eats nothing but steaks, and
    he likes ‘em rare.’
    ‘The devil he does,’ says I. ‘Where is that harpooneer?
    Is he here?’
    ‘He’ll be here afore long,’ was the answer.
    Moby Dick
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    I could not help it, but I began to feel suspicious of this
    ‘dark complexioned’ harpooneer. At any rate, I made up
    my mind that if it so turned out that we should sleep
    together, he must undress and get into bed before I did.
    Supper over, the company went back to the bar-room,
    when, knowing not what else to do with myself, I
    resolved to spend the rest of the evening as a looker on.
    Presently a rioting noise was heard without. Starting
    up, the landlord cried, ‘That’s the Grampus’s crew. I seed
    her reported in the offing this morning; a three years’
    voyage, and a full ship. Hurrah, boys; now we’ll have the
    latest news from the Feegees.’
    A tramping of sea boots was heard in the entry; the
    door was flung open, and in rolled a wild set of mariners
    enough. Enveloped in their shaggy watch coats, and with
    their heads muffled in woollen comforters, all bedarned
    and ragged, and their beards stiff with icicles, they seemed
    an eruption of bears from Labrador. They had just landed
    from their boat, and this was the first house they entered.
    No wonder, then, that they made a straight wake for the
    whale’s mouth—the bar—when the wrinkled little old
    Jonah, there officiating, soon poured them out brimmers
    all round. One complained of a bad cold in his head, upon
    which Jonah mixed him a pitch-like potion of gin and
    Moby Dick
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    molasses, which he swore was a sovereign cure for all colds
    and catarrhs whatsoever, never mind of how long
    standing, or whether caught off the coast of Labrador, or
    on the weather side of an ice-island.
    The liquor soon mounted into their heads, as it
    generally does even with the arrantest topers newly landed
    from sea, and they began capering about most
    obstreperously.
    I observed, however, that one of them held somewhat
    aloof, and though he seemed desirous not to spoil the
    hilarity of his shipmates by his own sober face, yet upon
    the whole he refrained from making as much noise as the
    rest. This man interested me at once; and since the seagods
    had ordained that he should soon become my
    shipmate (though but a sleeping-partner one, so far as this
    narrative is concerned), I will here venture upon a little
    description of him. He stood full six feet in height, with
    noble shoulders, and a chest like a coffer-dam. I have
    seldom seen such brawn in a man. His face was deeply
    brown and burnt, making his white teeth dazzling by the
    contrast; while in the deep shadows of his eyes floated
    some reminiscences that did not seem to give him much
    joy. His voice at once announced that he was a
    Southerner, and from his fine stature, I thought he must
    Moby Dick
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    be one of those tall mountaineers from the Alleghanian
    Ridge in Virginia. When the revelry of his companions
    had mounted to its height, this man slipped away
    unobserved, and I saw no more of him till he became my
    comrade on the sea. In a few minutes, however, he was
    missed by his shipmates, and being, it seems, for some
    reason a huge favourite with them, they raised a cry of
    ‘Bulkington! Bulkington! where’s Bulkington?’ and darted
    out of the house in pursuit of him.
    It was now about nine o’clock, and the room seeming
    almost supernaturally quiet after these orgies, I began to
    congratulate myself upon a little plan that had occurred to
    me just previous to the entrance of the seamen.
    No man prefers to sleep two in a bed. In fact, you
    would a good deal rather not sleep with your own
    brother. I don’t know how it is, but people like to be
    private when they are sleeping. And when it comes to
    sleeping with an unknown stranger, in a strange inn, in a
    strange town, and that stranger a harpooneer, then your
    objections indefinitely multiply. Nor was there any earthly
    reason why I as a sailor should sleep two in a bed, more
    than anybody else; for sailors no more sleep two in a bed
    at sea, than bachelor Kings do ashore. To be sure they all
    sleep together in one apartment, but you have your own
    Moby Dick
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    hammock, and cover yourself with your own blanket, and
    sleep in your own skin.
    The more I pondered over this harpooneer, the more I
    abominated the thought of sleeping with him. It was fair
    to presume that being a harpooneer, his linen or woollen,
    as the case might be, would not be of the tidiest, certainly
    none of the finest. I began to twitch all over. Besides, it
    was getting late, and my decent harpooneer ought to be
    home and going bedwards. Suppose now, he should
    tumble in upon me at midnight—how could I tell from
    what vile hole he had been coming?
    ‘Landlord! I’ve changed my mind about that
    harpooneer.—I shan’t sleep with him. I’ll try the bench
    here.’
    ‘Just as you please; I’m sorry I cant spare ye a tablecloth
    for a mattress, and it’s a plaguy rough board here’—feeling
    of the knots and notches. ‘But wait a bit, Skrimshander;
    I’ve got a carpenter’s plane there in the bar—wait, I say,
    and I’ll make ye snug enough.’ So saying he procured the
    plane; and with his old silk handkerchief first dusting the
    bench, vigorously set to planing away at my bed, the
    while grinning like an ape. The shavings flew right and
    left; till at last the plane-iron came bump against an
    indestructible knot. The landlord was near spraining his
    Moby Dick
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    wrist, and I told him for heaven’s sake to quit—the bed
    was soft enough to suit me, and I did not know how all
    the planing in the world could make eider down of a pine
    plank. So gathering up the shavings with another grin, and
    throwing them into the great stove in the middle of the
    room, he went about his business, and left me in a brown
    study.
    I now took the measure of the bench, and found that it
    was a foot too short; but that could be mended with a
    chair. But it was a foot too narrow, and the other bench in
    the room was about four inches higher than the planed
    one—so there was no yoking them. I then placed the first
    bench lengthwise along the only clear space against the
    wall, leaving a little interval between, for my back to settle
    down in. But I soon found that there came such a draught
    of cold air over me from under the sill of the window,
    that this plan would never do at all, especially as another
    current from the rickety door met the one from the
    window, and both together formed a series of small
    whirlwinds in the immediate vicinity of the spot where I
    had thought to spend the night.
    The devil fetch that harpooneer, thought I, but stop,
    couldn’t I steal a march on him—bolt his door inside, and
    jump into his bed, not to be wakened by the most violent
    Moby Dick
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    knockings? It seemed no bad idea; but upon second
    thoughts I dismissed it. For who could tell but what the
    next morning, so soon as I popped out of the room, the
    harpooneer might be standing in the entry, all ready to
    knock me down!
    Still, looking round me again, and seeing no possible
    chance of spending a sufferable night unless in some other
    person’s bed, I began to think that after all I might be
    cherishing unwarrantable prejudices against this unknown
    harpooneer. Thinks I, I’ll wait awhile; he must be
    dropping in before long. I’ll have a good look at him then,
    and perhaps we may become jolly good bedfellows after
    all—there’s no telling.
    But though the other boarders kept coming in by ones,
    twos, and threes, and going to bed, yet no sign of my
    harpooneer.
    ‘Landlord! said I, ‘what sort of a chap is he—does he
    always keep such late hours?’ It was now hard upon
    twelve o’clock.
    The landlord chuckled again with his lean chuckle, and
    seemed to be mightily tickled at something beyond my
    comprehension. ‘No,’ he answered, ‘generally he’s an
    early bird—airley to bed and airley to rise—yes, he’s the
    bird what catches the worm. But to-night he went out a
    Moby Dick
    51 of 1047
    peddling, you see, and I don’t see what on airth keeps him
    so late, unless, may be, he can’t sell his head.’
    ‘Can’t sell his head?—What sort of a bamboozingly
    story is this you are telling me?’ getting into a towering
    rage. ‘Do you pretend to say, landlord, that this
    harpooneer is actually engaged this blessed Saturday night,
    or rather Sunday morning, in peddling his head around
    this town?’
    ‘That’s precisely it,’ said the landlord, ‘and I told him
    he couldn’t sell it here, the market’s overstocked.’
    ‘With what?’ shouted I.
    ‘With heads to be sure; ain’t there too many heads in
    the world?’
    ‘I tell you what it is, landlord,’ said I quite calmly,
    ‘you’d better stop spinning that yarn to me—I’m not
    green.’
    ‘May be not,’ taking out a stick and whittling a
    toothpick, ‘but I rayther guess you’ll be done BROWN if
    that ere harpooneer hears you a slanderin’ his head.’
    ‘I’ll break it for him,’ said I, now flying into a passion
    again at this unaccountable farrago of the landlord’s.
    ‘It’s broke a’ready,’ said he.
    ‘Broke,’ said I—‘BROKE, do you mean?’
    Moby Dick
    52 of 1047
    ‘Sartain, and that’s the very reason he can’t sell it, I
    guess.’
    ‘Landlord,’ said I, going up to him as cool as Mt. Hecla
    in a snow-storm—‘landlord, stop whittling. You and I
    must understand one another, and that too without delay.
    I come to your house and want a bed; you tell me you can
    only give me half a one; that the other half belongs to a
    certain harpooneer. And about this harpooneer, whom I
    have not yet seen, you persist in telling me the most
    mystifying and exasperating stories tending to beget in me
    an uncomfortable feeling towards the man whom you
    design for my bedfellow—a sort of connexion, landlord,
    which is an intimate and confidential one in the highest
    degree. I now demand of you to speak out and tell me
    who and what this harpooneer is, and whether I shall be in
    all respects safe to spend the night with him. And in the
    first place, you will be so good as to unsay that story about
    selling his head, which if true I take to be good evidence
    that this harpooneer is stark mad, and I’ve no idea of
    sleeping with a madman; and you, sir, YOU I mean,
    landlord, YOU, sir, by trying to induce me to do so
    knowingly, would thereby render yourself liable to a
    criminal prosecution.’
    Moby Dick
    53 of 1047
    ‘Wall,’ said the landlord, fetching a long breath, ‘that’s a
    purty long sarmon for a chap that rips a little now and
    then. But be easy, be easy, this here harpooneer I have
    been tellin’ you of has just arrived from the south seas,
    where he bought up a lot of ‘balmed New Zealand heads
    (great curios, you know), and he’s sold all on ‘em but one,
    and that one he’s trying to sell to-night, cause tomorrow’s
    Sunday, and it would not do to be sellin’ human
    heads about the streets when folks is goin’ to churches. He
    wanted to, last Sunday, but I stopped him just as he was
    goin’ out of the door with four heads strung on a string,
    for all the airth like a string of inions.’
    This account cleared up the otherwise unaccountable
    mystery, and showed that the landlord, after all, had had
    no idea of fooling me—but at the same time what could I
    think of a harpooneer who stayed out of a Saturday night
    clean into the holy Sabbath, engaged in such a cannibal
    business as selling the heads of dead idolators?
    ‘Depend upon it, landlord, that harpooneer is a
    dangerous man.’
    ‘He pays reg’lar,’ was the rejoinder. ‘But come, it’s
    getting dreadful late, you had better be turning flukes—it’s
    a nice bed; Sal and me slept in that ere bed the night we
    were spliced. There’s plenty of room for two to kick
    Moby Dick
    54 of 1047
    about in that bed; it’s an almighty big bed that. Why, afore
    we give it up, Sal used to put our Sam and little Johnny in
    the foot of it. But I got a dreaming and sprawling about
    one night, and somehow, Sam got pitched on the floor,
    and came near breaking his arm. Arter that, Sal said it
    wouldn’t do. Come along here, I’ll give ye a glim in a
    jiffy;’ and so saying he lighted a candle and held it towards
    me, offering to lead the way. But I stood irresolute; when
    looking at a clock in the corner, he exclaimed ‘I vum it’s
    Sunday—you won’t see that harpooneer to-night; he’s
    come to anchor somewhere—come along then; DO
    come; WON’T ye come?’
    I considered the matter a moment, and then up stairs
    we went, and I was ushered into a small room, cold as a
    clam, and furnished, sure enough, with a prodigious bed,
    almost big enough indeed for any four harpooneers to
    sleep abreast.
    ‘There,’ said the landlord, placing the candle on a crazy
    old sea chest that did double duty as a wash-stand and
    centre table; ‘there, make yourself comfortable now, and
    good night to ye.’ I turned round from eyeing the bed,
    but he had disappeared.
    Folding back the counterpane, I stooped over the bed.
    Though none of the most elegant, it yet stood the scrutiny
    Moby Dick
    55 of 1047
    tolerably well. I then glanced round the room; and besides
    the bedstead and centre table, could see no other furniture
    belonging to the place, but a rude shelf, the four walls, and
    a papered fireboard representing a man striking a whale.
    Of things not properly belonging to the room, there was a
    hammock lashed up, and thrown upon the floor in one
    corner; also a large seaman’s bag, containing the
    harpooneer’s wardrobe, no doubt in lieu of a land trunk.
    Likewise, there was a parcel of outlandish bone fish hooks
    on the shelf over the fire-place, and a tall harpoon standing
    at the head of the bed.
    But what is this on the chest? I took it up, and held it
    close to the light, and felt it, and smelt it, and tried every
    way possible to arrive at some satisfactory conclusion
    concerning it. I can compare it to nothing but a large door
    mat, ornamented at the edges with little tinkling tags
    something like the stained porcupine quills round an
    Indian moccasin. There was a hole or slit in the middle of
    this mat, as you see the same in South American ponchos.
    But could it be possible that any sober harpooneer would
    get into a door mat, and parade the streets of any Christian
    town in that sort of guise? I put it on, to try it, and it
    weighed me down like a hamper, being uncommonly
    shaggy and thick, and I thought a little damp, as though
    Moby Dick
    56 of 1047
    this mysterious harpooneer had been wearing it of a rainy
    day.

  • #15
    Fennifer wrote:

    But you didn't write it so don't it count none, do it now?

    shhhh

  • #16
    Dude you didn't write this
  • #17

       *In a whisper* Why?

  • #18
    I don't think you ever wrote a 100 page novel infact you couldn't even write a 2 page "novel"
  • #19
    Mark658371 wrote:
    Dude you didn't write this

    you don't even know what book this is?

    sad.

  • #20

       I wrote a five page novel once

               I call it: "Why do the elephants dance that way"

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