From the mood of Defoe one
passes, by jerks and reversions, to the atmosphere of "The Ancient
Mariner" and of "Manfred."
When Conrad could not manage his story he laid it aside, sometimes
for twenty years, as with "The Rescue." But Melville was a wilder
soul, a greater man, and probably a greater artist, but a lesser
craftsman. He lost control of his book. He loaded his whaling
story with casks of natural history, deck loaded it with essays on
the moral nature of man, lashed to its sides dramatic dialogues on
the soul, built up a superstructure of symbolism and allegory,
until the tale foundered and went down, like the _Pequod_.
And then it emerged again a dream ship searching for a dream
whale, manned by fantastic and terrible dreams; and every now and
then, as dreams will, it takes on an appearance of reality more
vivid than anything in life, more real than anything in Conrad--
the meeting with the _Rachel_ and her captain seeking his
drowned son, the rising of Moby Dick with the dead Parsee bound to
his terrible flank, the grim dialogues of Ahab....
In this bursting of bounds, in these epic grandeurs in the midst
of confusion, and vivid realities mingled with untrammeled
speculation, lies the secret of Melville's purpose, and, by
contrast, the explanation of Conrad's modern effect beside him.
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