{"product_id":"the-passages-of-hm-isbn-9780307386199","title":"The Passages of H.M.","description":"With the same masterly touch that made \u003ci\u003eThe Last Station\u003c\/i\u003e so powerful, Jay Parini penetrates the mind and soul of another literary titan.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThrough the eyes of his long-suffering wife, Lizzie, we are introduced to an aging, angry, and drunken Herman Melville. He is decades past his flourishing career as a writer of bestselling tales of seagoing adventures. His epic but ungainly \u003ci\u003eMoby-Dick\u003c\/i\u003e was meant to make him immortal, but critics scoffed and readers fled. He spends his days trudging the docks of New York as a customs inspector and contemplating his malign literary fate. But within him is stirring, perhaps, one great work yet. . . . In a narrative that shifts seamlessly between Lizzie’s personal account and evocative snapshots of Melville’s crowded life, Parini manages to humanize a giant of letters, while illuminating the source of his matchless creativity.“A thoughtful re-imagining of the man who remains America’s Milton.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Gripping. . . . Part literary biography, part novel, \u003ci\u003eThe Passages of H.M.\u003c\/i\u003e turns the author’s life into an adventure of its own.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Parini gives flesh and soul to a great author who gained immortality by resolving never to be ordinary. . . . [His] Melville is a writer whose heart will not be restrained.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Seattle Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Deeply absorbing. . . . A literary novel in every sense of the word. . . . It adds strongly to Melville’s posthumous presence.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“One of the most interesting works of fiction about a writer since \u003ci\u003eThe Last Station\u003c\/i\u003e, Parini’s novel about Tolstoy.”\u003cbr\u003e—Alan Cheuse, \u003ci\u003eSan Francisco Chronicle\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“An admirable attempt to map not only the wild sojourns but also the turbulent mind of his subject. The fabled events of Melville’s life are . . . ecstatically depicted in Parini’s adoring re-creation.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eBoston Globe\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Fearless. . . . Just as Parini’s previous novels focused on their doomed subjects in moments of flight, \u003ci\u003eThe Passages of H. M.\u003c\/i\u003e is concerned with Melville’s obsessive travels. He hones in on Melville’s oceanic life, and the dynamic interplay of his many kinds of voyages.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe New Republic\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Splendid. . . . This novel shimmers. It lures us into strange places of the world and human psyche.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eProvidence Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“A fascinating portrait of an artist who was unappreciated in his lifetime, but is revered now that he’s gone.”\u003cbr\u003e—Associated Press\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Who would have thought it would have taken until now, the twenty-first century, to get a clear view of America’s most mysterious novelist, Herman Melville? We have it now, through the magic of Jay Parini’s superior novel, \u003ci\u003eThe Passages of H.M\u003c\/i\u003e.”\u003cbr\u003e—Gore Vidal\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Imaginative, diligent, and meticulous. Parini sensitively, insightfully presents a complex life.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBuffalo News\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Even if you’ve read none of Melville, or remember only echoes from readings long ago, the narrative is complete, the literary facts clear enough to sustain a powerful drama.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Plain Dealer\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“What is most rewarding about this richly detailed book is Parini’s ability to frame a story of heroic failure with the knowledge that its subject will one day triumph. . . . He is America’s foremost biographical novelist.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Sunday Times \u003c\/i\u003e(London)\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Parini’s eminently readable narrative convincingly fills in hitherto dark places. . . . It is very well done.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eFinancial Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“A labor of love and inspiration.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKansas City Star\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“As he did in \u003ci\u003eThe Last Station\u003c\/i\u003e, Parini once again penetrates into the mind of a great writer.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Daily Beast\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Parini’s novel is a bravura and often engrossing attempt to blend the disparate strands of Melville’s art and life in two perspectives.”\u003cbr\u003e—Philip Hoare, \u003ci\u003eThe Guardian \u003c\/i\u003e(London)\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Catching fire the closer he comes to Melville’s molten core, Parini’s bold and mesmerizing novel ultimately deepens the mystery of Melville’s incandescent genius.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“A splendidly entertaining, beautifully written, and constantly surprising novel about one of the most complex and talented writers this country has produced.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBurlington Free Press\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“[Parini] has gone some way to plumbing the depths of this vexing and brilliant man’s heart and soul.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Irish Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eJay Parini \u003c\/b\u003eis a poet, biographer, and critic who has published seven novels, most notably \u003ci\u003eThe Last Station\u003c\/i\u003e, which was made into an Academy Award-nominated film in 2009 and translated into over twenty-five languages. He is the D. E. Axinn Professor of English and Creative Writing at Middlebury College, and the author of \u003ci\u003ePromised Land: Thirteen Books that Changed America\u003c\/i\u003e.1.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI had become, in middle age in the midst of marriage to Herman Melville, a captive. And I wanted my freedom.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut  it's the rare bride who says \"I do\" and doesn't. I did. Even at the  worst of times, I believed in the power of love--a bit of naïveté,  perhaps. It carried me, however. To the end, it carried me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eH.M.  (as we called him) was, to put it kindly, a volatile man, with  improbable highs and lows. One had to avoid him at all cost in the  valley of his shadows, where darkness was his name. Yet part of my faith  was to know he would climb, looking out at times from glittering  heights. That once in a while I shared his view was my consolation over  the days--months, even years--when I bided my time, unsure I would make  it. Or that he would.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWord of my misery spread to my family in  Boston, and urgent letters from my brothers arrived, one of them from  Lemuel, who understood my plight. \"You must act, Lizzie,\" he said.  \"Herman is a madman, plain and simple. Have I not said as much before?  You didn't listen to me!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe other was from Samuel, who failed  to register the gravity of my situation. \"One can never be sure about  the consequences of one's actions in life,\" he wrote in his lawyerly  way. \"In other words, act with caution, dear sister. Tread carefully!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTread, tread, tread . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI had been treading long enough.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTwo  decades had passed since August 4, 1847, when I stood there as a bride  in my white gown and feathery veil of tulle in the sunlit living room of  our house on Mount Vernon Street among a crowd of well-wishing  relatives and close friends. I was almost drunk with joy, believing I  had found my very own Charles Dickens--a robust and blossoming man of  letters, who would lift us to fame and good fortune.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe pocket  doors had been opened between the front parlors, and there were flowers  everywhere in tall Oriental vases: stephanotis, gardenia, lilies, and  cascades of yellow, pink, and red roses from the back garden--my  stepmother's brilliant handiwork. Through open windows I could hear the  clatter of hooves on the cobbles outside.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHerman stood before me  in a handsome blue suit (purchased with a loan from his brother Allan  and made to measure by one of the finest tailors in Manhattan). Young  Thomas, his teenaged brother, looked suddenly mature, almost a man,  having grown a beard for the occasion--if the raspy shadow on his chin  could be described as such. I was dreaming, in a whirl; but I noticed  the rustling dresses of the women, the rows of polished boots. The air  was humid, almost unbearably so, and yet the porcine Reverend Mr. Young  stood before us in full canonicals, sweating indiscriminately, eliciting  the solemn words: \"I do, I do.\" Afterward, we signed our names boldly  in the gilt-edged Bible that Aunt Lucy had provided, her gift for the  wedding, with our initials engraved on the leather covers: H.M. and  E.S.M.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI had become, at a stroke, Elizabeth Shaw Melville.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You  have taken a massive step, my dear,\" said his mother, whispering in my  ear. \"I will expect you to take good care of him. He deserves that  much.\" Her round red face was impassive, and she stared at me through  the narrow slits of her eyes like a sea turtle. I saw that she hated me,  and did not respond. One should not respond in these situations.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis  marriage was \"an unlikely match,\" as my stepmother put in less than  delicately a few weeks before the ceremony. \"He has no stable  profession,\" she said, \"and there is a touch of insanity among the  Melvilles. You need only ask your father. He will tell you the truth if  you insist.\" As I knew, my father had once nearly married Allan's  sister, Nancy. In a strange way I considered Herman more of a brother  than a husband. To marry him seemed only to extend an arc already begun  before my birth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI did ask my father about this fabled \"touch of  insanity,\" but he refused to say anything about the madness that had  gripped Herman's unfortunate father at the end, reducing the poor man to  raging incoherence while tenderhearted Herman, an innocent boy of  twelve, stood to one side, helpless and defeated. I think Herman spent  the whole of his life trying to comfort that child, to convince him that  all would be well.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAllan Melvill (the \"e\" was added later, as it  seemed more familiar to American eyes) left his family destitute, thus  forcing them upon the frowning mercy of Maria's wealthy relatives in  Albany. (My father, always loyal to old friends, also supplied a good  deal of money in the form of loans he knew would never be repaid.) \"It  was a failure of nerve in Allan, and nothing more,\" my father mused,  lighting his pipe with exaggerated slowness behind the burl desk in his  study, shifting uneasily in a cracked red leather chair that had  belonged to his father. The scales of justice--fitting for a  judge--stood on the fireplace mantel behind him, a reminder of the  balancing acts he performed daily as chief justice of the Massachusetts  Supreme Court.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Allan glanced at his noble ancestry, then shrank  in fear,\" my father said, fingering his long white locks, which touched  the shoulders of his jacket. His belly ballooned from his starched  shirt, nearly popping the buttons. \"Greatness was not in the cards, not  for him, alas,\" he continued. \"I felt sorry for the boys, especially  young Herman, who seemed quite lost.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy dear and wonderfully  supportive father died in the spring of 1861, leaving me adrift. My  family could do nothing for me. I was a Melville--hardly a Shaw at  all--trapped in this sad house in Manhattan. Somehow I had to get away  from Herman. I didn't really want to leave him, but there seemed no  choice. Sometimes we think by feeling. We go where we must, as the path  turns, taking us willy-nilly where it will.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnyone who actually  read his novels--Mardi or Moby-Dick or that repulsive Pierre--could  guess at the truth, that my husband was not balanced. He walked the  edges of life, peering into the abyss, taking his readers with him. He  sought everything or nothing, quarreling with God, accusing Him of  indifference, even hatred of the human race. This instability disfigured  his novels and stories, which one critic called \"the unhappy products  of an overheated imagination.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eReaders (myself included) much  preferred his first books, Typee and Omoo--and for good reason. One  could peruse them without strain, although their morality remained in  question. (My husband never cared what anyone thought of him--especially  a critic! That would have been pandering, and H.M. did not pander.)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHaving  resettled unhappily in New York in the fall of 1863, Herman grew  restive. He realized, I think, that a mere change of scenery could not  solve his problems or heal old wounds. Now fits of temper interrupted  his more usual silence, especially at meals, when he would shout at me  and the children. (Nothing we did seemed to please or comfort him.)  After dinner he would sulk in the parlor, consuming large quantities of  whiskey while laboring over books of philosophy composed by wordy  Germans with names one could neither spell nor pronounce. \"My eyes, my  poor eyes,\" he complained, as darkness fell and the lamps flickered. \"I  shall be blind soon, and you will have to read to me.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe was not  modest and often compared himself to the English poet John Milton, who  went blind in old age, relying on his wife to read to him, to write down  his thunderous interminable lines.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I will never read to you,\" I told him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You hate my work,\" he said. \"You hate whatever I do.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHow  could he say such a hurtful thing? Had I not copied and recopied  several of his novels while sitting in the cold north parlor at  Arrowhead, our farmhouse in the Berkshires, shuddering because he failed  to cut and stack enough logs for the fire? Had I not recited countless  passages by the light of many candles, reading them aloud in the wee  hours of night, making little and large alterations at his request? His  handwriting revealed the waywardness of his character, its uncertainty  and awkwardness. His inconsistent spelling suggested an inconsistency in  his soul. I told him as much one night, sending him into one of those  rages where he shattered glasses against the wall and frightened Maria,  his mother, and his obsequious sisters. Our children cowered upstairs,  terrified by their father's ill temper.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You must not arouse him so, my dear,\" said Maria, repeatedly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Oh, do you think so?\" I would say.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I do indeed, and you should mend your ways. This will never do. Not for me, not for my son.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMaria  had been a not-so-silent partner in this marriage from the beginning, a  constant companion, presiding over meals, knitting in the parlor  wherever we lived, snoring in the bedroom next door, eavesdropping,  offering \"gentle\" suggestions, defending her son. She glowered at me, as  if I could never do the appropriate wifely thing to make her precious  Herman comfortable, happy, proud, self-confident, and successful. I  could never, in her view, get it right. \"My son requires a delicacy of  approach,\" she said one day, in a dark hallway at Arrowhead after I had  scolded him about leaving open the barn door, prompting our elderly  horse, Waldo, to wander off by himself down Lenox Road.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"He is not so fragile as you think,\" I explained.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe  glared at me as though I were a shrew, then walked away in her usual  huff. One could hear doors slamming throughout the echo chamber of that  icy house.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI should have listened to Lemuel, who understood from  the outset that Herman Melville would make a poor match. \"Johnny  Harrison is the one for you, Lizzie,\" he told me. Johnny was Lemuel's  best friend, a Harvard man, and a lawyer in Boston. He was nicely  dressed, polite, almost decorous in manner.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut I did not like decorous and polite men, not in those days. I had lived my life among the decorous and polite.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor  better or worse, I found H.M. appealing, even irresistible. I had heard  of his exploits and adventures from his older sister, Helen, a dear  friend. He had sailed around the globe, gone whaling, lived among  cannibals in the South Seas, and walked the streets of Liverpool and  London. In New York City, he dined frequently in the best literary  company. He had huge ambitions for himself, although his temper made his  life (as well as ours) difficult, frustrating and offending those who  might otherwise have championed his cause.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI didn't mind the  short temper, not at first. I certainly admired the alertness in his  eyes, their penetration--he could look through a wall of stone. I also  liked his maturity. He was twenty-eight, and he understood the ways of  the world. I believed I could tame the beast that lay within his breast,  and to a certain extent I did. But it was intricate work, the work of a  lifetime.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe had burst into our house one evening after dinner,  unannounced, fresh from his adventures at sea. Full of improbable tales,  he sat with my father in his study, where they drank sour mash and  debated the great issues of the day. Although Herman had no formal  education, having been forced to leave school early, he managed to work  his way steadily through eons of Greek and Roman history, modern English  and American literature, as well as some of the great European  philosophers. He later borrowed thick volumes bound in buckram from my  father's library, which he proceeded to underline as if they were his  own!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"This young man has an inquisitive mind,\" my father told me, purring with approval. \"You needn't worry about him.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut  I did nothing but worry for twenty years, and then the situation became  impossible for me, or so it seemed. I could not imagine myself living  for another two or more decades in the House of Melville. Ways of escape  crowded my thoughts.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEach evening he came home from his work as  inspector at the New York Custom House covered in grime, his white  collar soiled, hands filthy. He carried the smell of the city about him,  its reek and plunder, the red dust. He made very little money--the  salary was an insult to a man of his station--but that wasn't the  problem. The money didn't matter as much as he thought it did--not since  we had left the Berkshires and moved back to Manhattan. I had a sizable  legacy now from an aunt in New Hampshire, and my father had advanced us  plenty of funds over the years, paying off old debts that Herman had  incurred behind my back. Father's death had made our economic lives more  than a little easier.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut the fluctuating moods of H.M. troubled  me. Gloom surrounded him for weeks and months, driving him beyond what  was tolerable. I could feel despair coming upon him as we lay in bed, a  storm blowing up in his body. Yet he was a survivor, a man who clung to  his daily habits as if for dear life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn New York, he followed a  routine that, perhaps, saved him from mental shipwreck. He rose at dawn,  reading ponderously at his desk or taking notes, drinking coffee in the  front parlor, with hot bacon rolls followed by a fat cigar. He left  home promptly at eight, taking with him his badge of office, Number 75.  He often jumped a horse car down Broadway, walking slowly westward to  the Custom House office at 207 West Street, off Gansevoort--a street  named for his illustrious maternal grandfather. After doing paperwork  for an hour or two, he set off on his rounds--the part of the job he  adored.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGod knows where he went in the course of a day. An  acquaintance of mine had seen him as far north as Central Park, a  landlocked oasis where he would have found no ships to inspect. He often  lingered in Battery Park to watch the vessels coming and going. Mainly  he trudged along the Hudson, calling on foreign vessels, checking  cargoes, absorbing tales of the sea. I often imagined him sitting on a  bench, his face to the sky, listening to voices that called from the  past, from the wharves themselves, from black openings between red-brick  buildings that overhung the docks and the dark passages of his mind. As  he said almost nothing about his work, I had to guess what it was like  for him, that he strolled the wharves obsessively, visiting ships,  checking lists of imported goods. In the late afternoon, he sat alone in  one tavern or another and listened intently to stories of sailors long  at sea. I dare say, he wished he could, like them, begin another  passage. He was always hoping for another passage.","brand":"Anchor","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303966068965,"sku":"NP9780307386199","price":16.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780307386199.jpg?v=1767740879","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-passages-of-hm-isbn-9780307386199","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}