widsith

       What I was seeking was human society -- any society except that of
    Golias', that is -- but when I did find a footprint in a patch of moist
    sand, it scared me.  The print was a huge one, much too big to be made
    by the man I was sulkily dodging.  If the foot had been shod, I would
    not have been alarmed; but it wasn't.

Making their way to a new island they separate and each engage in a bit of exploration, yielding some food and water and a bare footprint that gives Silverlock a bit of a turn. Normally signs of a bare foot on a sandy island beach wouldn't be cause for alarm, especially for Silverlock given that his last encounter with a properly shod island-dweller left him a hog.

Leading with a little caution this time proves entirely appropriate, in that this is clearly Robinson Crusoe's island. Crusoe's story has a major turning point shortly after the scene where, noticing a bare human footprint after years of solitude, essentially he has the same response as Silverlock.

Myths and legends about travel in remote lands often feature cannibals. Anthropophagi and the like have been a hazard to fictional sea-farers for a long time -- thousands of years lie between Odyseus' Laestrygonian adventure and Othello's brief account. The mere fact that Silverlock has stumbled upon a cannibal bed-and-breakfast doesn't restrict us to any particular work of literature necessarily. Unique identification depends on the footprint scene and the ceremony they witnessed thereafter. Making off with a canoe is arguably at best a glancing reference.

"Don't take him too seriously. A lot of what he says is intended as humor."

Pronounced an 'American Classic', and often designated 'long-winded and boring', it can arguably be accurately described either way. Use in required English Lit classes has popularized the latter notion, but if the story is judged on its own merits instead of by the preferences of a teen audience, it fares a little better. Notwithstanding the apparent plot of a 'monster hunt', the story is more accurately described as a series of anecdotes about whaling practices and the life of whalers, interspersed with bits of dubious natural history. Connecting these various pieces is a plot of high tragedy, with narration in the voice of a Shakespearean fool. The 'folly' here takes the form of digressions into intentionally bizarre arguments, wordplay, and nonsensical reasoning, all done for humorous effect.

My hypothesis is this: that the spout is nothing but mist. And besides other reasons, to this conclusion I am impelled, by considerations touching the great inherent dignity and sublimity of the Sperm Whale; I account him no common, shallow being, inasmuch as it is an undisputed fact that he is never found on soundings, or near shores; all other whales sometimes are. He is both ponderous and profound. And I am convinced that from the heads of all ponderous profound beings, such as Plato, Pyrrho, the Devil, Jupiter, Dante, and so on, there always goes up a certain semi-visible steam, while in the act of thinking deep thoughts.

Unlike the 'comical buffoon' characters in Shakespearean comedies, but typical of the 'licensed fools' from the same works, Ishmael narrates his observations and odd opinions mostly in a light but considered tone. Slipping often into an oblique mockery, his 'satirical wit' (such as it is) is applied as liberally to himself as to others. Combining a mocking humor with off-the-cuff, eccentric observation is definitely characteristic of Shakespeare's fools, but this needn't have been an intentional connection on Melville's part. 'Observation' is inherent in any narration, and a degree of humor is a good choice to enliven long monologues, so a similarity to Shakespeare could be coincidental. Not so with Ahab, who seems to be drawn explicitly from Shakespearean tragedies rather than implicitly from comedies.

But 'tis enough. He tasks me; he heaps me; I see in him outrageous strength, with an inscrutable malice sinewing it. That inscrutible thing is chiefly what I hate; and be the white whale agent, or be the white whale principal, I will wreak that hate upon him.

That's as much rationalization as we get for Ahab's idée fixe, but then he wasn't meant to be rational, merely high-functioning. Regarded as cursed from birth, dire prophesies surround even his name, 'Ahab', which is a Biblical reference of the darker variety. As superstitious as any sailor, Ahab has sought out more optimistic oracles of his own, and a Parsee named Fedallah has given him some assurances he has come to rely upon.

"Drive, drive in your nails, oh ye waves! to their uttermost heads drive them in! ye but strike a thing without a lid; and no coffin and no hearse can be mine: -- and hemp alone can kill me! Ha! ha!"

Placing such confidence in a course of action based on predictions such as Fedallah's clearly calls to mind Macbeth, whose witches provided very specific but indirect pledges of safety. Unreliable as those proved to be, it's hard to join Ahab in his self-assurance based on the promise that he would see two hearses before he died, he himself would have neither hearse nor coffin, and only hemp could kill him.

Though Birnam wood come to Dunsinane,
And thou opposed, being of no woman born,
Yet I will try the last. Before my body
I throw my warlike shield. Lay on Macduff,
And damn'd be he that first cries, "Hold, enough!"

Not that that statement wasn't suitably stalwart and martial, but it might have come off a bit more bold if he hadn't tried to back out of the fight before making it. Contrasting with Macbeth's moment of doubt, Ahab stays bold and fully committed, or at least fatalistically obsessed, even as his own prophetic protection comes into doubt:

"Towards thee I roll, thou all-destroying but unconquering whale; to the last I grapple with thee; from hell's heart I stab at thee; for hate's sake I spit my last breath at thee."

Taken as harsh counterpoint to the commonplace exposition and amusing anecdotes comprising Ishmael's view of "the fishery", the Ahab plot contributes an ominous and sinister influence, with notes of operatic drama surfacing at long intervals. Undoubtedly some would say "too commonplace, not amusing enough, and at intervals much too long", but still...

"Aye, aye! and I'll chase him round Good Hope, and round the Horn, and round Norway Maelstrom, and round perditions flames before I give him up."

Melville also frequently has Ahab paraphrase "Wrath of Khan" for some reason.

  A monstrous whale was charging the craft, a froth of water, like the slaver
  of a mad dog, trailing from its partly open mouth.  It must have been the
  wan light which created the illusion, but the beast looked white.

Misanthropic albino whales are distinctive enough that in the scene above Moby Dick can hardly be mistaken, and given the relatively recent nature of the work, especially with the existing coverage in schools and cinema taken into account, general recognition from the readership would be expected. The immediate use of such a dramatic and familiar reference is probably meant to catch the reader's attention, and to announce the central conceit of the book as a world of interactive literary allusion (or at least startle the reader a little). From the standpoint of 'constructing a reading list' I find it a dubious selection, even daunting, recalling as I do a story with a fairly simple plot padded out to the size of a phone book with satirical lessons, exposition on whaling, ridiculous vignettes and a curious, eccentric style characteristic of either the time it was written or the work's author.

On the other hand, readers have praised it for its use of language and its approach to storytelling. There is thus room to hope that my original impressions were incorrect, and when judging literature the assessments made under the influence of critical study in high school English class are a poor test. Not to suggest that that's likely.

When Silverlock comes up in conversation it's usually in relation to the wealth of literary references it yields. Deriving every important character and passing incident from well known works of literature -- setting the story in a literal 'literary landscape' -- is precisely what led me to pick up the book originally.

Though this central conceit is entertaining, my inclination to return again and again to the "Commonwealth of Letters" stems not so much from the incidental references as from my appreciation for the travel-adventure of the framing story, and a traversal of a well-stocked library shelf has proven secondary to Silverlock's there-and-back-again journey in the tale that unfolds. This story is engaging and well told, offering a structure that supports a much wider range of milieus and events than would be permitted by logic or consistency or good sense in any ordinary tale.

Laudable as the story might be, as I pick up the book to read it again I notice two things that I previously overlooked: despite the fact that the various works referenced in Silverlock ('engaging and well told' in their own right) occupy a substantial amount of real estate on my bookshelves, reading them is mostly something I've only done once, despite having some of these volumes since junior high. Having already read them is the reason the premise of Silverlock appealed to me initially.

Outside of a Great Works book club, references from Silverlock comprise the most thorough yet eclectic aggregation of literature sourced from 'Western Civilization' that I can name. Deriving a reading list from characters and events encountered by the protagonist, ordered by the haphazard sequence in which he meets them as he swims/sails/walks/rides/rafts/flies through literary history, navigating by the three traditional methods, looks to be a large and ambitious enterprise, even if the casual references are dismissed from consideration and only the first person encounters are kept.

As a matter of form I can record the references here, choosing just one work or source for each encounter and defending it with an argument or citation or what have you.