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208 pages, Paperback
First published May 7, 2019
I discovered in nature the same appeal I found in books. Both were engrossing, filled with the richness of particularities and yet mysteriously universal. Both were the stuff of perspective.
For people like me who measure their land in square yards, not acres, who have lost the rhythm of harvest, the surge and drain of tides threads the day, gives the place a kind of meter, as in poetry. The sea is Conrad's accomplice of human restlessness. Its briny surf and shifting sand correspond to a memory as deep as any we possess. Solid as we seem, we are liquid beings, three-quarters water like the planet, and composed of motion down to the agitated atoms in our cells. Perhaps that is why we like to sleep where the thunder-suck of waves fill the night.
Humans, it has been said, lie midway between the sun and the atom, in terms of both mass and diameter. Narrow is the world with whose dimensions our lives, our limbs, our senses are in tune. So much that matters is invisible by the yardstick of human life. How to shatter scale-bound thinking, see more deeply, widely? Writers have defamiliarized the world in this way, made us see our surroundings in a strange new light. Think of swimming in a sea of tears, rolling with a worm in a giant peach. Think of Blake's world in a grain of sand, eternity in an hour. There is a deep hunch here, more than meets the eye.
In some way all creatures bear traces of their past; ghost crabs their gills, whales their vestigial limbs, humans our liquid cells, the saltwater running in our veins, our feeling for the sea. “Why upon your first voyage as a passenger,” wrote Melville, “did you yourself feel such a mystical vibration when first told that you and your ship were out of sight of land?”