Hosted at Délaissé, starting tomorrow, with no time limit. I'm not sure if I'm in or not (the last time I joined a read-along I chickened out), but it's a great opportunity for those of us who have never read this classic.
Friday, 31 August 2012
Wednesday, 29 August 2012
Monday, 27 August 2012
A number of people, including my sister and the good people at Createspace, are probably beginning to feel I'll never publish this poetry book. Today I resubmitted it, for the third time. "It's the last time, I promise!"
Apart from page numbers, general formatting was pretty easy. Things got unpleasant when I had to deal with the finer aspects of formatting style. I'm happy to get free classic literature on my beloved Nook STR, and as long as there are no typos I could care less about format details. Alas, as most people don't feel the same way, I'm trying to abide by the majority of formatting rules...
Widows and Orphans
You can imagine the surprise when my mom pointed out something called Widows and Orphans. I must have met hundreds of these on the Nook; I am immune to them. And logically, to me widows and orphans are preferable, as opposed to pages that aren't nice and square-looking.
Nevertheless, not to appear illiterate/unaware, I eliminated all of them, except one widow that was hard to avoid and doesn't look very offensive. I dream of a day when square pages will become in vogue, and, indeed, if I publish a novel I may do just that. (The negative effects are definitely more noticeable in a poem, though.)
Hyphens and Hanging Indentations
Hyphens, hyphens, more hyphens.
Hanging Indentations are supposed to occur when a line(s) of a poem is too long. It goes to the next line and is slightly indented. For example, in Wordsworth's "Star-Gazers":
Then I went back later and thought...you know, as my mom also pointed out, some of these hanging indents only contain one word. And that does bug me, more than widows and orphans. So I changed that, too (except for one, in which it would have looked worse for there to be two words).
It's the last proof, really! I believe it this time. :)
Apart from page numbers, general formatting was pretty easy. Things got unpleasant when I had to deal with the finer aspects of formatting style. I'm happy to get free classic literature on my beloved Nook STR, and as long as there are no typos I could care less about format details. Alas, as most people don't feel the same way, I'm trying to abide by the majority of formatting rules...
Widows and Orphans
You can imagine the surprise when my mom pointed out something called Widows and Orphans. I must have met hundreds of these on the Nook; I am immune to them. And logically, to me widows and orphans are preferable, as opposed to pages that aren't nice and square-looking.
Nevertheless, not to appear illiterate/unaware, I eliminated all of them, except one widow that was hard to avoid and doesn't look very offensive. I dream of a day when square pages will become in vogue, and, indeed, if I publish a novel I may do just that. (The negative effects are definitely more noticeable in a poem, though.)
Hyphens and Hanging Indentations
Hyphens, hyphens, more hyphens.
Hanging Indentations are supposed to occur when a line(s) of a poem is too long. It goes to the next line and is slightly indented. For example, in Wordsworth's "Star-Gazers":
What crowd is this? what have we here! we mustI thought hanging indentations were an e-book error--I didn't know they were the rule (is that funny or sad?). So I added them.
not pass it by;
A Telescope upon its frame, and pointed to the sky:
Long is it as a Barber's Poll, or Mast of little Boat,
Some little Pleasure-Skiff, that doth on Thames's
waters float.
Then I went back later and thought...you know, as my mom also pointed out, some of these hanging indents only contain one word. And that does bug me, more than widows and orphans. So I changed that, too (except for one, in which it would have looked worse for there to be two words).
It's the last proof, really! I believe it this time. :)
Up until now, Aronnax and his friends have led a relatively quiet life on the Nautilus, deeply engrossed in scientific studies and the wonders of the underwater world. This incident comes as a bit of a shock, a reality check nobody wanted. Had the previous chapters been nothing but a "rip-roaring adventure", maybe this wouldn't have been such a big deal; however, as it is, the contrast makes it horrifying.
The key to a good sea-story epic is, pardon the pun, the "calm before the storm". The Old Man and the Sea (Hemingway) and Moby-Dick (Melville) display the same brooding calm, before anything exciting happens. What makes this technique (if it even be intentional) so appealing is its reality. Most of us could liken our lives to a sea voyage, a daily routine that hardly ever changes, yet when something happens, the effect it creates is almost surreal.
One more "storm": I'm three chapters into Part II, and Ned Land has just saved Nemo's life while Nemo was trying to protect a pearl fisher from a shark attack (the plot is really picking up). The stakes are higher in the Disney movie, and I find it interesting that movie!Ned's reaction is "Why did I do that?!", as opposed to book!Ned's "I owed it to you". Though I believe in his benevolence/heroism in both versions, it's hard to believe he would say what book!Ned said.
I should add that I'm really enjoying this translation. There are a number of anachronistic word choices (some of which are rather funny), but somehow it works well in this particular book...I'm not sure I'd want to read it any other way!
I'm also starting to remember a lot of scenes from when I read it before. Like the part where Aronnax freaks out at the idea of hunting sharks, and Ned and Conseil disappoint him by being ok with it. XD The hunting trip on the island was also pretty hilarious. This also led me to look up "coconut crab" on Wikipedia, which I do NOT recommend for the faint of courage.
Thursday, 23 August 2012
But I forgot. We're dealing with very bookish characters here. Professor Aronnax, a marine biology expert who jumped at the chance of hunting for a legendary, gigantic narwhal. Conseil, a self-motivated student whose favorite habit is to classify things constantly. The Nautilus provides the highlight of their studies--which is practically everything they live for.
Captain Nemo knew he didn't need to lock them up in a cell. Their lust for knowledge would be their own prison, and the harpooner Ned Land, who still retained a natural thirst for liberty, was outnumbered by two men with the gift of persuasion, rather than force. Conseil put it in plain words: he had no desire to go back to civilization. Professor Aronnax, faced with the first opportunity of escape (to the Indian subcontinent), declares evasively:
And this, after the drugging incident, which caused Aronnax to suspect Nemo of sinking a ship during their unconsciousness!"No, no, Ned. . .Let's ride it out, as you seafaring fellows say. The Nautilus is approaching populated areas. It's going back toward Europe, let it take us there. After we arrive in home waters, we can do as we see fit. Besides, I don't imagine Captain Nemo will let us go hunting on the coasts of Malabar or Coromandel as he did in the forests of New Guinea.""Well, sir, can't we manage without his permission?"I didn't answer the Canadian. I wanted no arguments. Deep down, I was determined to fully exploit the good fortune that had put me on board the Nautilus.
The question remains: ultimately, did Ned save their lives, or did Conseil and the professor save his? It is true that, had it not been for Aronnax and Conseil's presence, Nemo would probably have left Ned to die. On the other hand, had Ned given up on escape, the three (or two) of them would have spent the rest of their lives on the Nautilus and not in "the real world", where they belonged.
Movie!Ned puts it aptly: "I feel like a knife that's just stabbed a friend in the back." However great its scientific treasures, the Nautilus is just that: a prototype for submarine warfare (scarcely preceded by that used in the U.S. Civil War). Aronnax may genuinely believe what he learns on the Nautilus could be used for the greater good--Conseil and he might be willing to give their lives for it--but does it justify his ignoring Nemo's crimes?
Ned may not be a brilliant scholar, but what he lacks in academics he makes up for in common sense. Everyone needs a friend like him, especially those of us whose heads might easily get turned by our individual interests.
Tuesday, 21 August 2012
I'm now reading/re-reading the whole thing. I found a splendid Gutenberg translation by F. P. Walters, complete with a Units of Measure table and a first-rate introduction. If you know my reading habits, you know I am highly particular about translations and infamously distrustful of introductions. I can't tell you how many I have seen that are laden with spoilers and/or (worse yet) ideological agenda.
Here is a rare gem, an example of a Good Introduction, and why it is so (my words in bold):
"The deepest parts of the ocean are totally unknown to us," admits Professor Aronnax early in this novel. "What goes on in those distant depths? What creatures inhabit, or could inhabit, those regions twelve or fifteen miles beneath the surface of the water? It's almost beyond conjecture."
Opens with a quote: straightforward, down-to-earth, and catchy.
Jules Verne (1828–1905) published the French equivalents of these words in 1869, and little has changed since. 126 years later, a Time cover story on deep–sea exploration made much the same admission: "We know more about Mars than we know about the oceans." This reality begins to explain the dark power and otherworldly fascination of Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Seas.
Author's life span, original language, date of original publication, date of this translation's publication, connection to the present. Perfection.
Born in the French river town of Nantes, Verne had a lifelong passion for the sea. First as a Paris stockbroker, later as a celebrated author and yachtsman, he went on frequent voyages—to Britain, America, the Mediterranean. But the specific stimulus for this novel was an 1865 fan letter from a fellow writer, Madame George Sand. She praised Verne's two early novels Five Weeks in a Balloon (1863) and Journey to the Center of the Earth (1864), then added: "Soon I hope you'll take us into the ocean depths, your characters traveling in diving equipment perfected by your science and your imagination." Thus inspired, Verne created one of literature's great rebels, a freedom fighter who plunged beneath the waves to wage a unique form of guerilla warfare.
Succinct author biog, inspiration for novel (plus name-dropping for classic lit geeks), reference to other Verne novels, indirect introduction to Nemo.
Initially, Verne's narrative was influenced by the 1863 uprising of Poland against Tsarist Russia. The Poles were quashed with a violence that appalled not only Verne but all Europe. As originally conceived, Verne's Captain Nemo was a Polish nobleman whose entire family had been slaughtered by Russian troops. Nemo builds a fabulous futuristic submarine, the Nautilus, then conducts an underwater campaign of vengeance against his imperialist oppressor.
Version 1 of Nemo, with a hint as to v2's motives.
But in the 1860s France had to treat the Tsar as an ally, and Verne's publisher, Pierre Hetzel, pronounced the book unprintable. Verne reworked its political content, devising new nationalities for Nemo and his great enemy—information revealed only in a later novel, The Mysterious Island (1875); in the present work Nemo's background remains a dark secret. In all, the novel had a difficult gestation. Verne and Hetzel were in constant conflict and the book went through multiple drafts, struggles reflected in its several working titles over the period 1865–69: early on, it was variously called Voyage Under the Waters, Twenty–five Thousand Leagues Under the Waters, Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Waters, and A Thousand Leagues Under the Oceans.
Mention of a sequel (always good to know), working titles, plus the agonies of working with a publisher. ;)
Verne is often dubbed, in Isaac Asimov's phrase, "the world's first science–fiction writer." And it's true, many of his sixty–odd books do anticipate future events and technologies: From the Earth to the Moon (1865) and Hector Servadac (1877) deal in space travel, while Journey to the Center of the Earth features travel to the earth's core. But with Verne the operative word is "travel," and some of his best–known titles don't really qualify as sci–fi: Around the World in Eighty Days (1872) and Michael Strogoff (1876) are closer to "travelogs"—adventure yarns in far–away places.
Reaffirms Verne's reputation and hints his books are best read for the adventure, not the science, necessarily.
These observations partly apply here. The subtitle of the present book is An Underwater Tour of the World, so in good travelog style, the Nautilus's exploits supply an episodic story line. Shark attacks, giant squid, cannibals, hurricanes, whale hunts, and other rip–roaring adventures erupt almost at random. Yet this loose structure gives the novel an air of documentary realism. What's more, Verne adds backbone to the action by developing three recurring motifs: the deepening mystery of Nemo's past life and future intentions, the mounting tension between Nemo and hot–tempered harpooner Ned Land, and Ned's ongoing schemes to escape from the Nautilus. These unifying threads tighten the narrative and accelerate its momentum.
Reasons (excellent ones) to read the book.
Other subtleties occur inside each episode, the textures sparkling with wit, information, and insight. Verne regards the sea from many angles: in the domain of marine biology, he gives us thumbnail sketches of fish, seashells, coral, sometimes in great catalogs that swirl past like musical cascades; in the realm of geology, he studies volcanoes literally inside and out; in the world of commerce, he celebrates the high–energy entrepreneurs who lay the Atlantic Cable or dig the Suez Canal. And Verne's marine engineering proves especially authoritative. His specifications for an open–sea submarine and a self–contained diving suit were decades before their time, yet modern technology bears them out triumphantly.
Historic, scientific, and prophetic importance of the book.
True, today's scientists know a few things he didn't: the South Pole isn't at the water's edge but far inland; sharks don't flip over before attacking; giant squid sport ten tentacles not eight; sperm whales don't prey on their whalebone cousins. This notwithstanding, Verne furnishes the most evocative portrayal of the ocean depths before the arrival of Jacques Cousteau and technicolor film.
Lastly the book has stature as a novel of character. Even the supporting cast is shrewdly drawn: Professor Aronnax, the career scientist caught in an ethical conflict; Conseil, the compulsive classifier who supplies humorous tag lines for Verne's fast facts; the harpooner Ned Land, a creature of constant appetites, man as heroic animal.
Atmosphere, interesting characters, and name-dropping most people will appreciate.
SEMI-SPOILERS ahead:
But much of the novel's brooding power comes from Captain Nemo. Inventor, musician, Renaissance genius, he's a trail–blazing creation, the prototype not only for countless renegade scientists in popular fiction, but even for such varied figures as Sherlock Holmes or Wolf Larsen. However, Verne gives his hero's brilliance and benevolence a dark underside—the man's obsessive hate for his old enemy. This compulsion leads Nemo into ugly contradictions: he's a fighter for freedom, yet all who board his ship are imprisoned there for good; he works to save lives, both human and animal, yet he himself creates a holocaust; he detests imperialism, yet he lays personal claim to the South Pole. And in this last action he falls into the classic sin of Pride. He's swiftly punished. The Nautilus nearly perishes in the Antarctic and Nemo sinks into a growing depression.
Like Shakespeare's King Lear he courts death and madness in a great storm, then commits mass murder, collapses in catatonic paralysis, and suicidally runs his ship into the ocean's most dangerous whirlpool. Hate swallows him whole.
I've never in my life compared Holmes to Nemo; these two paragraphs are rather fascinating.
For many, then, this book has been a source of fascination, surely one of the most influential novels ever written, an inspiration for such scientists and discoverers as engineer Simon Lake, oceanographer William Beebe, polar traveler Sir Ernest Shackleton. Likewise Dr. Robert D. Ballard, finder of the sunken Titanic, confesses that this was his favorite book as a teenager, and Cousteau himself, most renowned of marine explorers, called it his shipboard bible.
Connection to real-life heroes in the same genre.
The present translation is a faithful yet communicative rendering of the original French texts published in Paris by J. Hetzel et Cie.—the hardcover first edition issued in the autumn of 1871, collated with the softcover editions of the First and Second Parts issued separately in the autumn of 1869 and the summer of 1870. Although prior English versions have often been heavily abridged, this new translation is complete to the smallest substantive detail.
Good to know.
Because, as that Time cover story suggests, we still haven't caught up with Verne. Even in our era of satellite dishes and video games, the seas keep their secrets. We've seen progress in sonar, torpedoes, and other belligerent machinery, but sailors and scientists—to say nothing of tourists—have yet to voyage in a submarine with the luxury and efficiency of the Nautilus.
Call to action/challenge to read the book, and why it is still worth reading.
F. P. WALTER
University of Houston
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