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In 1865, Melville gave his four young children back issues of Harper’s Magazine as Christmas presents. Harper and Brothers first worked with Herman Melville on his dubiously autobiographical novel Omoo: A Narrative of the South Seas (1847). The book was the sequel to his bestselling Typee: A Peep at Polynesian Life (1846), a fictionalization of his time on the whaling vessel Lucy Ann, which the Harper brothers had earlier rejected because “it was impossible that it could be true and therefore was without real value.” Melville’s first story for Harper’s Magazine appeared in the year-old periodical’s October 1851 issue; called “The Town-Ho’s Story,” it constitutes the fifty-fourth chapter of Moby-Dick, which was published a month later to critical revilement and commercial disinterest. In “The Town-Ho’s Story,” Ishmael recounts his shipboard adventures for “a lounging circle of my Spanish friends,” who doubt his honesty.
In the years immediately after the publication of Moby-Dick and the similarly received Pierre: or, The Ambiguities (1852), Melville supplied Harper’s with several more stories, three of which were about recovering from failure. Another was a euphemistic romp called “Cock-A-Doodle-Doo!” After the novel The Confidence-Man (1857) met with the usual scorn, Melville turned to poetry, publishing five poems about the Civil War in Harper’s in 1866. They were included in the collection Battle-Pieces and Other Aspects of the War (1866), the last non-self-published work in his lifetime. In 1890, Harper’s included the largely forgotten author in an article called “American Literary Comedians,” and in the following year’s December issue he received a two-line obituary: “September 27th.—In New York city, Herman Melville, aged seventy-three years.”
Melville received renewed attention following twentieth-century reconsiderations by D. H. Lawrence, Carl Van Doren, and Raymond Weaver, among others; the posthumous publication of his unfinished Billy Budd (1924), which Thomas Mann called “the most beautiful story in the world,” further propelled his revival. “Call me Ishmael” is today one of the most famous lines in English literature, and the Library of America has chosen Melville as one of the first eight writers it would publish. In 2010, paleontologists named a newly discovered twelve-million-year-old giant sperm whale Livyatan melvillei.
The laugh is on you
For the past three years my dosimeter had sat silently on a narrow shelf just inside the door of a house in Tokyo, upticking its final digit every twenty-four hours by one or two, the increase never failing — for radiation is the ruthless companion of time. Wherever we are, radiation finds and damages us, at best imperceptibly. During those three years, my American neighbors had lost sight of the accident at Fukushima. In March 2011, a tsunami had killed hundreds, or thousands; yes, they remembered that. Several also recollected the earthquake that caused it, but as for the hydrogen explosion and containment breach at Nuclear Plant No. 1, that must have been fixed by now — for its effluents no longer shone forth from our national news. Meanwhile, my dosimeter increased its figure, one or two digits per day, more or less as it would have in San Francisco — well, a trifle more, actually. And in Tokyo, as in San Francisco, people went about their business, except on Friday nights, when the stretch between the Kasumigaseki and Kokkai-Gijido-mae subway stations — half a dozen blocks of sidewalk, which commenced at an antinuclear tent that had already been on this spot for more than 900 days and ended at the prime minister’s lair — became a dim and feeble carnival of pamphleteers and Fukushima refugees peddling handicrafts.
One Friday evening, the refugees’ half of the sidewalk was demarcated by police barriers, and a line of officers slouched at ease in the street, some with yellow bullhorns hanging from their necks. At the very end of the street, where the National Diet glowed white and strange behind other buildings, a policeman set up a microphone, then deployed a small video camera in the direction of the muscular young people in drums against fascists jackets who now, at six-thirty sharp, began chanting: “We don’t need nuclear energy! Stop nuclear power plants! Stop them, stop them, stop them! No restart! No restart!” The police assumed a stiffer stance; the drumming and chanting were almost uncomfortably loud. Commuters hurried past along the open space between the police and the protesters, staring straight ahead, covering their ears. Finally, a fellow in a shabby sweater appeared, and murmured along with the chants as he rounded the corner. He was the only one who seemed to sympathize; few others reacted at all.
Number of U.S. congressional districts in which trade with China has produced more jobs than it has cost:
Young bilingual children who learned one language first are likelier than monolingual children and bilingual children who learned languages simultaneously to say that a dog adopted by owls will hoot.
An Oklahoma legislative committee voted to defund Advanced Placement U.S. History courses, accusing the curriculum of portraying the United States as “a nation of oppressors and exploiters.”
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“He could be one of a million beach-bound, black-socked Florida retirees, not the man who, by some odd happenstance of life, possesses the brain of Albert Einstein — literally cut it out of the dead scientist's head.”