First Blast of the Trumpet Against the Monstrous Regiment of Women by Eric McCormack Page B
Authors: Eric McCormack
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and out of the firelight. And the scar on that man’s belly.”
He sighed and took a sip from his mug.
“Patagonia was the kind of godforsaken place you might have expected to find dinosaurs in. But we never found a trace of them. Later on, somebody wrote a history of that expedition. ’Twas all about the fact that we didn’t find dinosaurs but there was no mention of the Engineer’s story in the entire book. If you ask me, that’s the problem with a lot of history books—they miss the things that really matter in your life.”
He smiled at me in his fierce way.
“Now Andy, I suppose you think this is all nostalgia, eh? Sure now, I myself can’t bear listening to old men looking back on the good old days and inventing feelings they never had at the time.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“Well, I’m not making it up,” he said. “I really did love that first voyage. Every day of it was exciting.”
I believed him and I envied him.
Chapter Eleven
H ARRY G REENE OFTEN spoke about books. One day he took me down to his cabin just below the main deck near the crew’s lounge.
He had to lean against the door to get it open, for the floor of his cabin was littered with books. They looked as though they’d once been in neat piles, but the ship’s motion had toppled them; they stirred and shifted as we made our way through them, stepping in the shallower parts. The walls of his cabin had been fitted with bookshelves with little ridges in front; books were jammed into them, too. Books lay on the bunk and books protruded from under it. The washroom was open and I could see books on the floor and on the sink.
On the washroom door, there was a picture frame, but it didn’t have a picture in it—just some words. I thought maybe it was an old saying:
The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven
Harry saw me looking at it.
“’Twas said by the devil himself in an old poem.” His eyebrows were fierce. “But devil or no devil—I think it makes a lot of sense.”
I didn’t know what the words meant, or what he meant, and I couldn’t think of anything to say. So I just looked around, marvelling at the number of books he had.
“’Tis my hobby,” he said. “You remember I was telling you about that Patagonian expedition? Well, the ship’s carpenter on that voyage was a great reader. ’Twas he who put the idea into my head. He said there’s so much time on voyageswhen nothing happens, they’re ideal for a man with a thirst for books.”
So Harry Greene took up reading and had been voyaging and reading, and reading and voyaging, ever since.
“Sure there’s no end to it,” he said. “I soon found that out. There’s an ocean of books out there. You can go from port to port without ever dropping anchor in the same berth.”
His favourite pastime on shore leaves was prowling the bookstores. He’d accumulate boxloads upon boxloads of books, often on a particular subject for study on his next voyage.
“Now take this trip,” he said. “I thought I’d have a try at some old books from the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.” He pointed to the tattoo on his arm. “I got this from a picture at the front of one of them—
The Faerie Queene
, ’tis called. I haven’t read much of it, ’tis such a long book, and I don’t think I’ll be able to stomach much more now that I’ve got the hang of it. ’Tis mainly about damsels in distress and knights in armour. The damsels generally turn out to be smarter than the knights who’re supposed to save them.”
He picked up a thick book lying on the floor near his bunk.
“Have a look at this,” he said, “
The Anatomy of Melancholy
. The man who wrote this spent his whole life collecting books. He was definitely a bit on the strange side. I’ll tell you why: he said he knew exactly the day he was going to die, and he told everybody about it for more than twenty years. He said ’twould be on the
He sighed and took a sip from his mug.
“Patagonia was the kind of godforsaken place you might have expected to find dinosaurs in. But we never found a trace of them. Later on, somebody wrote a history of that expedition. ’Twas all about the fact that we didn’t find dinosaurs but there was no mention of the Engineer’s story in the entire book. If you ask me, that’s the problem with a lot of history books—they miss the things that really matter in your life.”
He smiled at me in his fierce way.
“Now Andy, I suppose you think this is all nostalgia, eh? Sure now, I myself can’t bear listening to old men looking back on the good old days and inventing feelings they never had at the time.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“Well, I’m not making it up,” he said. “I really did love that first voyage. Every day of it was exciting.”
I believed him and I envied him.
Chapter Eleven
H ARRY G REENE OFTEN spoke about books. One day he took me down to his cabin just below the main deck near the crew’s lounge.
He had to lean against the door to get it open, for the floor of his cabin was littered with books. They looked as though they’d once been in neat piles, but the ship’s motion had toppled them; they stirred and shifted as we made our way through them, stepping in the shallower parts. The walls of his cabin had been fitted with bookshelves with little ridges in front; books were jammed into them, too. Books lay on the bunk and books protruded from under it. The washroom was open and I could see books on the floor and on the sink.
On the washroom door, there was a picture frame, but it didn’t have a picture in it—just some words. I thought maybe it was an old saying:
The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven
Harry saw me looking at it.
“’Twas said by the devil himself in an old poem.” His eyebrows were fierce. “But devil or no devil—I think it makes a lot of sense.”
I didn’t know what the words meant, or what he meant, and I couldn’t think of anything to say. So I just looked around, marvelling at the number of books he had.
“’Tis my hobby,” he said. “You remember I was telling you about that Patagonian expedition? Well, the ship’s carpenter on that voyage was a great reader. ’Twas he who put the idea into my head. He said there’s so much time on voyageswhen nothing happens, they’re ideal for a man with a thirst for books.”
So Harry Greene took up reading and had been voyaging and reading, and reading and voyaging, ever since.
“Sure there’s no end to it,” he said. “I soon found that out. There’s an ocean of books out there. You can go from port to port without ever dropping anchor in the same berth.”
His favourite pastime on shore leaves was prowling the bookstores. He’d accumulate boxloads upon boxloads of books, often on a particular subject for study on his next voyage.
“Now take this trip,” he said. “I thought I’d have a try at some old books from the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.” He pointed to the tattoo on his arm. “I got this from a picture at the front of one of them—
The Faerie Queene
, ’tis called. I haven’t read much of it, ’tis such a long book, and I don’t think I’ll be able to stomach much more now that I’ve got the hang of it. ’Tis mainly about damsels in distress and knights in armour. The damsels generally turn out to be smarter than the knights who’re supposed to save them.”
He picked up a thick book lying on the floor near his bunk.
“Have a look at this,” he said, “
The Anatomy of Melancholy
. The man who wrote this spent his whole life collecting books. He was definitely a bit on the strange side. I’ll tell you why: he said he knew exactly the day he was going to die, and he told everybody about it for more than twenty years. He said ’twould be on the
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