Tag Archives: Hunting

Slaughter of the Innocents

Ushering children through hordes of ghouls and zombies last night to beg candy from strangers, we finished our circuit and came at last to the home of my brother-in-law’s neighbor.  It was a cabin-like single-story house with a few fancifully carved pumpkins set on the porch and a warm glow seeping from high windows.  We had stopped here the year before and I remembered that the paterfamilias of the place was a sport hunter.  He had decorated the wide, high-ceilinged entryway with mounted heads of antelope, bighorn sheep, moose and more exotic fauna from other continents.

We rang the bell.  The door opened and a pale teenaged girl doled out chocolate bars to our miniature Chaplins and their cousins.  The recollected menagerie still kept congress on the walls around her.  The great white hunter himself stepped forward then and asked, with a leftward jab of his thumb, whether we’d met his newest ‘pet.’  We peered round the corner and were astonished to see a taxidermied giraffe – or at least it’s chest, neck, and head.  It must have been nine feet tall: the leopard-spotted hide, the knobby tufted horns, the impossible girlish eyelashes.  Bwana had gone to some game farm in Africa and killed it himself, then paid what must have been thousands for its stuffing and transport back to the United States.

In the literary court of omnivorous slaughter, Flaubert’s Legend of Saint Julian the Hospitaller warms the throne.  Flint-hearted young Julian sets out one day from his family’s castle on horseback and in short order dispatches a family of rabbits, a woodcock, some mountain goats and cranes, a beaver, a deer, a badger, a stag, a peacock…

…and after he had slain them all, other deer, other stags, other badgers, other peacocks, and jays, blackbirds, foxes, porcupines, polecats, and lynxes, appeared; in fact, a host of beasts that grew more and more numerous with every step he took.  Trembling and with a look of appeal in their eyes, they gathered around Julian, but he did not stop slaying them, and so intent was he on stretching his bow, drawing his sword and whipping out his knife, that he had little thought for aught else.

I was recently reminded of Flaubert’s story while reading John Williams’ western, Butcher’s Crossing, which centers on a mind-numbing slaughter of buffalo in 1870s Colorado.  With Flaubert, however, the slaughter is more varied (extending even to non-native species), and goes on and on for pages.  It’s comically absurd at first but the long index of the dead begins to sound sinister.  “Sometimes, in his dreams,” Flaubert says of Julian, “he fancied himself like Adam in the midst of Paradise, surrounded by all the beasts; by merely extending his arm, he was able to kill them.”

Being a devoted carnivore myself and willing to admit that meat requires the death of some unfortunate creature, I’m not personally unsympathetic to the appeal of hunting, whether for elk or deer or fowl, at least when the game is close at hand and the intent is to put meat on the table.  But what drives a man to travel ten thousand miles to sight and stalk and kill a giraffe of all things?  It’s like murdering Big Bird or Mr Snuffleupagus.  Certainly, given the size of the target, it’s no special testament to one’s marksmanship.

I wonder if Bwana or his poor pale daughter are ever haunted by nightmares of the dead animals that watch over the door of their home.  I wonder if he ever finds himself at night before his court of trophies, encircled by their disembodied heads, accused by their glassy eyes, cursed at from their bristly, stuffed lips.  I imagine him like Flaubert’s Julian when his prowess fails and he’s surrounded alone in the woods by hosts of mocking animals:

He began to run; the brutes followed him.  The serpent hissed, the malodorous beasts frothed at the mouth, the wild boar rubbed his tusks against his heels, and the wolf scratched the palms of his hands with the hairs of his snout.  The monkeys pinched him and made faces, the weasel rolled over his feet.  A bear knocked his cap off with its huge paw, and the panther disdainfully dropped an arrow it was about to put in its mouth.

Irony seemed to incite their sly actions.  As they watched him out of the corners of their eyes, they seemed to meditate a plan of revenge, and Julian, who was deafened by the buzzing of the insects, bruised by the wings and tails of the birds, choked by the stench of animal breaths, walked with outstretched arms and closed lids, like a blind man, without even the strength to beg for mercy.


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Tracking Metaphors in the Wild

There are furtive joys and obscure pleasures known only to the very bookish.  Last night I was making a sentimental stroll through Book I of Paradise Lost and came across the following passage, a description of fallen angels mustering in their legions on the plain of Hell:

……………[I]n even balance down they light
On the firm brimstone and fill all the plain;
A multitude like which the populous North
Poured never from her frozen loins to pass
Rhene or Danau, when her barbarous sons
Came like a deluge on the South, and spread
Beneath Gibraltar to the Libyan sands.

It was too oddly familiar: the image of barbarians flooding southward, the “frozen loins” of the north, etc.  Then came a leaping Eureka! moment as I snatched up an old notebook and found copied inside this passage from Herman Melville’s marvelously weird (however imperfect) Pierre, or The Ambiguities:

Sudden onsets of new truth will assail him and overrun him as the Tartars did China; for there is no China Wall that a man can build in his soul which shall permanently stay the irruptions of those barbarous hordes which Truth ever nourishes in the loins of her frozen, yet teeming, North, so that the Empire of Human Knowledge can never be lasting in any one dynasty, since Truth still gives new Emperors to the earth.

Melville, it seems, had Milton on the brain.  As a general statement this is no great revelation – not since the unearthing some years ago of Melville’s own copy of Milton’s works and the publication of his annotations to Paradise Lost.  But as a particular instance of Miltonic influence, I like to imagine I am its sole discoverer.  It feels something like playing Galileo and being first to glimpse the lunar mountains or to measure the tail of an unknown comet.

Was it a conscious reference on Melville’s part?  Likely not.  The transposition of truths for devils is intriguing, but there’s not enough to go on, I think.  Still, it’s a great find.  Just there, for the briefest moment, we catch a sort of celestial alignment of the minds and Melville (who is quite opaque most of the time) becomes temporarily transparent: along the axis of metaphor we see right through him all the way to Milton.

Literary detective work like this, when done in the way of duty, is the daily sweat and toil of graduate students locked in cold, dim reading rooms of university libraries.  They note each minor find dispassionately and move on.  But when made years out of school in the embrace of a plush armchair and solely by power of chance and memory, such discoveries are moments of rarest serendipity, enough to sustain us for a week, even two, in the long march through the Vale of Tears that is our life.  Only those who suffer from my particular malady will understand.

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