Моби Дик

A Bower in the Arsacides

           Theweaver-god,heweaves;andbythatweavingishedeafened,thathehearsnomortalvoice;andbythathumming,we,too,wholookontheloomaredeafened;andonlywhenweescapeitshallwehearthethousandvoicesthatspeakthroughit.Forevensoitisinallmaterialfactories.Thespokenwordsthatareinaudibleamongtheflyingspindles;thosesamewordsareplainlyheardwithoutthewalls,burstingfromtheopenedcasements.Therebyhavevillainiesbeendetected.Ah,mortal!then,beheedful;forso,inallthisdinofthegreatworld’sloom,thysubtlestthinkingsmaybeoverheardafar.

           Now,amidthegreen,life-restlessloomofthatArsacideanwood,thegreat,white,worshippedskeletonlayloungingagiganticidler!Yet,astheever-wovenverdantwarpandwoofintermixedandhummedaroundhim,themightyidlerseemedthesunningweaver;himselfallwovenoverwiththevines;everymonthassuminggreener,fresherverdure;buthimselfaskeleton.LifefoldedDeath;DeathtrellisedLife;thegrimgodwivedwithyouthfulLife,andbegathimcurly-headedglories.

           Now,whenwithroyalTranquoIvisitedthiswondrouswhale,andsawtheskullanaltar,andtheartificialsmokeascendingfromwheretherealjethadissued,Imarvelledthatthekingshouldregardachapelasanobjectofvertu.Helaughed.ButmoreImarvelledthatthepriestsshouldswearthatsmokyjetofhiswasgenuine.

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