by Nick Porcella

Even just a few years removed, high school is a blur to me. But I do have some general memories: physics exams in uncomfortable chairs, crushes that went nowhere, never once buying school lunch and never once being ashamed of that, sweaty dodgeball gym-classes, and the most remarkable production of Les Misérables I have ever seen.

There is also the not-so-traditional memory of getting so excited by an odd piece of nineteenth-century short fiction that the rest of my life suddenly seemed to have new purpose.

My life might reasonably be broken up into two parts: B.B. and A.B., Before Bartleby, and After. “Ah Bartleby! Ah humanity!” These final words of Herman Melville’s short story “Bartleby, the Scrivener,” which I first read for  Mrs. Evers’ junior-Honors English class, altered the course of my life.

I couldn’t begin to explain why the quirky narrator and his cohort of workers captured my attention as they did. But something about the writing style—its poetry and fluidity—made the novella-length story a joy to read.

The English-majoring, poetry-writing bibliophile that I am now did not exist B.B. Before Bartleby, I wanted to go to engineering school, do math and chemistry, and build things for a living. That was not the path A.B. “Bartleby” suddenly added a jolt of passion to my life that high-school-me previously lacked. I immediately shared “Bartleby” with my book-loving mother. She read it. We talked about it, why we liked it, and what those haunting final words meant to us. That was the first time my mom and I ever had a true book-club moment.

When I was growing up, my mom taught me to work hard, embrace fun, and treat people with kindness first. She tried to teach me a love of reading, but that did not stick until Mrs. Evers’ class. “Bartleby” was the story that started it all, in that it allowed me to have more in common with my mother. Ah Bartleby! Thank you!

The summer before my senior year, I went to Barnes & Noble pick out a book for summer reading. The process was always stressful for me. Should I pick a short book and spend more time writing the essays or take on a larger tome and impress the teacher? Then I saw “Herman Melville” in white letters in the foreground of a cadet-blue cover. The dauntingly long Moby-Dick sat on the corner of a shelf. I thought of my mother and smiled. In a moment that freshman-year-in-high-school-me would have found batshit insane, I grabbed the book and, without opening it, went to the register, not  giving my selection a second thought.

If A.B. got me to like reading, then it was A.M-D. got me to major in English in college. I loved this massive book. And, contrary to what my high school and college friends call Moby-Dick, it is much more than a “fish story.” Call me hooked!

I tried to get anyone and everyone I knew to read Melville with me. My mom turned out to be the biggest enthusiast. I created a series of discussion questions for us, as she read the work for the first time, I for the second. She and I talked all summer about Ishmael, Ahab, Queequeg, the crew of the Pequod, not to mention the elusive yet symbolic white whale. This shared summer journey stands as a precious memory, especially now, when college has made it more difficult to see my family regularly.

Today, several years past the foundational After Bartleby period, I have an extensive collection of Melville writings, containing more than fifty-five volumes. What makes my collection even more precious is the fact that the people I love are embracing Melville with me (or at least humoring me). My friend Kaitlyn, who is a talented artist, creates a Moby-Dick work for me for my birthday each year. Last year she made a white-paper cutout of a sperm whale, which hangs in my room. My friend Molly bought me a Moby-Dick poster she saw at an online store. I had it framed and hung on my bedroom wall. My friend Susan gave me a very old movie poster of Captain Ahab which shows the captain bleary-eyed, looking for revenge. My aunt found me a Moby-Dick t-shirt which I wear to my American literature classes. My whole family keeps an eye out for all things Melville. My grandfather sends me newspaper articles and e-mails me when Melville is an answer on Jeopardy!

And my mom’s influence did not stop at encouraging my passions; she actually helped me acquire many pieces of my collection, through dumpster diving. She and I used to travel to transfer stations nearby and pick through the used book recycling bins. We were not supposed to be there, but my mom also taught me to break the rules a lot, especially if no one will get hurt. The way I saw it, all these Melville books would have been lost had I not hopped into the dumpsters full of books. I guess I became a Moby-Dick rescuer.

My proudest achievement for the collection is that I recently placed first in a book-collecting contest. I can now say that my collection is award-winning, a phrase I always preface with a laugh and the phrase “I mean this in the least pompous way imaginable.” I do not plan to stop this madness anytime soon. The only way it will end is if I share a fate with Ahab or Bartleby.

After Bartleby, my life has changed for better and for worse. I don’t have my mother anymore. Over a year ago now, she passed away after a long battle with breast cancer. My memories of her, including the times we spent reading Melville, mean more to me every day.

For many reasons, I am grateful I found Bartleby.

 

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Nick Porcella studies English at Clark University, Worcester, Massachusetts, and intends to teach high school. His passions include Herman Melville, rap music, photography, and writing. He is completing a memoir, Getting to Say Goodbye. See more of his work here.