What can YOU say in six sentences?
An excerpt from Sail, or, The World, Not to be Understood
The Scoundrel Robert Castorbridge: An excerpt from the novel Sail
“There is a ship that prowls the seas. Where she goes I cannot tell you, nor why God’s vengeance hath not struck her against the rocks long ago or sundered her with a divine bolt of lightning. But from whence she came, this I can tell you, and her name, the pall of death that hangs above her like a storm cloud, and the terrible havoc that she wreaks wherever she drops anchor, a legacy of destruction that began in this very house.” Wainwright cast his hand out in a gesture that encompassed the parlor, the very chairs that they were sitting in, imparting to them a ghostly quality and making the hairs on James’s neck stand, for as he watched that gesture, it seemed as if the dust hanging on everything disintegrated, as if colors became brighter though night came on, as if they were entering another time.
“His story intertwined with mine three years ago. The scoundrel Robert Castorbridge had come by this time, as many men of his kind do—his kind being not pirates, brigands or despots, given over inherently to savagery and destruction, but rather the multitude of men, very nearly a race unto itself, so legion are its hosts, who throughout their lives have committed treachery upon treachery, embodied violence and waste, and enjoyed above all else to rape and pillage, whether it be through physical action, committed with sword or bullet against land, structure and flesh, or in more subtle but equally devastating ways, by cheating a lover or robbing a friend or putting one’s own benefit above the survival of one’s family, these actions being the worse because of the promise of one’s youth, the former morals that one lived by, which throw into contrast and stark relief the new and lesser morals which one has by misguidance, connivance or folly adopted, and who, in the twilight of their years, become cognizant in a wrenchingly belated way of the wrongs that they have committed, as one suddenly opens one’s eyes to the morning light, awakening from an evil and foreboding dream, and wishing then to be rid of the guilt which now outweighs all the treasures they have amassed through their malicious deeds, seek in some way to assuage themselves, to apologize, if that were possible, although an apology no matter how heartfelt can hardly compensate for a devastated lifetime, and knowing that the very ones before whom they would fall to their knees and beg for forgiveness, shedding an ocean of tears upon the feet of the wounded party, have long since died, killed by the penitent’s own design, feel the guilt all the heavier and know that however long or short their remaining allotted life shall thereafter be, they can never make up for what they have already done—this being his kind, he had come, late in life, to harbor an overpowering and debilitating fear of ghosts, specters by the score who did not yet haunt him, but who were hard on his stern, close in his wake, and this fear expressed itself in a need, stronger even than compulsion, to move, continually, and always stay ahead of the wraiths, and which paradoxically freed him of the few remaining moral strictures that had bound him, the erstwhile piratical code that he had prided himself on, for he would not let anyone stand in the way of his flight, and those that did were dispatched with no small amount of haste, he not realizing that in killing and cheating those who might stop him from fleeing the ghosts he had long ago created, he was creating fresh ones to join the retinue of departed and wronged spirits following his every move, this being his drive, his sole drive as he passed through his fifth decade of life, he left a scorched path behind him, a landscape of ruin and devastation, the more awe-inspiring for the fact that a single man was behind it all.”
“There is a ship that prowls the seas. Where she goes I cannot tell you, nor why God’s vengeance hath not struck her against the rocks long ago or sundered her with a divine bolt of lightning. But from whence she came, this I can tell you, and her name, the pall of death that hangs above her like a storm cloud, and the terrible havoc that she wreaks wherever she drops anchor, a legacy of destruction that began in this very house.” Wainwright cast his hand out in a gesture that encompassed the parlor, the very chairs that they were sitting in, imparting to them a ghostly quality and making the hairs on James’s neck stand, for as he watched that gesture, it seemed as if the dust hanging on everything disintegrated, as if colors became brighter though night came on, as if they were entering another time.
“His story intertwined with mine three years ago. The scoundrel Robert Castorbridge had come by this time, as many men of his kind do—his kind being not pirates, brigands or despots, given over inherently to savagery and destruction, but rather the multitude of men, very nearly a race unto itself, so legion are its hosts, who throughout their lives have committed treachery upon treachery, embodied violence and waste, and enjoyed above all else to rape and pillage, whether it be through physical action, committed with sword or bullet against land, structure and flesh, or in more subtle but equally devastating ways, by cheating a lover or robbing a friend or putting one’s own benefit above the survival of one’s family, these actions being the worse because of the promise of one’s youth, the former morals that one lived by, which throw into contrast and stark relief the new and lesser morals which one has by misguidance, connivance or folly adopted, and who, in the twilight of their years, become cognizant in a wrenchingly belated way of the wrongs that they have committed, as one suddenly opens one’s eyes to the morning light, awakening from an evil and foreboding dream, and wishing then to be rid of the guilt which now outweighs all the treasures they have amassed through their malicious deeds, seek in some way to assuage themselves, to apologize, if that were possible, although an apology no matter how heartfelt can hardly compensate for a devastated lifetime, and knowing that the very ones before whom they would fall to their knees and beg for forgiveness, shedding an ocean of tears upon the feet of the wounded party, have long since died, killed by the penitent’s own design, feel the guilt all the heavier and know that however long or short their remaining allotted life shall thereafter be, they can never make up for what they have already done—this being his kind, he had come, late in life, to harbor an overpowering and debilitating fear of ghosts, specters by the score who did not yet haunt him, but who were hard on his stern, close in his wake, and this fear expressed itself in a need, stronger even than compulsion, to move, continually, and always stay ahead of the wraiths, and which paradoxically freed him of the few remaining moral strictures that had bound him, the erstwhile piratical code that he had prided himself on, for he would not let anyone stand in the way of his flight, and those that did were dispatched with no small amount of haste, he not realizing that in killing and cheating those who might stop him from fleeing the ghosts he had long ago created, he was creating fresh ones to join the retinue of departed and wronged spirits following his every move, this being his drive, his sole drive as he passed through his fifth decade of life, he left a scorched path behind him, a landscape of ruin and devastation, the more awe-inspiring for the fact that a single man was behind it all.”
Comment
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Comment by Daniel Sawyer on March 14, 2009 at 8:32pm -
Thanks again. I read a little bit of Patrick O'Brien as research, but couldn't really get into it. It was very technical. Some other time I'll get back into him. At the time I wrote the above passage, I was reading a lot of William Faulkner and I'd like to think some of his influence is coming through.
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Comment by Daniel Sawyer on March 13, 2009 at 7:40pm
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Thanks, Joe! I don't know how this work stands on its own, but I decided to post the longest sentence I've ever written and five of the sentences around it. Hopefully it makes sense or conveys a story.
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Comment by Joseph Grant on March 13, 2009 at 7:20pm -
Awesome. A work of genius. Outstanding. Welcome!
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