Of Tombs and Wombs, Or, the Whale, Part III

Of Tombs and Wombs, or, The Whale, Part III

PETER WAYNE MOE The University of Pittsburgh

The image of a human stuck in the belly of a whale has currency. It recirculates through Jonah, medieval poetry and art, Pinocchio, a handful of Batman comics, a Bruce Springsteen song, yarns from eighteenth- and nineteenth-century whalers––among other places––and, of course, Melville’s Moby-Dick. This essay is two-stranded. To account for why the Jonah trope has such resonance, I ﬁ rst follow the narrative of ingestion by, in utero entombment within, and deliverance from a whale, this narrative appearing in a wide range of texts. I then consider Jonah’s “rhetorical velocity,” the frequent repurposing and retelling of his narrative, in order to speak to the interplay between, and malleability of, metaphor, narrative, and the belly of the whale.

Extracts (Supplied by a Sub-Sub-Cetologist)

Over this lip, as over a slippery threshold, we now slide into the mouth. . . . Good Lord! is this the road that Jonah went? Ishmael in Herman Melville’s Moby-Dick

The idea that the victim might have been aware as he was swallowed was too terrible to contemplate; although in secret his fellow sailors may have wondered what it was like to be within the belly of the whale, to slither down its gullet like a whiting down a gannet’s neck and into the nameless horror of the leviathan’s maw. Philip Hoare, The Whale

Two or three times on my visit I sat under the blue whale’s jaw, or even within the cage of its chest, the thick portcullis of its ribs descending around. Kathleen Jamie, “The Hvalsalen”

Then the LORD commanded the ﬁ sh, and it vomited Jonah up onto the dry land. Jonah

L EVIATHAN A J OURNAL OF MELVILLE STUDIES 41 PETER WAYNE MOE

Now buddy get up and come here to your pap I’ll tell you a story, climb up on my lap ’Tis better than the story of Daniel or Ruth Although it is ﬁ shy, it’s every bit truth Now listen right good while I tell you this tale How Jonah the prophet got caught by this whale That whale caught poor Jonah and bless your dear soul It not only caught him, it swallowed him whole The New Lost City Ramblers, “The Old Fish Song”

t is rare that humans ever see an entire whale in the wild.1 More often, it is a snout here, a fl uke there. Naturalist Philip Hoare notes that humans I have only recently even been able to see wild whales swim underwater: “It was only after we had seen the Earth from orbiting spaceships that the fi rst free-swimming whale was photographed underwater. The fi rst underwater fi lm of sperm whales, off the coast of Sri Lanka, was not taken until 1984; our images of these huge placid creates moving gracefully and silently through the ocean are more recent than the use of personal computers. We knew what the world looked like before we knew what the whale looked like” (31). This is the animal Herman Melville chooses as the central fi gure of Moby-Dick, an animal that spends a fraction of its life at the surface, an animal humans seldom, if ever, are able to see. The “Extracts” opening Moby-Dick can be read as the beginning of an inquiry into this unseen animal, Melville searching anywhere and everywhere for anything and everything he can fi nd that would enable him to fi gure the whale. I note Hoare’s use of “huge”; it departs from its four appearances in Melville’s “Extracts.” For Hoare, the underwater footage reveals a sperm whale peaceful, even-tempered, “placid”––a far different whale than the one of Mel- ville’s “Extracts,” a whale Melville knew from his own whaling expeditions, a whale fl eeing or attacking, a whale fl ensed and cleaned. Hoare’s whale is not prevalent in the “Extracts;” there, Melville fi gures the whale in terms of its fear-inducing nature. “Great” appears 14 times in the “Extracts;” variations of “monster” eight times; “mouth” fi ve times; variations of “jaw” six times. Laden with biblical weight, “leviathan” appears 12 times, modifi ed by such adjectives as “great,” “that sea beast,” “huge,” and “dread.” Consider, for example, how the “Extracts” handle the circulatory system: “Ten or fi fteen gallons of blood are thrown out of the heart at a stroke, with immense velocity” and “The aorta of a whale is larger in the bore than the main pipe of the water-works at London bridge” (Moby-Dick 13). These two references (John Hunter’s account of the dissection of a whale and Paley’s Theology) stem

42 L EVIATHAN O F T O M B S A N D W O M B S from the Industrial Revolution, and both marvel at the whale in language that can be read through the lens of mechanical progress: the whale is more “immense” than anything industrious man has yet forged, and the appropriate response is awe––and fear. And there is a tension here, the immense whale humbling the diminutive human, the narrative of industrial progress feeding into the human’s desire, and capacity, to hunt the whale and triumph over nature. But consider too an alternative fi guring of the whale and its circulatory system, coming from Brian Doyle, one that, like Melville’s, relies on the whale’s size but does so for a different end: “The biggest heart in the world is inside the blue whale. It weighs more than seven tons. It’s as big as a room. It is a room, with four chambers. A child could walk around in it, head high, bending only to step through the valves. The valves are as big as the swinging doors in a saloon. This house of a heart drives a creature a hundred feet long” (26). Doyle, like Melville, asks that readers marvel at the whale’s size, though Doyle fi gures that size not through metaphors of industry, but via a four-chambered house with a child walking around inside. For Melville, via Hunter and Paley, the heart and its veins transport fl uids; for Doyle, they hold a human. Melville and Doyle resort to metaphor to make sense of the whale, but in Doyle’s fi guration of the whale’s heart, I hear bits of a Jonah narrative, the whale housing a human. This image of human inside a whale’s belly accomplishes the same work as Melville’s “Extracts”: both function as a means of inquiry into an animal humans know little about, an animal humans rarely see in full. In what follows, I look in and beyond Moby-Dick to consider how the story of Jonah recirculates in multiple media and multiple contexts. This essay is two-stranded. First, I borrow from Ilana Pardes’s characterization of Ishmael: “He tries to fathom the mysteries of Jonah’s head within the enigmatic head of the whale, to cap- ture the experience of being swallowed up by a gigantic marine creature and entrapped in its inner spaces” (62). In that spirit of “captur[ing] the experience of being swallowed up . . . and entrapped,” I begin with an exchange between Ishmael and Captain Peleg that introduces a desire to be within the belly of a whale and from there follow the same narrative as appears in my extracts of ingestion by, in utero entombment within, and deliverance from a whale, this narrative retold in a wide range of texts. Second, I consider why Jonah’s tale has such “rhetorical velocity,”––Jim Ridolfo and Dànielle DeVoss’s phrase describ- ing a text’s recirculation. Rhetorical velocity speaks to my method: this essay is an archive of tales of humans within the belly of a whale. It is, in a sense, argumentation by catalogue, this corpus of stories speaking to the recirculation of Jonah, their rhetorical velocity prompting a reconsideration not only of how the various repurposings of the trope bear upon each other, but also of why Jonah’s narrative has such resonance.

A JOURNAL OF MELVILLE STUDIES 43 PETER WAYNE MOE

Of the Monstrous Pictures of Whales: Ingestion

n his fi rst conversation with Ishmael, Captain Peleg, fearful Ishmael is a fugitive, attempts to discern his motives for going to sea: “But fl ukes! man, Iwhat makes thee want to go a whaling, eh?––it looks a little suspicious, don’t it, eh?––Hast not been a pirate, hast thou?––Didst not rob thy last Cap- tain, didst thou?––Dost not think of murdering the offi cers when thou gettest to sea?” (Moby-Dick 71). In light of Father Mapple’s sermonic treatment of Jonah, Ishmael becomes a Jonah fi gure in this exchange with Captain Peleg, the Captain following a line of questioning not unlike that faced by Father Map- ple’s Jonah. The Jonah parallels continue when the Captain, unsure whether Ishmael is fi t for service, asks a question that would put Ishmael inside the belly of a whale: “Now, art thou the man to pitch a harpoon down a live whale’s throat, and then jump after it? Answer, quick!” (72). Captain Peleg’s question suggests a whaler would (and even should) voluntarily “jump after” that harpoon hurled “down a live whale’s throat.” Just as Jonah goes into the sea to save his shipmates, Captain Peleg seeks a whaler willing to throw himself down a whale’s gullet. The question betrays a strange desire. The belly of a whale, despite common sense, has an appeal. Granted, for the Captain, the impulse dive down a whale’s throat has to do with the physical courage necessary for whaling. But underneath that, I read something else: a curiosity, a yearning. Scottish poet Kathleen Jamie speaks to this desire. In her essay “The Hval- salen,” Jamie visits Bergen’s Whale Hall, which houses a miscellany of whale skulls and bones as well as 22 complete skeletons dating to the late 1800s. Sus- pended from the ceiling by chains and metal bars, the skeletons still ooze oil. “Poor whales,” Jamie asks, “don’t they know when to stop? The same whale oil that greased the machines and lit the streets and parlours, the oil of soap and margarine. All that oil! Here they were, dead for a century, still giving out oil!” (102). Jamie fi nds herself at the Hvalsalen during its restoration; the oil and decades of dust have made a mess of the skeletons. The bones will be cleaned not with lasers or dry ice but with ammonia, ethanol, toothbrush, toothpick, brush, sponge, and water. Jamie notes the irony: “The blue whale, awaiting the attention of the toothpick. Then, they’d have taken everything we could throw at them. The full gamut of human attention––from the exploding harpoon and fl ensing iron, to the soft sponge and the toothpick” (118). Museum employees raise platforms to meet the whales at the ceiling, and together, fl oating above the ground, conservators and cetaceans interact intimately, delicately. Early in her visit, Jamie encounters the 24-meter blue whale:

Of course, the blue whale was largest of all. I decided to walk under its full length, and count my steps. First, I walked under the smooth horizontal

44 L EVIATHAN O F T O M B S A N D W O M B S

arch of the jaw, and its palate, where the baleen had once hung, sheets of age- browned bone. Then came the solid complications of the skull, now under the barrel of the ribcage, the ribs curving down, enclosing and protecting nothing but air. I kept walking, counting. As I passed the basking shark I surreptitiously touched its cold skin, rough as sandpaper. I passed a dolphin, small and lithe, and making for the door. Still the blue whale went on over- head. Above the basking shark hung a huge sunﬁ sh, an eerie-looking object hanging from a wire, more like a black moon with an eye. Still I walked on, counting until the spine ended. Fifty-seven paces. Less an animal, more a narrative. The ancient mariner. (97)

I hear a Jonah in Jamie’s account of walking the blue whale. The whale above her, Jamie enters under the mouth and proceeds below the skull, between the arches of the ribs, along the vertebrae, toward the tip of the spine. Jonah in its belly, the whale becomes a narrative, its body storying Jamie past various deep- sea denizens. Later joining the conservators on the scaffolding, making their way past bones and cleaning the whales, Jamie more explicitly fi gures herself as a Jonah: “Two or three times on my visit I sat under the blue whale’s jaw, or even within the cage of its chest, the thick portcullis of its ribs descending around. You got used to the scale, even to holding conversations in these surrounds. To sit within the creature’s ribcage was like being in a very strange taxi, caught in traffi c” (115). Jamie uses language of enclosure––within the cage, the thick portcullis, its ribs descending around, in these surrounds, within the creature, in a very strange taxi, caught in traffi c––yet projects comfort. Jamie tells her readers that “You got used to the scale” to the point of “holding conversations” there, within the surreal parlor of the ribcage of a blue whale. A familiarity with the whale, an intimacy with these bones, a come-and-go ease appears in Jamie’s Jonah: “To save bothering with ladders and trapdoors, to get across from one side of their platform to another, the conservators just crawled between the humpback’s ribs into its chest cavity, then came stooping out of its belly, and carried on their way” (109). (See fi gure 1.) Cleaning the bones of these 22 mammals, the conservators dwell beside, underneath, inside them. Jamie has sat within a whale’s ribcage, stood under its jaws, touched and peered through its ribs. She has been within, and now she tells of it.

A Bower in the Arsacides: In Utero Entombment

amie’s narration recalls Ishmael’s commentary in “A Bower in the Arsac- ides.” Speaking as one who might question his authority concerning a Jwhale’s skeleton, Ishmael mockingly addresses himself: “A veritable witness you have hitherto been, Ishmael; but have a care how you seize the

A JOURNAL OF MELVILLE STUDIES 45 PETER WAYNE MOE

Fig. 1: The view from inside the humpback’s ribcage at Bergen’s Whale Hall. To the left of the humpback, obscured by its ribs, is the skeleton of a sei whale. Image courtesy of Terje Lislevand, University Museum of Bergen.

46 L EVIATHAN O F T O M B S A N D W O M B S privilege of Jonah alone; the privilege of discoursing upon the joists and beams; the rafters, ridge-pole, sleepers, and underpinnings, making up the frame-work of leviathan” (Moby-Dick 344). One shouldn’t go about discoursing upon the belly of a whale lightheartedly, and unless one has been therein, one shouldn’t speak to it at all. But Ishmael has been there, within a sperm whale’s ribcage transformed into an Arsacidean temple. As Jamie fi nds a narrative in the oil dripping from the skeletons of the Hvalsalen, Ishmael too fi nds a narrative of the Arsacidean people within the whale’s bones: “The ribs were hung with trophies; the vertebræ were carved with Arsacidean annals, in strange hiero- glyphics” (345). Ishmael wanders about the skeleton, in and out of its ribs, rehearsing Jonah’s narrative while prefi guring Jamie’s. Jamie and Ishmael touch on a defi nitive part of Jonah: storytelling. Jamie tells of her time within the portcullis of the whale’s ribs; Ishmael of his meandering about a skeletal temple; Jonah of his deliverance. And not unlike Jamie’s restfulness within the whale and not unlike Captain Peleg’s initial (perhaps unintentional) fi guring of the whale’s mouth as inviting, Jonah fi nds solace within the belly of the whale. There, inside the stomach, he prays. Jonah cries out to his LORD “from the depth of Sheol”––a Hebraic word for the underworld––and from there, Jonah is rescued. He uses his prayer to retell his story, tossed by “Your breakers and billows,” seaweed “wrapped around [his] head,” sinking to “the roots of the mountains.” Death is near, “water encompassing” Jonah, “engulfed” by the deep. Midway through the prayer, still in the sea, Jonah recounts his deliverance: “But You have brought up my life from the pit” (a variation on Sheol). This is not a prayer asking to be saved; rather, Jonah is offering prayer for having been saved. Jonah “will sacrifi ce to You / with the voice of thanksgiving” not despite but because he is in the belly of a whale (Jon. 2.1–10). Steven Olsen-Smith offers a reading of the whale in Moby-Dick that is helpful in interpreting Jonah’s prayer. Olsen-Smith claims that Melville has a “dual conception of the sperm whale as a source of both physical danger and physiological awe” (26). Olsen-Smith points to chapter 86, “The Tail,” as an example of “an abrupt thematic transition from tranquility to peril,” whales “appear[ing] simultaneously as hazards to life and limb and as objects of wonder” (26). Moby-Dick is a story bound up in “the profundity of paradox,” Olsen-Smith argues, and such paradox shapes Jonah’s prayer. Jonah’s prayer revolves around a tension between, and progression from, confessional lament to praise (26). This dynamic is highlighted by the chiastic structure of the prayer. Chiasm is a rhetorical fi gure wherein the beginning is mirrored by the end, the second half either a repetition or inversion of the fi rst.2 Consider Jonah’s prayer, presented so as to show forth its chiasm:

A JOURNAL OF MELVILLE STUDIES 47 PETER WAYNE MOE

A The LORD commands the ﬁ sh to swallow Jonah (1.17) B Jonah prays a lament from Sheol (2.1-2) C Jonah descends from the LORD (2.3-4) X Jonah reaches the bottom of the sea (2:5-6a) C’ Jonah ascends from the pit (2.6b-7) B’ Jonah offers thanksgiving from the LORD’s temple (2.8-9) A’ The LORD commands the ﬁ sh to vomit Jonah (2.10)

The chiasm of Jonah 2 foregrounds a movement within the prayer and within the narrative. The A-level points to the LORD’s orchestration of events of the story, appointing a whale and directing its actions. The B-level carries Jonah’s discourses, the lament and thanksgiving inversions of each other, as are Sheol and the LORD’s temple. The C-level focuses on Jonah’s descent and ascent with the LORD and the pit/Sheol again set against each other, and the center points to the depths to which Jonah has sunk. The chiasm of Jonah’s prayer enables him, within the belly, to move between the genres of confession and thanksgiving. He oscillates between the depths of Sheol and the temple of the LORD. He descends from and ascends to the surface. He is swallowed and vomited. Jonathan A. Cook identifi es another contrast, that Jonah’s prayer “fi nds redemptive faith when faced with the threat of death and damnation” (56). In reading Father Mapple’s telling of the story, Cook claims, “The sermon illustrates the chief strategy of evangelic preaching, with its rehearsal of the sinful soul’s encounter with the anxieties of death and damnation and spontaneously leading to repentance and conversion” (57). Though not a sermon, the same is true of Jonah’s prayer and how it handles “the anxieties of death and damnation” and evidences Jonah’s “repentance and conversion.” There is a duality, then, within the whale’s stomach, a duality between life and death, between damnation and redemption. Jonah’s confl ation of great depths, a whale, a belly, and Sheol has currency: medieval art often depicts the gates of Hell as a whale’s gaping mouth––the “Hell-mouth”––sinners going down the throat into the belly to burn forever- more.3 Father Mapple makes a similar move, linking the whale’s mouth to Hell during the hymn prefacing his sermon. Its fi fth line reports “I saw the opening maw of hell” (Moby-Dick 48). “Maw” is defi ned by the Oxford English Dictio- nary as “the throat or gullet; the jaws or mouth of a voracious animal.” Maw appears––three times––in W. S. Merwin’s translation of the fourteenth-century poem “Patience” (a retelling of the Jonah story), and it appears in Philip Hoare’s retelling of Egerton Davis’s 1893 account of a man swallowed by a whale, Hoare pairing “maw” and “horror” to great effect: “his fellow sailors may have wondered what it was like to be within the belly of the whale, to slither down its gullet like a whiting down a gannet’s neck and into the nameless horror of

48 L EVIATHAN O F T O M B S A N D W O M B S the leviathan’s maw” (155). Melville and Merwin and Hoare use maw with nuance. One archaic defi nition is “the abdominal cavity as a whole; the belly,” and yes, Jonah does fi nd himself in a belly. Another defi nition of maw, obsolete by the seventeenth century: “the womb” (OED). The whale’s maw promises both death and life, becoming both a tomb and a womb. (See fi gure 2.) John Wilson, in a 1924 effort to establish the veracity of Jonah’s tale, cites numerous sources ranging from Encyclopedia Britannica to Melville to

Fig. 2: Sculpted by John B. Flannagan (American, 1895-1942), Jonah and the Whale: Rebirth Motif (1937) displays the tomb-womb of the whale, its midsection curving as a woman’s hips, its jaws forming her legs, its lips forming hers, and a fetal Jonah digest- ing and gestating within. Bluestone with a wood base. 30¼ x 11 x 2¼ in. (76.8 x 27.9 x 5.7 cm.) Brooklyn Museum, bequest of Edit and Milton Lowenthal, 1992.11.12.

A JOURNAL OF MELVILLE STUDIES 49 PETER WAYNE MOE argue that a sperm whale must have swallowed Jonah. His rationale: only a sperm whale’s throat is large enough to do so and sperm whales do not chew their prey but swallow it whole (Wilson 631-35; see also Dolin 84; Fox 296- 97; Hoare 154). Such speculation complicates the tomb-womb of the whale’s belly by way of calling into question the whale’s performance of gender. The sperm whale can be fi gured as masculine: his massive and phallic forehead, his creamy spermaceti, his very name, his aggression toward whaling ships. This hyper-masculine whale is now to become intensely feminine via its womb, a site of nurture, gestation, growth, offspring, and delivery. The tensions between life and death, damnation and redemption, masculine and feminine, and––most pressing––tomb and womb manifest by the whale’s belly are perhaps what afford Jamie’s and Ishmael’s and Jonah’s seeming ease therein. The whale’s womb offers a space for the entombed human to pause. Note the self-refl ection in Dan Albergotti’s “Things to Do in the Belly of a Whale,” the eleventh line’s “swallowed with all hope” echoing Jonah’s thankfulness: Measure the walls. Count the ribs. Notch the long days. Look up for blue sky through the spout. Make small fi res with the broken hulls of fi shing boats. Practice smoke signals. Call old friends, and listen for echoes of distant voices. Organize your calendar. Dream of the beach. Look each way for the dim glow of light. Work on your reports. Review each of your life’s ten million choices. Endure moments of self-loathing. Find the evidence of those before you. Destroy it. Try to be very quiet, and listen for the sound of gears and moving water. Listen for the sound of your heart. Be thankful that you are here, swallowed with all hope, where you can rest and wait. Be nostalgic. Think of all the things you did and could have done. Remember treading water in the center of the still night sea, your toes pointing again and again down, down into the black depths. (82) The poem’s imperative verbs call into question who its narrator is. The poem could be read as a Jonah recounting his/her experiences in the whale, respond- ing to the question of “What did you do in there?” with a litany along the lines of “You do this, you do that.” In this reading of the poem, the “you” of the imperative verbs is understood grammatically but––in a rhetorical sleight of hand––stands in for the speaker. But the poem could also be read as detached, hypothetical musings that suggest the narrator has never actually been within that whale’s belly, as in “You (I) could do this, you (I) could do that.” For if s/he had, why not speak in the fi rst person and in the past tense, as in, “I measured the ribs”? The tension concerning just who this narrator might be escalates as the

50 L EVIATHAN O F T O M B S A N D W O M B S imperative verbs and their understood “you” direct the reader too into the belly of the whale. Albergotti’s Jonah has an intimate knowledge of what goes on inside that belly––or what could happen there––and the narrator’s verbs foist readers into that space, a collective “you” understood to be residing within the poem, within the whale, alongside a speaker who may or may not be there as well.4 As for what does happen within the whale’s belly, Albergotti’s narrator begins, immediately, the work of orientation. “Measure the walls. Count the ribs. Notch the long days. / Look up for blue sky through the spout.” This is an effort to fi nd one’s self, to assess one’s surroundings. It is not unlike Ishmael’s impulse within the Arsacidean skeleton to measure it, “taking the altitude of the fi nal rib” (Moby-Dick 346). The “admeasurements” are “copied verbatim [on Ishmael’s] right arm,” as “there was no other secure way of preserving such valuable statistics” (346). These measurements are valuable not only because they relay information about the seemingly unknowable sperm whale, but also (and more importantly) because the whale is a holy place. Pardes suggests, “The detailed measuring of the whale skeleton in ‘A Bower in the Arsacides’ . . . leads us through Jonah to the detailed representations of the Tabernacle and the Temple” (65). After recounting numerous biblical measurements, Pardes concludes, “Every cubit of the Tabernacle and the Temple needs to be measured with the utmost care. Their very sacredness depends upon an aesthetics of precision, wherein measured materiality paradoxically bears witness to the deity who transcends it” (65). Recalling Cook’s account of Father Mapple’s sermon as an example of an “encounter with the anxieties of death and damnation and spontaneously leading to repentance and conversion” (57), and seeing the whale’s belly as a place where such an encounter can happen, Albergotti’s narrator’s impulse to measure the whale’s internal structure aligns with Pardes’s reading of Ishmael in the bower, both seeking to orient themselves within a holy structure, a place of confession and rebirth. After measuring the insides of the whale, Albergotti’s narrator turns to the offi ce: “Organize your calendar.” Distracted––“Dream of the beach”––the narrator’s mind wanders again toward escape, an escape considered early in the poem via “smoke signals” made from “small fi res” but now considered through other routes: “Look each way / for the dim glow of light.” Escape not feasible, the narrator returns to the language of the cubicle: “Work on your reports.” The imperative “Review” of “Review / each of your life’s ten million choices” has this offi ce-quality about it as well. At 15 lines, the poem behaves like a sonnet, a turn coming at line nine with “Try to be very quiet,” the narrator now quiet, listening, thankful, hopeful, resting, waiting, nostalgic, thoughtful, remembering. The refl ective second half of the poem departs from the active fi rst half, the inversion not unlike that of Jonah’s chiastic prayer.

A JOURNAL OF MELVILLE STUDIES 51 PETER WAYNE MOE

Cistern and Buckets: Deliverance

ir Francis Fox, the English civil engineer, wrote Sixty-Three Years of Engineering, Scientifi c, and Social Work as three parts, the fi rst telling of Shis father, the second addressing “Railways and Tunnels,” and the third collecting “miscellaneous memories and topics, which could not be grouped under either of the above-named headings” (vii). Within that miscellany, in an essay on the plausibility of Jonah being swallowed by a whale, Fox recounts the 1891 tale of James Bartley. Bartley’s boat “was upset by a lash of [a sperm whale’s] tale,” the men going overboard (299). Bartley could not be found. The whale was eventually slain, and the crew, cleaning it, “were startled by something in it which gave spasmodic signs of life, and inside was found the missing sailor doubled up and unconscious” (299). Bartley appears here as a newborn, “doubled up” in the fetal position. Hoare, in telling Bartley’s story, elaborates on this fetal metaphor: “where he had been exposed to the animal’s gastric juices, his skin had been bleached white, like some ghastly full-grown fœtus” (154). Fox imagines what it may have been like, from Bartley’s perspective, to be inside the whale: “It fi nally dawned upon him that he had been swallowed by the whale, and he was overcome by horror at the situation. . . . He knew there was no hope of escape from his strange prison. He tried to look at it bravely, but the terrible quiet, darkness and heat, combined with the horrible knowledge of his environment, overcame him” (300). During his time in the whale’s belly, Bartley went mad, and upon his deliverance “was placed in the captain’s quarters, where he remained two weeks a raving lunatic” (299). Bart- ley soon “regained possession of his senses” and “resumed his duties” (299). Bartley’s cesarean birth is echoed in the following account from Egerton Davis. Davis was a surgeon aboard the schooner Toulinguet, “one of a consider- able fl eet of wooden ships bent on the winter’s take of seal pups.” In February or March of 1893 or 1894, a man went overboard “in the proximity of a huge sperm whale,” Davis writes, and “The whale was apparently as lost and out of season in those Arctic waters as he was confused and angered by the sudden appearance of a fl eet of ships and men” (241). The sailor swallowed, his shipmates shot the whale with a cannon. The men found the dead whale the next day, and “by a val- iant effort and many hours of hard labor, were able to hack their way through his abdomen below the diaphragm and isolate his huge gas-fi lled ‘upper stomach,’ which apparently contained their comrade” (241). Davis cut into the stomach and found the dead shipmate, chest crushed, body covered in “the whale’s gastric mucosa” (241). The birthing metaphors in Davis’s account are hard to miss, the use of “hard labor,” the cesarean imagery, the shipmate covered in bodily fl uids all reminiscent of Bartley’s tale two years prior.5

52 L EVIATHAN O F T O M B S A N D W O M B S

The other means of delivery would be through the mouth––as with Jonah’s deliverance, or Pinocchio and Geppetto’s escape from Monstro––which could equate to vaginal birth in that such delivery is performed without a surgeon’s intervention. Consider this 1771 account from The Massachusetts Gazette, and Boston Post-Boy and the Advertiser, which I quote in full: “We hear from Edgar- town, that a Vessel lately arrived there from a Whaling Voyage; and that in her Voyage, one Marshal Jenkins, with others, being in a Boat that struck a Whale, she turn’d and bit the Boat in two, took said Jenkins in her Mouth, and went down with him; but on her rising threw him into one part, from whence he was taken on board the Vessel by the Crew, being much bruis’d; and that in about a Fortnight after, he perfectly recovered. This account we have from undoubted Authority” (585).6 The encyclopedic Melville does not reference Jenkins, but Melville does play with this birthing metaphor in “Cistern and Buckets.” As the Pequod’s crew extracts spermaceti from the forehead of a whale strapped to the side of the ship, Ishmael watches as Tashtego falls into “this great Tun of Heidelburgh, and with a horrible oily gurgling, [it] went clean out of sight!” (271). The head detaches from the Pequod and begins “sinking utterly down to the bottom of the sea,” Tashtego entombed inside (271). Queequeg dives after him, cuts a slit in the head, reaches in an arm, and tries to deliver Tashtego: “He [Queequeg] averred, that upon ﬁ rst thrusting in for him, a leg was presented; but well knowing that that was not as it ought to be, and might occasion great trouble;––he had thrust back the leg, and by a dexterous heave and toss, had wrought a somerset upon the Indian; so that with the next trial, he came forth in the good old way––head foremost” (272). Melville brings the birthing metaphor to the fore: “And thus, through the courage and great skill in obstetrics of Queequeg, the deliverance, or rather, delivery of Tashtego was successfully accomplished” (272). Queequeg initiates a cesarean by slicing into the whale, and he must wrestle a breech baby before delivering his Jonah.

Jonah Historically Regarded: Appropriations

ith Queequeg’s deliverance of Tashtego, Melville contributes to a long tradition rooted in one of the earliest retellings of Jonah, a Wscene from the Gospels in which the Pharisees and Scribes con- front Jesus of Nazareth, demanding a sign that he is the Messiah: “But He answered and said to them, ‘An evil and adulterous generation craves for a sign; and yet no sign will be given to it but the sign of Jonah the prophet; for just as Jonah was three days and three nights in the belly of the sea monster, so will the Son of Man be three days and three nights in the heart of the earth’”

A JOURNAL OF MELVILLE STUDIES 53 PETER WAYNE MOE

(Matt. 12.39-40; see also Matt. 16.1-4 and Luke 11.29-32). Jesus’s response is curious not only for the parallel he draws between himself and Jonah, but more so for what he does not say. He does not refer to his Davidic lineage, or Mosaic, Adamic (as Paul would later do), or prophetic models. Nor does he perform another healing or miracle or exorcism. He chooses instead to go to Jonah, to the image of a man entombed within and rebirthed from the belly of a whale. Jesus tells a fi sh story. In the only biblical repurposing of Jonah’s story, Jesus contributes to Jonah’s recirculation, a recirculation Ishmael points to in “The Honor and Glory of Whal- ing,” the chapter setting Jonah alongside Perseus, St. George, Hercules, and Vish- noo [sic], the “many great demi-gods and heroes, prophets of all sorts, who one way or another have shed distinction upon [whaling]” (Moby-Dick 284). Amid the retellings Ishmael mentions and those I cite are multiple shifts in genre, from an initial biblical narrative to prophecy to Greek myth to medieval art to poetry to comic books to rock and roll and folk music to moralistic children’s stories to sailors’ yarns that want to be heard––that beg to be heard––as true. As Jonah’s tale is retold, the story exhibits what Ridolfo and DeVoss call “rhetorical velocity,” a term which refers to the speed at which a text circulates as well as the ways in which that text is repurposed: “rhetorical velocity is the strategic theorizing for how a text might be recomposed (and why it might be recomposed) by third parties, and how this recomposing may be useful or not to the short- or long-term rhetorical objectives of the rhetorician.” Such repurposing is evident in these re-compositions of Jonah. Consider, for example, how the story’s details change depending on its rhetorical context. As noted earlier, a sperm whale is the only whale capable of swallowing a human; con- sequently, retellings striving for veracity––such as Bartley’s––prefer the sperm whale for obvious reasons. But many other whales appear in Jonah analogues. When the narrative is repurposed in a Batman comic book, it is a killer whale, the killer mythos and name adding much to the story, the black and white orca making for compelling visuals in the pages of Detective Comics (Snyder). When Finding Nemo appropriates Jonah, a blue whale swallows the movie’s protag- onists, a sensible choice given the blue’s proclivity for the Australian waters depicted in the fi lm. (See fi gure 3.) And when Harry Houdini became a Jonah on 26 September 1911, it may not have been a whale at all that he escaped from on the stage of Boston’s B. F. Keith’s Theatre. Hands and feet bound in chains, it took Houdini 15 minutes to undo his shackles and emerge “greasy but grin- ning” from the belly of what was billed as the “What-is-it?” Sea Beast caught by local fi sherman, the mystery monster certainly adding to the spectacle (Silver- man 162; see also Cox).

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Fig. 3: The fi fteenth-century illuminated manuscript The Ranworth Antiphoner makes a similar move as Finding Nemo by using a local fi sh in “Jonah and the Big Fish.” The Parish Churches of Ranworth note that pike is “The biggest fi sh in this part of the world,” and the Church suggests it is a pike here disgorging Jonah. Pike can grow upwards of fi ve feet––not large enough to swallow a human, but certainly large enough to set off the imagination. Image courtesy of Ranworth PCC.

The repurposing and recomposition of Jonah is perhaps most evident in children’s stories. Aside from Pinocchio’s Monstro––a sperm whale––children’s stories often retain the tomb-womb trope but change the animal host. For instance, in Maurice Sendak’s Pierre, a Cautionary Tale in Five Chapters and a Prologue, a lion eats the obstinate, defi ant Pierre, a boy “who would only say, / ‘I don’t care!’” Within the lion’s belly, Pierre’s demeanor changes, and upon his deliverance (in a doctor’s offi ce, no less), another redeemed Jonah learns to care. A similar re-composition happens in The Avengers. Ironman faces an aerial, serpentine beast that the script calls a “Chitauri Leviathan.” As Ironman fl ies toward the leviathan, he quips to his computer, “Jarvis, you ever hear the tale of Jonah?” before hurling himself into the gaping maw of the creature, setting off a series of explosions before exiting its rear end, a self-sacrifi ce not unlike Jonah’s to save his fellow sailors.

A JOURNAL OF MELVILLE STUDIES 55 PETER WAYNE MOE

I am not concerned whether the biblical Jonah is the fi rst of these whale tales. Rather, at issue is the story’s rhetorical velocity, its capacity to be forged into multiple contexts, shaped toward a variety of ends, refi gured for endless purposes. For instance, when Fox points to Bartley in 1924, it is as proof for the plausibility of Jonah’s tale: Fox responds to those who see Jonah as a “stumbling block” to the faith (295, 301-02). Bartley’s story, then, has been given theological signifi cance.7 Three years later, John Wilson, in an essay published in Princeton Theological Review, makes the same move as Fox citing Bartley. But Wilson then adds the Jenkins story in his effort to establish Jonah as factual. For both Fox and Wilson, these stories are true and are told as true, but twenty years later, in 1947, a shift occurs. William Kastner writes to Natural History asking for verifi cation of Bartley’s story. Robert Murphy responds, attempting to debunk Bartley. Kastner and Murphy model a way to write skeptically about Bartley. Brown and Gambell (1993) and Wainwright (1993), follow suit, mentioning Bartley to disprove his story. In recent years Dolin (2007) and Hoare (2010) both refrain from passing judgment on Bartley’s tale. The pendulum has swung from one extreme to the other and now moves back to the center. Bartley’s tale, no longer uncontestable truth or fabricated fable, is instead presented as something uncertain.8 Yet, whether fact, fi ction, or somewhere in between, many writers who recirculate these stories document their research, pointing back to their sources. Kastner opens his letter “I read in one of the popular magazines an apparently sincere account of a man who was swallowed by a whale in 1891 and lived to tell the tale” (145). Brown and Gambell begin, “The story of James Bartley, who is said to have survived being swallowed by a sperm whale, appears in print from time to time,” and they boast of having found “at least 20 references” to Bartley’s account from 1891 to 1993 (87). The Massachusetts Gazette begins its telling of Jenkins’s story with “We hear from Edgartown” and fi nishes with “This account we have from undoubted Authority.” When recounting Bartley’s story, Fox is quick to assure readers of its veracity. Fox notes that the tale stems from two accounts––“One evidently by the captain of the whaler; the other probably by one of the offi cers”––and Fox reassures readers that “The incident was carefully investigated by two scientists––one of whom was the late M. de Parville, the scientifi c editor of the Journal des Débats of Paris, well known as a man of sound judgment and a careful writer” (298). When Wilson retells Bartley via Fox, he mentions Fox’s sources. Dolin mentions The Massachusetts Gazette to get to Jenkins, but skips over Wilson and Fox and instead uses Kast- ner to get to Bartley. In contrast, Hoare goes through Wilson (but not Fox) to get to Bartley, mentioning Jenkins (but not by name, nor in reference to The Massachusetts Gazette) along the way. Both Dolin and Hoare cite Davis, though Dolin directly and Hoare via Scheffer.

56 L EVIATHAN O F T O M B S A N D W O M B S

Of the Less Erroneous Pictures of Whales: Investigations

y last two paragraphs collect a barrage of names, and that is the point. The Jonah narrative circulates in multiple contexts, so much Mso that numerous writers can retell the same stories from different sources. There is a genealogy of storytelling here––a messy one, at that––a recirculation that can be traced through the resurfacings and re-compositions of these various narratives. This recirculation extends beyond the stories of Jenkins, Bartley, and Davis, beyond Melville’s use of Jonah, beyond the numerous appropriations of Jonah gathered here, and it points to the larger question of why the image of a human within the belly of a whale has such currency. I would propose that Jonah has its rhetorical velocity because the story is, at its core, an archetypal metaphor that teaches about the unknown. Aristotle reminds us that metaphors teach by joining two objects (218-21). In this case, those objects are the concept of entrapment and the mysteries of the whale. This is an animal, Hoare reminds us, about which we know very little: “Even now there are beaked whales or ziphiids, known only from bones washed up on remote beaches––esoteric, deep-sea animals with strange markings which biologists have never seen alive or dead, so little studied that their status is ‘data defi cient.’ New cetaceans are still being identifi ed in the twenty-fi rst century, and we would do well to remember that the world harbours animals big- ger than ourselves, which we have yet to see; that not everything is catalogued and claimed and digitized. That in the oceans swim great whales unnamed by man” (31). Recirculating Jonah constitutes an effort to understand this whale by means of metaphor. Metaphor allows a way of thinking about the animal that quantifi cation alone, that data alone, cannot. Ishmael knows this. In “Measurement of the Whale’s Skeleton,” he offers data on the sperm whale––“the largest in magnitude, between eighty-fi ve and ninety feet in length, and something less than forty feet in its fullest circum- ference, such a whale will weigh at least ninety tons” (Moby-Dick 347). The skeleton Ishmael measured was seventy-two feet, its skull and jaw twenty, its backbone fi fty. The fi rst rib was six feet, the middle ribs “eight feet and some inches” (348). But Ishmael soon realizes the futility of his measurements: “How vain and foolish, then, thought I, for timid untraveled man to try to compre- hend aright this wondrous whale, by merely poring over his dead attenuated skeleton, stretched in this peaceful wood. No. Only in the heart of quickest perils; only when within the eddyings of his angry fl ukes; only on the profound unbounded sea, can the fully invested whale be truly and livingly found out” (348). In light of Pardes’s likening of Ishmael’s skeletal measurements to the measurements of the Temple and Tabernacle (65), the above passage echoes

A JOURNAL OF MELVILLE STUDIES 57 PETER WAYNE MOE

King Solomon’s dedication of the Temple. After building the Temple according to God’s meticulous measurements and directives, Solomon laments, “But will God indeed dwell on the earth? Behold, heaven and the highest heaven cannot contain You, how much less this house which I have built!” (1 Kings 8.27; see also 2 Chron. 6.18). Solomon desires to know his God beyond the bounds of the Temple; so too Ishmael and his whale. Ishmael longs to know the whale, yet he realizes that measurement alone cannot fully account for the complex- ities, the nuances, and the dynamism of the whale. As such, Ishmael wants an experience of the “fully invested” whale, which can only “be truly and livingly” encountered “on the profound and unbounded sea” (348). This experiential knowledge begs for, and begets, both metaphor and narrative. Ishmael (or any other whaler) sees something he has never seen before and must resort to language––to metaphor––to make sense of it. He must pair the unknown with what he knows, and as such the whale is fi g- ured as large, monstrous, encompassing. These metaphors become imbedded in, and foundational to, the narratives that are told and then retold about the event. And so, Melville opens Moby-Dick with his “Extracts,” recounting and recirculating stories of the whale, those stories both fi guring and fi gured by metaphor. Other scholars––notably Olsen-Smith on Melville’s use of Beale’s Natural History of the Sperm Whale and Pardes on Melville’s use of Kitto’s Cyclo- pedia of Biblical Literature––have already shown that repurposing and re-composition are integral parts of Melville’s method. Melville’s contribution to, and celebration of, the recirculation of his various sources is also, I suggest, a means of initiating an inquiry. Melville appropriates a narrative within a new context, which allows him to explore its nuances in ways that merely retelling it alone would preclude. This project begins in the “Extracts,” which form an introduc- tion to, and model of, his method. As a method, recirculation affords a means of inquiry into the tale being repurposed, as each recycling of it necessarily moves certain aspects of the narrative to the center while pushing others to the margins. In the case of Jonah, this recirculation affords Melville multiple avenues into complicating the whale, the human, and the relationship between the two, as well as a means to explore the multiple paradoxes found within the whale’s belly, paradoxes that various Jonahs emphasize in ways particular and peculiar to their own repurposing of the tale. Each of these Jonahs bears upon its analogues, an interpretation of one necessarily shaping an interpretation of the others. These stories, then, not only prompt a rereading of Jonah, but they speak to the malleability of narrative and of metaphor and the ways both are consciously reshaped, repurposed, and retold. And, for the whale in particular, Jonah’s rhetorical velocity speaks to the desire––yet, and unlikely, to be sated–– to understand this animal, this leviathan, from within its belly.

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Notes I thank Sam Hamilton, Dave Bartholomae, Jamie Staples, and Aaron Moe for each adding to my archive of Jonahs; Samuel Otter and Brian Yothers and the Leviathan reviewers for insightful feedback on drafts of this essay; and Jenna Moe for helping me think through these ideas many, many times. I also thank the following for their kind permissions: Terje Lislevand for his photo of the humpback’s ribcage; the Brooklyn Museum for image of Flannagan’s Jonah and the Whale: Rebirth Motif; Dan Albergotti and BOA Editions for “Things to Do in the Belly of the Whale;” and Reverend Nick Garrard and the Ranworth PCC for image of “Jonah and the Big Fish.” 1 This essay is the third in a series of whale-related pieces. The fi rst, “Sounding the Depths of the Whale,” is forthcoming in ISLE: Interdisciplinary Studies in Literature and Environment. The second, “Of Chiasms and Composition, or, The Whale, Part II,” appears in Reader: Essays in Read- er-Oriented Theory, Criticism, and Pedagogy 65/66 (Fall 2013/Spring 2014). 2 Chiasms appear in the original Hebrew through the repetition of diction and syntax. I use the New American Standard Bible because it retains, as best it can, the linguistic textures of the original. The chiasm offered here is a variation of William Ramey’s reading of Jonah 2. See also Kenneth Craig and Phyllis Tribble for chiasm within the book of Jonah. 3 On Melville’s own use of Hell-mouth imagery, see Cook 48-49. 4 Bruce Springsteen’s “Swallowed Up (In the Belly of the Whale)” makes a similar move, its fi rst verse sung by a fi rst-person Jonah––“I fell asleep on a dark and starless sea”––its chorus resorting to a plural subject––“We’ve been swallowed up.” If this is a chorus in the ancient sense (a communal commentary on the events of a play) Springsteen’s choral “We” is an effort akin to Albergotti’s, each placing the audience inside the belly of the whale. 5 See also Detective Comics 876-878, a three-issue story arc with similar cesarean overtones. A dead killer whale mysteriously appears in the lobby of a Gotham Bank. Batman investigates, taking the orca to the Batcave and performing an autopsy with Commissioner Gordon looking on. Shortly after Batman cuts into the whale’s belly, a dead woman––nude––falls from its underside. 6 One might expect Jenkins to be front-page material (the lead that day is “A Review of the present State of the War between the Russians and Turks” [583]), but Jenkins is relegated to the Gazette’s third page, buried amid a list of maritime happenings, of ships arriving in Boston in various states of disarray and disrepair (585). 7 In addition to his theological aims, Fox pushes an environmental message via Bartley, asking “whether it is not time that some steps of an international character were taken to prevent over fi shing, and the eventual extinction of these splendid creatures?” (302). Because whales are “splendid creatures” on the verge of extinction, Fox pushes for oversight of an unruly whaling industry. The whales’ majesty is the premise for their preservation, but Fox arrives at whales being “splendid creatures” in a somewhat unexpected manner: whales, in his argument, are splendid because of their ability, and potential, to swallow a human. 8 As with Bartley’s story, Davis’s has its conventional retellings. Davis tells his story in response to Murphy’s initial questioning of Bartley’s account as a confi rmation of Bartley and a rebuttal to Murphy’s doubts. Davis thus models a particular way his story would be told. See Schef- fer, Dolin, and Hoare, three writers who without asserting its veracity each use Davis’s story in the same spirit as Davis originally offered it, as corroboration of Bartley’s.

Works Cited Albergotti, Dan. “Things to Do in the Belly of the Whale.” The Boatloads. Rochester: BOA Editions, Ltd., 2008. 82. Print. Aristotle. On Rhetoric: A Theory of Civic Discourse. Trans. George A. Kennedy. 2nd ed. New York: Oxford UP, 2007. Print. The Avengers. Dir. Josh Whedon. Prod. Kevin Feige. Marvel Studios, 2012. Film. Brown, Sidney G., and Ray Gambell. “Was James Bartley Swallowed by a Whale?” Mariner’s Mirror 79.1 (Feb. 1993): 87-88. Print. Cook, Jonathan A. Inscrutable Malice: Theodicy, Eschatology, and the Biblical Sources of Moby-Dick. Dekalb: Northern Illinois UP, 2012. Print. Craig, Kenneth M., Jr. A Poetics of Jonah: Art in the Service of Ideology. Columbia: U of South Car- olina P, 1993. Print.

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Cox, John. “When Houdini Escaped the Belly of the Beast.” Wild about Harry. 28 June 2013. Web. 03 Sept. 2014. Davis, Egerton Y. “Man in Whale.” Natural History 56.6 (June 1947): 241. Print. Dolin, Eric Jay. Leviathan: The History of Whaling in America. New York: W. W. Norton, 2007. Print. Doyle, Brian. “Joyas Volardores.” The American Scholar 73.4 (Autumn 2004): 25-27. Print. Finding Nemo. Dir. Andrew Stanton. Prod. Graham Walters. Disney, 2003. Film. Fox, Sir Francis. Sixty-Three Years of Engineering, Scientiﬁ c and Social Work. London: John Murray, 1924. Openlibrary.org. Web. 19 Oct. 2013. Hoare, Philip. The Whale: In Search of the Giants of the Sea. New York: HarperCollins, 2010. Print. Jamie, Kathleen. “The Hvalsalen.” Sightlines. London: Sort of Books, 2012. 95-119. Print. Kastner, William. “Man in Whale.” Natural History 56.4 (Apr. 1947): 145. Print. The Massachusetts Gazette, and Boston Post-Boy and the Advertiser. 14 Oct. 1771, No. 738: 583-86. The Annotated Newspapers of Harbottle Dorr, Jr. Massachusetts Historical Society. Web. 19 Oct. 2013. “maw, n.1.” Oxford English Dictionary Online. Oxford UP, September 2013. Web. 25 Oct. 2013. Melville, Herman. Moby-Dick: A Norton Critical Edition. 2nd ed. Ed. Hershel Parker and Harrison Hayford. New York: W. W. Norton, 2002. Print. Merwin, W. S., trans. “Patience: A Midlands Poem of the Fourteenth Century.” American Poetry Review 31.4 (July/Aug. 2002): 3-7. JSTOR. Web. 13 Nov. 2012. Murphy, Robert Cushman. Response to “Man in Whale.” Natural History 56.4 (Apr. 1947): 145, 190. Print. New American Standard Bible. Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1995. Print. The New Lost City Ramblers. “The Old Fish Song.” 50 Years: Where Do You Come From? Where Do You Go? The New Lost City Ramblers. Prod. John Cohen, Tracey Schwarz, and Mike Seeger, 2009. CD. Olsen-Smith, Steven. “Melville’s Copy of Thomas Beale’s The Natural History of the Sperm Whale and the Composition of Moby-Dick.” Harvard Library Bulletin 21.3 (Fall 2010): 1-77. http:// works.bepress.com/steven_olsen-smith/4. Web. 05 Apr. 2014. Pardes, Ilana. Melville’s Bibles. Berkeley: U of California P, 2008. Print. Pinocchio. Dir. Ben Sharpsteen and Hamilton Luske. Prod. Walt Disney. Disney, 1940. Film. Ramey, William D. “Literary Analysis of Jonah.” In the Beginning. July 1997. Web. 21 Nov. 2012. Ridolfo, Jim, and Dànielle Nicole DeVoss. “Composing for Recomposition: Rhetorical Velocity and Delivery.” Kairos: A Journal of Rhetoric 13.2 (Spring 2009): n. pag. Kairos. Web. 04 Apr. 2014. Scheffer, Victor B. The Year of the Whale. New York: Scribner, 1969. Print. Sendak, Maurice. Pierre, A Cautionary Tale in Five Chapters and a Prologue. New York: HarperCol- lins, 1992. Print. Silverman, Kenneth. Houdini!!! The Career of Ehrich Weiss. New York: HarperCollins, 1996. Print. Snyder, Scott, writer. Art by Jock. “Hungry City.” Detective Comics 876-878. New York: DC Comics, 2011. Print. Springsteen, Bruce. “Swallowed Up (In the Belly of the Whale).” Wrecking Ball. Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band. Prod. Ron Aniello and Bruce Springsteen, 2012. MP3. Tribble, Phyllis. Rhetorical Criticism: Context, Method, and the Book of Jonah. Minneapolis: Fortress P, 1994. Print. Wainwright, Brian H. “Was James Bartley Swallowed by a Whale?” Mariner’s Mirror 79.3 (Aug. 1993): 356. Print. Wilson, Ambrose John. “The Sign of the Prophet Jonah and Its Modern Conﬁ rmations.” Princeton Theological Review 25.4 (Oct. 1927): 630-42. Princeton Theological Seminary. Web. 03 May 2013.

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