"Είναι ολοφάνερο πως η ανάγκη της φάλαινας να ανεβαίνει στον αφρό είναι αυτή που την εκθέτει σε όλους τους θανάσιμους κινδύνους, που εγκυμονεί γι' αυτήν το κυνήγι."

" Τι άλλο εκτός από Κατοχυρωμένα Θηράματα είναι τα Ανθρώπινα Δικαιώματα και οι Ελευθερίες του Κόσμου;"

"Όσο κι αν ο άνθρωπος αγαπά το συνάνθρωπό του, δεν παύει να είναι πλάσμα που έχει την τάση να βγάζει λεφτά, κι αυτή η τάση συγκρούεται πολύ συχνά με την καλοσύνη του."

Θα μπορούσα να συγκρίνω, έχοντας πολύ φρέσκο τον Άρθουρ Γκόρντον Πιμ του Πόε, αλλά δεν έχει μεγάλη σημασία. Είναι απλώς δύο πρωτότυπα και ιδιόμορφα αριστουργήματα, για διαφορετικούς λόγους το καθένα. Η μεγάλη τους διαφορά είναι η ευκολία με την οποία διαβάζονται. Σαφώς πολύ δυσκολότερα ο Μόμπυ Ντικ, με πολλά κουραστικά σημεία, περιττά ίσως. Αυτό βέβαια δεν επηρέασε, τελικά την κρίση μου, έχοντας διαβάσει Πύντσον και ενάντια στη μέρα, έμαθα κατά κάποιο τρόπο να έχω την υπομονή που απαιτούν τέτοια έργα για να κερδίσεις αυτό που πρέπει.

Θα κάνω μια, μη αναμενόμενη, σύγκριση με τους " Πράσινους λόφους της Αφρικής" του Hemingway. Συνάντησα τεράστια διαφορά από κυνήγι σε κυνήγι. Στον Μόμπυ Ντικ ήταν ξεκάθαρος ο θαυμασμός στο ζώο αυτό για το οποίο αφιέρωσε μισό βιβλίο, σαν να ήταν εγκυκλοπαίδεια, σε ένα κυνήγι που το ζώο δεν "έπαιζε" άνισα απέναντι στον άνθρωπο.

Αν εξαιρέσω την πλοκή, τις πληροφορίες για την φάλαινα, τα ιστορικά στοιχεία κτλ, ήταν ένα βιβλίο με βάθος φιλοσοφικό. Αυτό όμως στο οποίο θέλω να σταθώ περισσότερο, είναι ότι υπήρχαν στιγμές που οι τόσο ζωντανές περιγραφές μου έδιναν την εντύπωση πως παρακολουθώ τους "Πειρατές της Καραϊβικής". Κάτι που πολύ σπάνια το εχω συναντήσει σε βιβλίο.

A public house in Pittsfield, Mass. Two men are at the bar: the bearded man stands, the mustachioed man sits. They take a drink of ale and the bearded man speaks.

Melville: I'm doing it. I've decided.

Hawthorne: Doing what?

Melville: Writing my sodomy book.

Hawthorne: Herman...

Melville: Nathaniel...

Hawthorne: It is unwise.

Melville: Well...it's about sodomites more than sodomy.

Hawthorne: Why would you do this?

Melville: Sodomy exists, Nathaniel, and someone needs to write about it. It might as well be me.

Hawthorne: You will be crucified.

Melville: (laughing) By whom?

Hawthorne: Everyone! The critics, everyone. Your writing career will be over.

Melville: I've already begun the writing.

Hawthorne: It is a waste of time. You should stop. Write another sea tale.

Melville: Aaah, but that's why this is genius. It is a sea tale. I'm writing about whaling, a giant sperm whale, shipboard camaraderie, obsession. There'll be a chapter dedicated to ambergris...or lovemaking depending on your perspective. But no one will ever know it's about sodomites.

Hawthorne: Then why do it? If no one will know what you do then there is no point.

Melville: We'll know.

Hawthorne: I thought you were above such egotistical conceit.

Melville: It isn't conceit. This is a story that needs to be told. You haven't been to sea, Nathaniel. It is part of the life out there. Even for those of us who do not take part, sodomy is always there. It is the secret life of sailors. And this story needs to be told for them, for everyone.

Hawthorne: Yet they will not know. You say yourself that no one will know what you've written, just us. Just you and I.

Melville: Some others will know. Literate sailors. Sodomites. Some will figure it out. Not everyone will miss the point.

Hawthorne: That, then, is from whence the trouble will come. It is folly.

Melville shakes his head and pulls an empty stool over to rest on. Hawthorne finishes his ale and calls for another. A fresh mug is set before him

Hawthorne: So what are you calling it?

Melville: Moby-Dick.

Hawthorne: Subtle.

Melville: (shaking his head wryly) Just for that, I'm dedicating it to you.

Hawthorne: You wouldn't dare! (pause) Yes, yes you would.

Melville: Mmmmhmmm.

Hawthorne: What does Lizzy think?

Melville: She doesn't know.

Hawthorne: You are truly a fool, Herman. (Melville shrugs as Hawthorne raises his fresh ale in a toast) To folly.

Melville: I'll drink to that.

So you want to go a-readin’, do ye? Well, it’s a dangerous, thankless business, readin’. What? Still interested? Well, I must hasten to inform ye that readin’ has been banned and outlawed on the highest authority, on account of books being endangered and all. So you must form another dangerous, thankless plan.
tt
Ah, persistent I see. Well, come a little closer. Let me whisper in your ear. I know a crew that still reads. Yes, The Pequod is the ship. It’s manned by one Captain Ahab. Oh, he mumbles a lot to himself, but he’s no bad fellow. They depart tomorrow, to circle the wide oceans of the globe in search of books. You’re interested? Good. I’ll see you next day then. And who am I? Call me Ishmael.
tt
Welcome aboard, man. This is Starbuck, the first mate. This here is Stubb, that’s Flask. That’s my good buddy, Queequeg. Hey Queequeg!
tt
Now listen. There’s something I have to tell you. The captain—Captain Ahab, that is—has got something quite into his head of late. Well, you see his false leg? His real one was taken off by a book. But no ordinary book was this. It was a legendary, ferocious, vicious book. The Great White Book: Moby Dick. He has vowed revenge on this book, and is willing to sacrifice life and limb and crew and ship to get it.
tt
Ah, but how can a book be so dangerous? After all, we read books every week, some twice as big as Moby Dick. Well, let me tell ye. Moby Dick starts off as a novel. A regular, even pleasant one at that. But then, one hundred odd pages in, the book turns into something far stranger. First, a classificatory system of whales is proposed (which is highly inaccurate, I hasten to add). Then, the color white is dwelt upon. Then follows an extraordinarily detailed exploration of the anatomy of whales. These anatomical descriptions get so minute that one wonders whether one is reading Gray’s Anatomy. Also included are bizarre literary experiments—Shakespeare parodies, philosophical musings, etc., etc.
tt
The seeming irrelevancy of the huge middle chunk of the book is what is so dangerous about it. For, instead of it being a mere exercise in God-know’s-what, it is, in fact, a metaphorical exploration of nothing less than all of history and knowledge. Yes, indeed it is so. The water, the masts, the ship-mates, the captain, the whole damn thing is one gigantic, ever-changing metaphor.
tt
And what of the whale that gives the book its title? What does Moby Dick signify?
tt
Is Moby Dick nature, punishing the whalers for their slaughter of innocent creatures? Is he Melville’s struggle with greatness? Is he God? Or is Moby Dick simply fate? What about evil incarnate? Or, is Moby Dick a kind of pre-Freudian psychological device?—the object of Ahab’s displaced fears, hopes, and anger? Is Moby Dick a phallic symbol? A ram-shaped whale, filled with white spermaceti, named dick… And, while we’re at it, we can ask whether Moby Dick is a kind of allegory for the white race. It is telling that the three harpooners are “savages” (to use Melville’s term), and that the whale is distinguished by his whiteness.
tt
So now, do you foresee the challenge? It is a test of endurance to withstand the dry sections of description, and a test of reflection to ponder out the various significations of the actions depicted. So absolutely distinct and surpassingly brilliant is this book that it falls into no category, and can be called by no name. No name, that is, save one: Moby Dick.

Totally extraordinary - both poles of its critical reception shock me: the half-century of complete obscurity and its current status as a G.A.N.. Because this is one weird book. It's a perfect example of experimental form melding with and amplifying content. Ishmael's fundamental digressiveness and lexicographic drive allows H.M. the room to get all the way into the particulars of his research. It's a treat - and I think, necessarily, a lost thing - to read a book that is so proud of, that RELISHES, the work that went into its bibliography. The contrast with Ahab's monomania is incredibly effective. And what a treat to read a book that invites every interpretation without ever landing anywhere.

t tried reading this about ten years ago and just had no chance. The intertextuality, the lack of narrative drive, and the difficulty of the language murdered me. I imagine I'll like it even more ten years from now.

I'll finish by saying that this paragraph from the brief chapter, "The Lee Shore," might be about the prettiest thing I've ever read:

" When on that shivering winter’s night, the Pequod thrust her vindictive bows into the cold malicious waves, who should I see standing at her helm but Bulkington! I looked with sympathetic awe and fearfulness upon the man, who in mid-winter just landed from a four years’ dangerous voyage, could so unrestingly push off again for still another tempestuous term. The land seemed scorching to his feet. Wonderfullest things are ever the unmentionable; deep memories yield no epitaphs; this six-inch chapter is the stoneless grave of Bulkington. Let me only say that it fared with him as with the storm-tossed ship, that miserably drives along the leeward land. The port would fain give succor; the port is pitiful; in the port is safety, comfort, hearthstone, supper, warm blankets, friends, all that’s kind to our mortalities. But in that gale, the port, the land, is that ship’s direst jeopardy; she must fly all hospitality; one touch of land, though it but graze the keel, would make her shudder through and through. With all her might she crowds all sail off shore; in so doing, fights ‘gainst the very winds that fain would blow her homeward; seeks all the lashed sea’s landlessness again; for refuge’s sake forlornly rushing into peril; her only friend her bitterest foe!"

I first read Moby-Dick as part of a college English course, and it is true that being guided by a professor through this book is a great advantage in appreciating it's beauty. Melville's use of symbolism is not always obvious, and the course I took uncovered interesting symbols that Melville skillfully built into the text; my professor also explained Melville's personal history, as a sailor and as a man. Later, I read other works by Melville, and in Billy Budd in particular, Melville worked in the Pagan symbolism of the Celtic god Bud-dugre, also known as Budd. In any of Melville's books there is a lot going on at many levels, but almost none of it is obvious, nor did he mean it to be. Melville said to Hawthorne about Moby-Dick, "I have written a very wicked book". As we now know, Melville was almost certainly bisexual, in light of which Ishmael's relationship with Queequeg makes more sense than it did to me when I first read the book, but one can also read the bedfellows scene with the humor which Melville also intended. Speaking of which there is plenty of humor in Moby-Dick, from the argument between the Quaker owners over Ishmael's "lay", to the cook preaching to the sharks, to the various exploits of Flask and Stubb. In a more dramatic vein, the sermon about Jonah by Father Mapple is a highlight of the book, in my opinion.

Others have noted the strange "digression" chapters in the book, like Cetology, etc. My professor said to skip them and keep to the main narrative, and that was good advice for a first read, although I did read them later. It is hard for us in the 21st Century to understand how authors in the 19th Century wrote for their audiences; before the internet, before TV, before movies, there were only books for entertainment, so readers wanted their books long, and digressions were welcome because they added to the length of the narrative. Remember that the main contemporaneous criticism of Lincoln's Gettysburg Address, arguably the greatest eulogy ever written, was that it was too short by an hour or so.

The story of Ahab gripped me from the start; perhaps because I knew a man like him, but his steely determination is strangely attractive, at least to me, as when Starbuck tries to "swerve him" from his crazy pursuit of the White Whale:

“Swerve me? The path to my fixed purpose is laid with iron rails, whereon my soul is grooved to run. Over unsounded gorges, through the rifled hearts of mountains, under torrents' beds, unerringly I rush! Naught's an obstacle, naught's an angle to the iron way!”

Or his outburst "Who's over me? By god, I'd strike the sun if it insulted me!" Poor Starbuck, the good man, borne along, tethered to the obsessed Ahab: as a reader you sympathize with him more than any other character because his goodness is clear:

"At such times, under an abated sun; afloat all day upon smooth, slow heaving swells; seated in his boat, light as a birch canoe; and so sociably mixing with the soft waves themselves, that like hearth-stone cats they purr against the gunwale; these are the times of dreamy quietude, when beholding the tranquil beauty and brilliancy of the ocean's skin, one forgets the tiger heart that pants beneath it; and would not willingly remember, that this velvet paw but conceals a remorseless fang.
These are the times, when in his whale-boat the rover softly feels a certain filial, confident, land-like feeling towards the sea; that he regards it as so much flowery earth; and the distant ship revealing only the tops of her masts, seems struggling forward, not though high rolling waves, but through the tall grass of a rolling prairie: as when the western emigrants' horses only show their erected ears, while their hidden bodies widely wade through the amazing verdure.

And that same day, too, gazing far down from his boat's side into that same golden sea, Starbuck lowly murmured:

"Loveliness unfathomable, as ever lover saw in his young bride's eye! - Tell me not of thy tiered-teethed sharks, and thy kidnapping cannibal ways. Let faith oust fact; let fancy oust memory; I look deep down and do believe."'

Such writing! The many beautiful passages, heartrending passages, timeless passages in this book are worth the work to find them. At last, Ahab really is the "grand, ungodly, godlike man" as the stranger describes him in the beginning, and if this isn't great literature, I'm not sure what is.

Uma epopeia, uma obra-prima.

Quando abri o livro e comecei a ler «Tratem-me por Ismael. Há alguns anos - não interessa quando - achando-me com pouco ou nenhum dinheiro na carteira, e sem qualquer interesse particular que me prendesse à terra firme, apeteceu-me voltar a navegar e tornar a ver o mundo das águas.», mergulhei numa aventura por oceanos sem fim que Melville adjectiva ora de austeros, ora de calmos , ora de civilizados, ora de contemplativos.
Uma longa viagem através de 611 páginas que encerram a força magnética de uma escrita rara, uma leitura que me exigiu obstinação e teimosia, mas que , decididamente, valeu a pena.
«Moby Dick» é calhamaço, enciclopédia, manual de cetologia dentro de um romance que, por essa razão, tem muitas pausas na narrativa. Num resumo superficial pode dizer-se que «Moby Dick» é a história do maníaco capitão Ahab que decidiu vingar-se de uma enorme e terrível baleia branca que numa viagem anterior lhe tinha comido uma perna. Para perseguir esse enorme mamífero ( para Melville a baleia é um peixe) organiza uma expedição, num navio chamado Pequod com uma tripulação constituída por «mestiços, renegados, náufragos e canibais» e também Ismael, o narrador/herói.
No capítulo «O Pequod encontra O CELIBATÁRIO», página 526, lemos o seguinte:
«- Venha aqui a bordo, venha aqui a bordo! – gritava o alegre comandante do Celibatário, brandindo uma garrafa e um copo.
- Viste a Baleia Branca? – gritou Ahab como réplica.
- Não: ouvi apenas falar dela; mas não acredito em nada disso – respondeu o outro num tom de bom humor.»
Aí, eu pergunto-me : Moby Dick existia mesmo, ou era somente o símbolo de algo desconhecido e tudo não passou de uma enorme alegoria?
Um plano delirante mas metódico, uma impiedosa determinação, a obstinação de Alab para quem os menores factos se revestem sempre de um sentido pessoal, mas que, no final, não prestou a devida atenção ao presságio no combate fatal com a baleia, e o caos tomou conta do mundo, e foi jogar o jogo e morrer com ele, e, nesse sentido, é a história de uma obsessão.
Não é pois de espantar que Moby Dick continue a despertar grandes paixões e interpretações.
Vale a pena ler, apesar da dificuldade; daí eu ter estabelecido um plano de leitura: poucas páginas por dia. A minha resenha é simples, mas já posso dizer: Li «Moby Dick» e adorei: afinal, é o mais importante.
Para terminar, gostaria de citar o que Jorge Luis Borges escreveu em «Prólogo de Prólogos» sobre «Moby Dick» que «página a página, o relato aumenta até usurpar o tamanho do cosmo: a princípio o leitor pode supor que o seu tema é a vida miserável dos arpoadores de baleias; depois, que o tema é a loucura do capitão Ahab, ávido de perseguir e destruir a baleia branca; depois, que a baleia e Ahab e a perseguição que percorre os oceanos do planeta são símbolos e espelhos do Universo.»

میخوام توی این ریویوو خیلی صادق باشم و بگم آقاجون من "موبی دیک"، این شاهکار آمریکایی که همه منتقدان قرن بیستم رو شیفته خودش کرده و بیشتر از سیصد و هجده هزار ریوبوو چهار و پنج ستاره توی گودریدز داره رو دوست نداشتم .
"موبی دیک" یکی از اون کتاب‌هایی بود که فکر می‌کردم الکی گنده شده و وقتی اسمش رو می‌شنیدم، می‌گفتم: "خب، یک داستان کلاسیک درباره شکار نهنگ... همچبن چیزی مگه چقدر می‌تونه پیچیده باشه؟" ولی وقتی شروع به خوندنش کردم، فهمیدم این کتاب اصلاً قرار نیست با من روراست، ساده و دوستانه رفتار کنه.
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داستان با اون جمله معروف "مرا اسماعیل صدا کن" شروع می‌شه؛ و خیلی خونسرد و بی‌مقدمه تو رو درگیر ماجرایی میکنه که دیگه نمیتونی ازش بیرون بیای.
انگار توی سال ۱۸۵۱ هستی، یک پر سفید از آسمون به پایین شناوره و توی یک ایستگاه اتوبوس در ساوانا، جورجیا فرود میاد. بعد مردی که اسمش اسماعیل هستش اون رو برمی‌داره، لای کتاب مزامیر میگذاره؛ و بعد داستان زندگیش رو برای تو و غریبه هایی که کنارش روی نیمکت ایستگاه دلیجان نشسته ان، تعریف می کنه میگه: «خب، بذار برات بگم چی شد...»
راستش موقع  شروع خوندن موبی دیک فکر کردم وارد یک ماجرای هیجان‌انگیز شدم، ولی در عوض، خودم رو وسط یک کلاس درس خسته کننده فلسفه و زیست‌شناسی موجودات دریایی پیدا کردم.
ملویل با دقتی وسواس‌گونه، تک‌تک جزئیات کشتی‌رانی، شکار نهنگ ، گره زدن طناب ها، و حتی آناتومی وال‌ها رو شرح می‌ده. باور کنید گاهی حس می‌کردم در حال خوندن یک کتاب مرجع دانشگاهی هستم نه یک رمان. باورتون نمیشه فصل‌هایی وجود داره که فقط درباره ساختار دندون‌های نهنگ نوشته شده. بله، دندون‌ها!
و امان از زبان سخت کتاب؛ آه و افسوس و فغان! چون هم زبان انگليسی کتاب قدیمی و دشوار بود و هم ترجمه آقای صالح حسینی خیلی عجیب و پیچیده؛ و حتی گاهی آنقدر فهم متن ترجمه شده برام سخت می‌شد که به نسخه انگليسي پناه می‌بردم و درمواردی هم کلا بیخیال فهم اون قسمت می‌شدم و به خودم میگفتم: بیا از بقیه داستان لذت ببریم عزیزم!
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حالا برسیم به قهرمان اعصاب خورد کن داستان، کاپیتان اخاب...
ول‌نکن‌ترین آدم کل کائنات؛ مردی که احتمالاً یکی از کله‌شق‌ترین و وسواسی‌ترین شخصیت‌هاییه که تا به حال خوندم. اون کل زندگیش رو روی این ایده مسخره گذاشته بود که باید یک نهنگ سفید غول‌پیکر رو بکشه، فقط به این دلیل که زمانی موقع شکار همون نهنگ، پاش قطع شده.
باور کنید خیلی وقت‌ها دلم می‌خواست برم یقه آخاب رو بگیرم تکونش بدم و بگم: «مرد! زندگی کوتاه‌تر از این حرفاست. مووآن کن، برو یک کار دیگه پیدا کن!» ولی خب، از طرفی می‌دونستم که اگر اخاب دست از این تعقیب، مبارزه و دیوونگی برداره، دیگه اخاب نیست.
و موبی دیک؟ نهنگ لعنتی که هرچقدر بیشتر درباره‌اش می‌خوندم، کمتر درکش می‌کردم. گاهی فکر می‌کردم اصلاً موبی دیک بعنوان نهنگ عنبر، یک موجود واقعی دریایی نیست، بلکه نمادیه از تمام اون چیزهای غیرقابل‌دستیابی که در زندگی دنبالشون می‌ریم. چیزهایی که هر چقدر هم تلاش کنیم، باز دستمون بهشون نمی‌رسه ولی همچنان از دنبال کردن‌شون دست برنمی‌داریم. و خب! همه ما انگار توی زندگی‌مون حداقل یک موبی‌دیک داریم.
حالا اگه فکر کردید این‌ همه ماجراست، باید عرض کنم که نه! صحنه‌های دریانوردی، توفان‌ها و شکارهای وحشیانه، همگی توی بطن داستان واقعاً هیجان‌انگیز بودن و باعث می‌شدن گهگاهی فکر کنم: آهان! این همون ماجراجوییه که دنبالش بودم.
ولی خب، درست وقتی داستان اوج می‌گرفت، دوباره یک فصل طولانی درباره انواع مختلف چربی‌های نهنگ و شکل جمجمه انواع مختف وال ظاهر می‌شد و کل هیجانم رو می‌کشت.
اما یک چیزی هم بود که این کتاب رو برای من خاص‌ کرد، و اون فضای زنده و جادویی‌اش بود. تصور اینکه وسط اقیانوس هستی، روی عرشه کشتی، همراه با ملوان‌هایی که هر کدومشون داستانی برای گفتن دارن، توفان‌های وحشی، دریاهای بی‌پایان، و هیجان شکار... همه‌چیز آن‌قدر واقعی بود که بوی نمک دریا رو حس می‌کردم.
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خلاصه که، اگه حوصله توضیحات طولانی، نمادهای فلسفی پیچیده و شخصیت‌هایی سرسخت و وسواسی رو دارید، "موبی دیک" قطعاً کتاب بزرگیه که ارزش خوندن داره. اما اگر دنبال یک داستان کلاسیک ماجراجویی سرراست هستید بهتره به جای این کتاب، یک ماجرای دریایی کوتاه‌تر مثل "پیرمرد و دریا" رو بخونید.
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با همه غرغرهام، نمی‌تونم انکار کنم که این کتاب برام مثل یک موج عظیم بود که گاهی خیلی زیاد کلافه‌ام می‌کرد، ولی در نهایت اثری عمیق و فراموش‌نشدنی در دلم جا گذاشت. شاید همین تناقض‌هاست که باعث می‌شه هنوز به کاپیتان اخاب، کوییکوک، فتح الله، استاپ، استارباک، و اون نهنگ سفید لعنتی فکر کنم.
اما هنوزم میگم شما ملوان ها عالی بودید، من دوستتون داشتم، اما جوری که ملویل داستان‌تون رو تعریف کرد رو دوست نداشتم.
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درآخر از دانیال و مسعود برای شروع همخوانی بی‌پایان این کتاب تشکر میکنم، امیدوارم بالاخره اونهام یکروز تمومش کنن :)
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حرفای بیشتر درباره کتاب و فایل انگلیسی، و ترجمه شهدادی و ریوبوو صوتی توی چنلم هست.

This was the first CLASSIC I ever read strictly for pleasure...

And I really, really enjoyed it...for the most part (see below).

While recognizing its hallowed place among the canon of world literature, I was still surprised, pleasantly so, at how captivated I became with the novel from the very beginning. Instantly, I loved the character of Ishmael and was amused by his unconventional introduction in the novel. Forced for economic reasons to share a room at in inn with a complete stranger, described by Melville in a manner that completely takes for granted the normality of the situation, was wonderful. It really sucked me into the story.

From that unusual beginning, I was lost in the narrative. Of course, Ahab is our central focus. Larger than life, focused beyond the point of madness, single-mindedly bent on tracking and killing Moby Dick. Ahab is the personification of the destructive obsession. I was awed reading about the reckless, casual manner in which Ahab used his men and risked their lives in his relentless pursuit of his "white whale." it was chilling and I found the final resolution of the quest to be amazingly well done.

On the downside, the descriptions of whaling and the day-to-day drudgery of the ship board activities did get a little tiresome and I found chunks of the book a bit of a difficult slog. However, I would gladly wade through some of the detritus to get to the gold, which this has aplenty.

In sum, a true classic, worthy of its reputation and its mystique. Memorable characters, amazing language and an unforgettable story of madness and obsession.

4.0 stars. Highly Recommended!!!

Moby Dick is the Great American Novel. Nothing else from North America can stand with Dante, Shakespeare, Dumas, Dickens, Tolstoy, and the like. William Faulkner may be the greatest of American authors, but nothing in his vast catalog quite measures up to Herman Melville’s opus. It is cited in various publications that Faulkner named Moby Dick as a book he wished he’d have written.

It is both modernist and romantic, nearly as digressive as The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman: nearly equaling the adventure in a completely different type of classic, The Three Musketeers. It is an encyclopedic epic—some other examples being Ulysses, Foucault’s Pendulum, Infinite Jest, and Gould’s Book of Fish.

Ernest Hemingway wrote to his publishers in the late 1940s and cited Melville as one of the writers he was “still trying to beat.” This he never accomplished. We honor Hemingway’s blue-gill sized yarn, The Old Man and the Sea, but how puny that is when compared to this Whale Tale.

A list of venerable literature that mentions the whale starts things off, like a myth. The whale is the “Salt-Sea Mastodon.”

Much of the book is an ode to the sea. And of course the sea represents so many things, but mainly the unknown.

Even early on, one can tell Moby Dick is one of the rare books seeming to contain the whole world in its finite pages.

But is not long before we find our author rather gloomy: “…this earthly air, whether ashore or afloat, is terribly infected with the nameless miseries of the numberless mortals who have died exhaling it…” Even if not without hope: “…man, in the ideal, is so noble and so sparkling, such a grand and glowing creature…” Nearly all misanthropes were molded first by the unrequited love of their fellow humans. All noble things are touched with some melancholy.

Our narrator, Ishmael, is progressive, philosophical, and inquisitive. Upon meeting Queequeg, a “clean, comely-looking cannibal”, we get these lines: “A man can be honest in any sort of skin,” (Queequeg being covered in tattoos) and, “Better to sleep with a sober cannibal than a drunken Christian,” the idea of judging one another on individual merit, rather than by preconceptions. Melville’s forward-thinking ideas about “savages” align him with Rousseau.

Finally aboard the Pequod and ready to set sail, we find that the harpooner is to the lancer as the squire was to the knight. There is even a bit of The Canterbury Tales in Moby Dick.

Once out of the frigid temperatures of the Atlantic near Nantucket and into agreeable weather, Ishmael displays more of his skilled prosody, “…when the red-cheeked, dancing girls, April and May, trip home to the wintry, misanthropic woods; even the barest, ruggedest, most thunder-cloven old oak will at least send forth some few green sprouts to welcome such glad-hearted visitants…”

But the sun does not warm Ahab, who infrequently takes over for Ishmael, either in soliloquy or in thought, and he is a different kind of narrator, character, and man. Monomaniacal is used many times to describe his obsession with the murder of Moby Dick.

Captain Ahab is a monster, a hero, a villain; but perhaps above all, he is a poet, an insightful psychologist. He’s of one mind with Dostoevsky when he says, “This lovely light, it lights not me; all loveliness is anguish to me, since I can ne’er enjoy. Gifted with the high perception, I lack the low, enjoying power; damned, most subtly and most malignantly! Damned in the midst of Paradise!”

There is no way of knowing, but Dostoevsky probably never read Moby Dick, as Melville was not known internationally in his day. In his 1886 novel, Crime and Punishment (Moby Dick was published in 1851), Fyodor writes, “Pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart. The really great men must, I think, have great sadness.”

Melville’s pessimism sometimes seems to come straight from Arthur Schopenhauer; however, we only have proof that he read the German philosopher later in life. Like Rousseau, we can either speculate that Melville was familiar with him before writing Moby Dick or that he came to similar conclusions independently. Like in many of these situations, it was probably a bit of both. We know less about his influences, outside of the Bible and Shakespeare, than we do about whom he’s influenced. James Joyce never mentions reading Melville, but it seems possible that the Irishman came upon the idea for writing a chapter in Ulysses in the form of a play from Moby Dick.

An interesting aside: a night of drinking on the ship sees the sailors and harpooners sing a song, a Napoleonic ballad called, “Spanish Ladies.” This song is also sung in the 1970s movie, Jaws, by the ship captain in that film who leads the attempt to find and kill the man-eating great white shark.

Ishmael has been on ships before, and though he is able to see the wonder in the world, he can also reduce the grandness of global travel to lyrical cynicism: “Were this world an endless plain, and by sailing eastward we could forever reach new distances, and discover sights more sweet and strange than any Cyclades or Islands of King Solomon, then there were promise in the voyage. But in pursuit of those far mysteries we dream of, or in tormented chase of that demon phantom that, some time or other, swims before all human hearts; while chasing such over this round globe, they either lead us on in barren mazes or midway leave us whelmed.”

There is an entire section that reads as if Melville had already read a copy of Darwin’s, On the Origin of Species. But that book was published almost a decade later. We are given a surprisingly accurate explanation of the taxonomy of cetaceans, not without its errors but still prescient. It is a satisfying portion where we see that even something as hideous as whaling has taught us much about the world. The baleen of the right whales, Humpbacks, etc, is described as looking rather like Venetian blinds. The amount of oil each whale species can produce is logged as well.

After a literal and rather complex description of the whale lines and their danger, we get this beautiful and poignant metaphor: “All men live enveloped in whale lines. All are born with halters around their necks; but it is only when caught in the swift, sudden turns of death, that mortals realize the silent, subtle, ever-present perils of life. And if you be a philosopher, though seated in the whaleboat, you would not at heart feel one whit more of terror, than though seated before your evening fire with a poker, and not a harpoon, by your side.”

Despite the quality of the book as a whole, the first description of a successful whale hunt is every bit as gruesome and hard to read as one might imagine. The force that propelled the evolution of certain land mammals into fully aquatic animals, whales, did not account for the coming of man, the building of ships, the mastheads of said ships, and the deadly call of the watch, “There she blows!” The fate of so many creatures sealed by the otherwise ingenious adaptation of the blowhole. For no matter how deep the whale sounds, he must inevitably surface to expel his air, thus perpetually signaling to the death-ship his location. This brings the lowering of the whaleboats, the line of the harpoon, and the sting of the lance.

The killing of the whale is sad and atrocious—blood spouting from the blowhole—necessarily torturous. What humans are able to do, though sometimes amazing, is often horrendous.

The description of “cutting in” the whale is almost as rough as the hunt and the killing. The blubber is rolled off with a line pulled by the windlass—a hook and a couple of spades begin the cut into the dead whale. Sharks must constantly be fended off. This whaling business was truly a rough trade. That was one of Melville’s aims: to show the harshness and the barbarity. But there is always admiration in Ishmael’s descriptions. This is why the measurements and the listing of the different whales are important parts of the book. They show the respect for whaling and the whale that the narrator possesses.

Ishmael often admires the battering ram capabilities and other qualities of the sperm whale. This love he has for the whale, and the compassion he shows for life in general, mitigates some of the horror of the book. The whalemen who hunt sperm whales are at the top of the heap. They think of hunting any other species as an inferior endeavor.

Melville seems to be writing for posterity. There is no way a contemporary human can comprehend the whaling profession of the mid-19th century. At least we have this work to tell us a little about it—the immensity, the danger, the thrill; and despite the wrongness and cruelty in killing such a smart, curious, and gentle creature, a giant dog in the sea, we can tell it took some kind of man to be a whaleman. The kind of danger involved ended with the invention of exploding harpoons. Humans are hard to beat when it comes to destruction. “There is no folly of the beasts of earth that is not infinitely outdone by the madness of men.”

Another harrowing whale hunt shows more of Melville’s sardonic, misanthropic disdain. We are not spared any detail, but I will spare the reader here and only say that the maiming and killing of one poor whale was almost too much to bear.

For what is all this murdering? “But pity there was none. For all his old age, and his one arm (fin), and his blind eyes, he must die the death and be murdered, in order to light the gray bridals and other merry-makings of men, and also to illuminate the solemn churches that preach unconditional inoffensiveness by all to all.”

Above all books on which to linger, there is Moby Dick—to study cetology, the evolution of whales, to discover arcane words and obscure references. And like all the great books, not all the learning is academic.

Most chapters begin with the goings on of the ship; but after these practicalities are described, we get interesting observations both sorrowful and inspiring. Not only is the chief narrator, Ishmael, full of high-minded thought, but the brief sojourns into the minds of Ahab and Starbuck (the first mate) give us recondite but beautiful language.

The future of whales is pondered. Can they survive the onslaught? Melville thinks a bit too much of both man and the leviathan. He could not foresee the aforementioned exploding harpoons, the endless entanglements caused by discarded fishing lines and nets, collisions with cruise ships—ships of a size that a sailor from the 19th century could never imagine.

The book is tangential, meant to meander. There is no guilt of prolix. So timeless is the work that it is frozen in the infinite.

The narrator knows he must accept the world of whaling for what it is—a nasty business--but one where beauty and awe are found. The birth of a sperm whale is described, and this gives us some needed humaneness.

Ishmael loves the whale, but he must hunt him, help kill him. He must ruminate on things for which there are no answers. He must describe the feelings for which there are no words. The whale is the world and the world is the whale.

Sometimes, a beautiful morning begins a chapter, but we know this is not for long. Blood and death are the order of the day. Ahab says, “Were I the wind, I’d blow no more on such a wicked, miserable world.”

No matter if the reader comes to enjoy Ishmael’s musings, laugh at Stubb’s humor in the face of danger, admire Queequeg’s sincerity and courage, or take interest in Ahab’s poetic fatalism, the whale is the hero. Any respectable reader must root for Moby Dick to break the planks of every boat. One must hope for the giant flukes to smash the oars, lances, and harpoons to bits. Unlike Jonah, all aboard the Pequod can take the whale’s belly for their cemetery.

But Melville knows exactly how to end his tour de force. His is like all the great misanthropic minds—all those who realize humanity’s overreaching ways are not only harmful to the earth’s other inhabitants but also harmful to humanity. He makes us wish there were a great creature, on land or sea, too massive and powerful for humans to defeat. It might do a lot to temper our arrogance. If only there were beasts we still had to fear, adventures left to take.

In a last bit of irony, it is the coffin fitted for Queequeg and repurposed as a lifeboat that resurfaces at the end of it all to save Ishmael. The sharks won’t bother him at this point; even nature knows that someone must tell this story.

QUICK UPDATE: James Cameron totally ripped off and plagiarized Melville in the abysmally written Avatar 2. He should have listed Moby Dick in the credits…and saved the Ishmael character - the biologist - but, alas, he didn’t.


I re-read Moby-Dick following my research trips to the whaling museums of  New Bedford and Nantucket whaling museums. The particular edition I read from University of California Press is HIGHLY recommended as the typeface is extremely agreeable to the eyes and the illustrations are subtle and instructive without ever interfering or drawing attention away from the story. Perhaps that’s where the latent interest grew deep in my soul as regards the whaling museums and since life offered me recently the opportunity to see and enjoy both, I grabbed at the chance and am so glad to have done so. This reading of Melville is so much more interesting having now a lot more background on the various factors (social, economic, and physical) that informed the writing and structure of the story.


Many modern readers have been turned off of the unabridged Moby-Dick due to the many chapters of background information that Ishmael feels compelled to pass us about whales and whaling. I can understand that some folks want to get on with the story and don’t want to have all this detail. Personally, the whole book seems so much more real to me now. When I try to imagine the life of the 21-28 people on a 3-5 year whaling mission with a back-breaking job punctuated with long periods of boredom and intense periods of turmoil (whether from ocean storms or from the hunt and ensuing processing of blubber), I can appreciate how the story moves at its own pace and during those long hours at sea while the sailors are working on their scrimshaw or scanning the horizon for spouts, that Ishmael is in his cabin writing all this detail down about this job that he is so incredibly proud of. If you remove this description, it removes much of the texture of the book and reduces it to an adventure story rather than a more universal chez d’oeuvre.

Several moments merit mention: Father Mapples’ sermon on Jonah (Chapter 9) which sets the tone for most of the book, the speech of Ahab in recruiting his crew into his diabolical mission against Moby-Dick (Chapter 36) and the heart-breaking acquiescence of Starbuck, and my favorite part so far, The Grand Armada (Chapter 89). The description of the whale nursery with the mothers and children looking up through the water at their hunters was spectacular writing and makes one dream of being out there in one of those flimsy boats to see it.


The writing is by turns ironic, serious, violent, and tender. On one hand, is the famous Shark Massacre (Chapter 66) where Melville weaves in an image of the sharks actually eating themselves in their frenzy – amazing realism and exceedingly violent. On the other hand, the cleverness of Stubb as he manages to steal the sick whale with the ambergris away from the hapless French captain of the Rose-Bud (Chapter 91) was hilarious and I laughed out loud. Even the seemingly dry description chapters often have some high degree of tongue-in-cheek such as the suggestion that the Kings and Queens were all coronated in whale oil (Chapter 25). All of these add a certain unique texture to Moby-Dick and seem to be indispensable to the overall majesty of the book.

It was a breathless ending as one would expect, but there was also a feeling of anti-climax. I think that despite the excitement of the chase and the apocalyptic ending, I enjoyed the build-up of the suspense all from the book to the end. There was a bit of sentimentality towards the end that was not really present during the rest of the text...almost as if Melville was impatient to get to the end, to get the end of Ahab out of his system or something. And the whirlpool that swallows everything but Ishmael is a bit supernatural which shocks after having such vivid realism for the previous 550 pages. It was also strange that after occupying such a central (and tender) role for Ishmael through the first 100-200 pages of the book, Queequeg just disappears from the action. And how is it that, as a green hand, Ishmael suddenly replaces Fedallah in Ahab's boat? That seems like a bit of a stretch to me. But then, I am nit-picking on one of the greatest literary masterpieces of all-time and that probably sounds ridiculous and pretentious perhaps.


What I loved about this book: the atmosphere, the excruciating detail, the variety of dialogs...you feel like you are also on the deck of the Pequod when Starbuck and Ahab converse...ok that reminds me of another thing I found annoying. Albeit, the last soliloquy of Ahab is one of the best in Moby Dick, it seems almost out of character for him: the whole book he is this dark, moody almost one-dimensional character and suddenly we seem him shedding a tear and opening his heart to the one that nearly shot him, the First Mate Starbuck. Perhaps I am too influenced by television but it seems a bit incongruent this time around.

One aspect that just stuck out for me this time around was the latent homosexuality of the narrator, Ishmael. Besides the obvious coziness between him and Queequeg, the description of his hands deep in spermaceti squeezing pieces of oil but also friends of other sailors performing the same task seemed highly sexualized to me. I really hadn't thought about this aspect of Melville at all and upon doing a bit of research learned that he and Nathaniel Hawthorne of Scarlet Letter fame and to whom Moby-Dick is dedicated may have been lovers. Here is a letter from Melville to Hawthorne. It doesn't actually change my perception or understanding of the book, it is just a curious aspect that added a certain depth or texture to some of the passages such as the one I cited.

There is definitely something universal about this story where Ahab clearly feels above morality and is brutally crushed by his pride. The sad thing is that the entire crew pays the ultimate price for their adherence to his obsession. The last two encounters that are described with other boats are masterful: the contrast with the wild abandon of the Bachelor and the rejection of the forlorn Rachel were both perfect set up for the final acts of this tragedy.

I'll put this aside for now and come back to it in a few years. If this inspired you to reread this masterpiece, please let me know in the comments...and if I have any further thoughts, I'll be sure to share them here my mateys!

This is still one of my favorite books but I also read Bartleby the Scrivener, The Confidence Man, and Billy Budd from Melville which were so great! Need to re-read this one yet again. And please don't bother with the unabridged version - go for the whole whale!
Need to reread this again..

For my French speaking readers, there was a recording at Maison de la Radio in Paris which will be broadcast on France Culture on 27 October 2019 where a translated abbreviated version of this masterpiece was put to music. Although I have an issue with "appel-moi Ishmael" not being the opening line, the production was fantastic and the music was quite moving (despite occasionally drowning out the voices of the actors).

I did it. It took me almost an entire year, but I did it. In truth, it took me roughly 34 years, starting back when I had an assigned summer reading list before my senior year, for Mr. Milheim's AP English class; a list that included "David Copperfield", "The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn", "Slaughterhouse Five", and three other books that I have forgotten but I nevertheless read. "Moby Dick", however, was the only book on the list that I didn't read.

Until now. At age 52. Thirty-four years after passing AP English. Why bother? you may ask. You already passed the class, right? Indeed, you wrote an actual paper on "Moby Dick", without reading any of it, and you still received an A+, so what satisfaction could you actually gain from reading the book?

Not ironically, Herman Melville's classic magnum opus about a sea captain's obsessive quest to kill a white whale has, over the years, become my white whale. My obsessive quest to read the book has been my Ahab-like pursuit to do something grandiose with my life. Come hell or high water, I was determined to finish the book, and, today---November 16, 2024---I completed that task.

Did the skies open up with rays of sunlight shining down upon me, or a chorus of cherubim singing heavenly tunes?

No, actually. I read the last chapter on my lunch break at work.

Is my life better? Has it changed unalterably? Am I a better human being now? I can't answer those questions. I don't know. I feel like the answer to all of those questions is "no", but, dammit, I'm going to revel in my achievement, if only in a small way. (I might treat myself to Taco Bell tonight.)

Anyway, enough about me.

The first thing one needs to know is that "Moby Dick" is actually as readable today as it was nearly two hundred years ago when it was first published, which is to say that it was written in English.

Do I think high school students today should be forced to read it? Probably not. Assigning books like "Moby Dick" to high school kids is almost ensuring that most of those kids will hate reading, an activity that they probably already hate anyway, what with all the fucking video games, Internet porn, and smartphone activity that occupies a majority of their daily lives. What the fuck do they care about Nantucket whalers of the 1850s chasing a huge angry whale in the Pacific?

Sadly, they don't, and that's okay, I guess.

Here's the thing, though: "Moby Dick" is history, and history is fascinating, if done right, and Melville does it brilliantly right, because he took an incident long-forgotten in history texts (The whale-ship Essex that was attacked inexplicably not once but twice by a sperm whale) and turned it into a beautifully-written novel that brings the historical incident to vibrant life. And it is an exciting story, one that tells a tale of friendship, the awesomeness of nature, blind loyalty, madness.

It's also funny. Sure, some of the humor is hidden within a lot of fancy language, but it's there. And when you finally get it, trust me: you'll laugh hysterically.

It's also sad, because it's about the inevitability of death and about looking back upon one's life and feeling the regrets of things not done.

Now, is the book for everyone? Probably not. If you have a pathological fear of giant whales, nautical language, or books in which characters regularly speak with words like "thee" and "thou", this isn't for you.

But, there's a reason that this is a classic in American literature, and I think that things like that are pretty important to preserve in a country that is gradually slipping away into mediocrity and apathy.

Herman Melville's Moby Dick Or The Whale may be viewed by many as a classic whale tale but in fact it hardly qualifies as a novel; rather, it seems to exist as an encyclopedic exposition of whaling culture, a literary research compendium on cetology, or the study of whales & similar sea-going mammals, including the sociology of those men who take to the seas, the anatomy & physiology of a sperm whale, the psychological depths of one's man's obsession & its impact on an entire ship.



Added to all of that, Melville inserts voluminous detail about "the watery part of the world", including the colors, wave patterns & ever-changing, dynamic nature of the oceans, the sky above + what I would term periodic "God-questions", a far-reaching attempt at a spiritual definition of man's relationship to the universe. For many if not most, Moby Dick is not the book they envision, not by a long shot!

I am completely sympathetic with those who set aside or even forcefully toss aside this epic book, for it is almost designed to defeat the reader. Assimilating Moby Dick is almost like climbing a monumental mountain, needing to be taken one step at a time, with frequent pauses to catch one's breath, including an occasional halt to ask...Why? It might have been a 300 page novel depicting Captain Ahab's vengeful confrontation with the enormous white sperm whale that had earlier taken his leg & far more importantly, grievously wounded his psyche.



The reader has to settle in slowly & savor all that Melville wishes to share with us because it takes 150 pages before we finally leave Nantucket on board the whale ship Pequod and 300 pages before a whale is sighted. But as the author phrases it, "No more blubbering now, we are going a whaling"...

Call me Ishmael. Some years ago--never mind how long precisely--having little or no money in my purse & nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little & see the watery part of the world. Whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul, then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. If they but knew it, almost all men at some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.

This is a shortened preamble to Moby Dick and to my mind, one of the most memorable openings in all of literature. And while we may not be interested in knowing about the kind of sermon preached at the Old Seaman's Church in New Bedford or the sort of chowder served at the inn where Ishmael shelters in Nantucket prior to signing on to the Pequod.

Also included is the etymology of the word "Whale", including Cetus in Latin, Ballena in Spanish & Pekee-Nuee-Nuee in Fegee (Fijian) and the 15+ pages of "Extracts" on whales from revered folks like Captain Cook, Thomas Jefferson & Charles Darwin, with these details all seeming to add something very palpable to the oversized Melville novel. The most important thing is to begin by proceeding slowly...

The intersection of two very dissimilar seamen, Ishmael & Queequeg, as they share a room & even the same bed in the overbooked inn, initiating a lasting bond between them, is extremely well-cast, with the much-tattooed Queequeg, said to be a son of the king of a cannibalistic tribe, consulting his little black fetish-god,"Yojo" for advice. On the brief sea transit from New Bedford to Nantucket, Queequeg has already demonstrated his inner strength when he unhesitatingly jumps overboard to save a drowning man & he carries his harpoon with him everywhere prior to boarding the whale ship with Ishmael.



We are also introduced to the Nantucket Quaker culture of the day, except that these are often said paradoxically to be "fighting Quakers" or "Quakers with a sense of vengeance", Ahab among them, while one of the owners of the Pequod is spoken of as a man of deeply held "insular prejudices".

One of the qualities that Melville conveys is what might be called the "sociology of the whale ship", detailing its "pecking order", including the mention that a harpooner is paid a considerable sum more than a common seaman or the ship's cook or its carpenter or sail-maker or blacksmith. We learn of Starbuck, the first mate on board the Pequod, who is said to be "a telling pantomime of action, not a tame chapter of sounds"; next, the 2nd mate, a good humored, pipe-smoking fellow called "Stubb"; finally, the 3rd mate "Flask", a very short, stout, pugnacious man, with each of them in charge of a whale boat that has an assigned harpooner.

All of the principal mates are Christian while all of their harpooners are said to be "pagans", i.e. not from Quaker, Nantucket or Hyannis stock. Like "Gothic knights of old, each had a squire to serve as his harpooner. Queequeg serves as Starbuck's "squire" while the other harpooners have names like "Tashtego", an "unmixed Indian with the blood of a proud warrior" and "Daggoo", "a gigantic black Negro savage from Africa with a lion-like head."

There is however a 4th whale boat, the one commanded by Captain Ahab, an enigmatic, sulking man with a quenchless feud who speaks of demons, destiny & madness, with all on board bound to all of these component manifestations of Mr. Ahab. His harpooner is called "Fedallah", said to be "an oriental man, a Parsee, a dream-like creature, a turbaned phantom."

Beyond that, there is a mixed chorus of cacophonous, often bawdy & suggestive voices of seamen who hail from Holland, France, Malta, Sicily, Tahiti, Iceland & East India, each with different points of origin, backgrounds & reasons for being on board the Pequod. They quickly blend together, though most are solitary figures, not at home except when at sea.

Long exile from Christendom & civilization inevitably restores a man to that condition in which God placed him, i.e. what is called savagery. Your true whale-hunter is as much a savage as an Iroquois. I myself am a savage, owing no allegiance but to the King of the Cannibals (Ahab), and ready at any moment to to rebel against him.

Amidst the savagery of slaying a whale while at sea in always unpredictable weather, Melville speaks of the fraternity of life at sea, the honor & glory of being a whale man. And he distinguishes between kinds of whales, portraying "a Right Whale as a Stoic, while the Sperm Whale is a Platonian who might have taken up Spinoza in later years."

At times, Melville acts as a kind of lecturer on "whale culture" for his readers, declaring: "My dear sir, in this world, it is not easy to settle all of these plain things", for only by actually observing whales at sea can one fully appreciate the nature of a whale or the life of a whale man.



To be sure, slaughtering a whale is a grizzly business! I was wholly sympathetic with the whale & kept hoping for a contingent from Greenpeace to arrive in an attempt to even the score a bit, hearing the whale's plaintive cry & attempting to salvage one or more of the leviathans being so brutally captured & killed for their oil, especially when Melville indicates that just before the whale dies, it appears to roll over to face the sun. As the whale is dissected & its oil salvaged, sharks hover below feasting on the remnants of the whale. There is a scene when a man on board dines on some of the whale's meat, while using oil from the newly-deceased whale to light his lamp as he dines.

Obviously, much of the tale is allegorical, with the juxtaposition of good vs. evil and with the whiteness of the whale, the seemingly white ship, Ahab's white prosthetic leg, all posed against what the author contends is the inherent dark side of humanity. And yet, there is a surprising, unexpected amount of humor, language that is often very inventive, even at times almost Joycean and while occasionally florid, the prose is more often uplifting, colorful, vividly expressive & even eloquent.

Here are just a few samples:

In no living thing are the lines of beauty more exquisitely defined than in the crescentic borders of the whale's flukes. But if this vast local power in the tendinous tail were not enough, the whole bulk of the Leviathan is knit with a warp & woof of muscular fibers & filaments, that insensibly blend with them, contributing might, so that in the tail the confluent measureless force of the whole whale seems concentrated to a point. Real strength never impairs beauty or harmony but it often bestows it; and in everything imposingly beautiful, strength has much to do with the magic.

In ye, men yet may roll, like young horses in new morning clover; and for some fleeting moments, feel the cool dew of life immortal on them, would to God these blessed calms would last. But the mingled, mingling threads of life are woven with storms, a storm for every calm. Where lies the final harbor, whence we unmoor no more? In what rapt ether sails the world, of which the weariest will never weary? Our souls are like orphans whose unwedded mothers died in bearing them; the secret of our paternity lies in their grave and we must there to learn it. Let faith oust fact; let fancy oust memory; I look deep down & do believe.

What is it, what nameless, inscrutable, unearthly thing is it, hidden lord & master, and cruel, remorseless emperor commands me; that against all natural lovings & longings, I so keep pushing & crowding & jamming myself on all the time. Is Ahab, Ahab? Is it I, God, or who that lifts this arm? By heaven, man, we are turned round & round in this world, and Fate is the handspike.

All of the countless words within Moby Dick form Melville's testament to his ongoing, ever-expanding consideration of the nature of man, with Captain Ahab's tireless crusade on board the Pequod against the great white sperm whale just a vehicle, the one the author understood best, as being on board a whale ship had been Herman Melville's Yale College & his Harvard.



Moby Dick is a mammoth, (one might say "whale-sized"), cumbersome, frustrating, potentially exhausting but exceedingly wonderful novel! At one point in the book, Melville informs his reader: "to produce a mighty book, you must choose a mighty theme." Amen to that. One might think of it as a large jigsaw puzzle where the various component pieces only gradually begin to crystallize.

The novel is probably not best received by those who wish to take a short sail on a stable vessel in perfect weather but by the reader who is willing to have his or her imagination nurtured & even taken captive as a part of a long, adventurous, literary voyage.

*I found the included sketches by Rockwell Kent quite enhancing. **Within my review are images of: Herman Melville; Nantucket in the 19th Century; quotes from Moby Dick; a whaling ship in full battle mode.