في مرّة سألوا هيتشكوك عن الفرق بين المفاجأة والإثارة؟ فرد عليهم قائلًا: إن المفاجأة هي اتنين قاعدين في مكان وتقع عليهم قنبلة، والإثارة هي إن نفس الاتنين قاعدين في نفس المكان وتحتهم قنبلة زمنية وبتعدّ قدامك. الفكرة كلها إن المتعة بتكون موجودة حتى في الحاجات اللي انت متوقعها أو عندك خلفية عنها، يعني أكيد انت عارف إن( موبي ديك )ودا حوت، وبيطارده (آخاب أو إيهاب) واللي الفوا بينهم مصطلح مشهور(إيهاب وحوته)، لكن رغم معرفتك بكل دا إلا إنك بترتبط بالرواية ارتباط غريب على مدار كل صفحة منها.

كموسوعية عمل مثل عوليس، واستهلالات وتداخل مواضيع كاتب مثل إيكو، وسرد لا ينافسه فيه حتى ماركيز وساراماجو، بكل ذلك قدّم لنا ملفل روايته التي تستحق كل ما قيل في حقها من مديح، بل إنها حتى تستحق ما قاله عنها برنارد شو: منذ عرف الإنسان كيف يكتب لم يوجد قط كتاب مثل هذا ،وعقل الانسان أضعف من أن ينتج كتابًا مثله.

نحن أمام عمل رائد بكل ما تحمله الكلمة من معنى، شامل من حيث موضوعاته،متفرد بأسبقيته، صعب أن يُصنف التصنيفات المتداولة أو لتقل متشعب التصنيف، فهو واقعي كل الواقعية، رمزي كما يجب للرمزية أن تكون، حتى أنك قد تعتبره أدب رحلات، نحن أمام كتاب يتكلم عن صيد الحيتان، لا بل هو كتاب يتحدث عن الإنسان، بل يتحدث عن الدين والرغبة العمياء في الانتقام، إنها رواية تتحدث عن كل ذلك ، رواية خلطت وقدمت لنا عالم فريد متكامل يضمن لك الاندماج فيه بكل خلاياك.

استهل ملفل روايته بحديث عن الماء وسحره ويبدو فيه عشق خالص برع في توصيفه فنجده يقول فيما يقول: لمَ يكاد كل غلام جزل سليم ذو روح جزلة سليمه يتوق -بين الحين والحين-توقان المجنون للذهاب إلى البحر؟ لم كان الفرس القدماء يعدون البحر مقدسًا؟ لم جعل الإغريق للبحر ربًا عدوه أخًا لرب الأرباب نفسه؟ حقا إن لذلك كله مغزى، وأعمق من هذا مغزى قصة الفتى (نرجس) فإنه حين عجز على أن يمسك خياله الوديع المتمثل أمامه في النبع، وعذّبه شعوره بعجزه، ألقى نفسه في الماء وآثر الغرق،ونحن أنفسنا نرى ذلك الخيال في كل نهر وكل بحر،ذلك هو خيال شبح الحياة، الخيال الروّاغ الذي لا تستطيع أن تضم عليه جميع اليد، وذلك هو السر في كل ما هنالك.

ثم انطلق يصول ويجول عبر جوانب مختلفة من الحياة، تارة يسرد لنا مواقف بسيطة ذات دلالات عميقة وتارة يحدثنا عن شعوب مختلفة وطريقة معيشتهم وتارة يصوّر لنا الصداقة كما يجب أن تكون ولا سيما بين اسماعيل (الراوي) وبين كويكوج (الحوّات) والذي كان بينهما من التناقضات ما تحكم بعداوه وكره بيّن، فهذا مسيحي متدين وذاك وثني يعبد صنم، الأول منهما (متحضر) والآخر بدائي متوحش، فتآلفت القلوب بينهما وتحابت بل وفهم كل منهما الآخر كما يجب أن يكون الفهم، ومن هذا الفهم المنولوج الذي دار بين اسماعيل ونفسه لمس في صديقه رغبته في مشاركته صلاته:

(كيف اتحد مع هذا الوثني البدائي وأعبد قطعة خشب؟ ماهي العبادة؟ أتظن يا اسماعيل أن إلهك العظيم رب السموات والأرض-خالق الوثنيين وغيرهم- يمكن أن يغار من قطعة تافهة من الخشب الأسود ؟ مستحيل، لكن ما العبادة ؟ الامتثال لإرادة الله، تلك هي العبادة ، وما هي إرادة الله؟ أن أعمل لإخوتي بني الإنسان ما أحب أن يعمله بنو الإنسان من أجلي، تلك هي إرادة الله، وكويكوج أخ لي في الإنسانية فما الذي أرغب أن يعمله من أجلي؟ أن يؤدي العبادة معي على حسب المذهب المشيخي ، إذا فعليّ أن أتحد معه، إذن عابد صنم.)

أي معنى ومقصد عظيم يتحدث عنه الكاتب وما أعظم عرضه وتقديمه لهذا المقصد النبيل، ذلك المقصد الذي نوّه إليه وأشار أكثر من مرّه فيبدو من العمل دراية ملفل الواسعة بعديد الطقوس والمعتقدات كما أفاض على ضرورة احترام مختلف المعتقدات:

(ذلك أنّي أكنّ أبلغ احترام نحو الفروض الدينية التي يمارسها أي إمرئ كان، مهما تكن مضحكة ، ولا أجد في قلبي نزوعًا إلى التهوين من شأن عُباد أي دين حتى لو كان أولئك العُباد قرية من النمل يعبد أهلها الكمأة، أو لو كانوا بعض المخلوقات التي تعيش في نواح من أرضنا وتنحى على نحو من العبودية غير معهود إلا على هذا الكوكب)

المهم إن الرواية عظيمة بحق، عظيمة بغزارة معلوماتها وحيوية أحداثها ورسم شخصياتها ولاسيما القبطان(آخاب) الذي دمّر حوت أبيض سفينته وتسبب في فقدانه لرِجله ،لينذر ذلك القبطان حياته ليقتص منه والقضاء عليه، فرسمه أمل حياته المفقود ورغبته التي ملأت عليه نفسه حد الجنون، برع ملفل في رسم شخصيته حتى لتراها روحًا تائهة تسير أمامك، بدأ ظهور آخاب الحقيقي في الرواية بعد قرابة ربعها تقريبا، ليكون ربع الرواية الأول ديباجة فخمة ومقدمة فذّة تنجح باقتدار في ربطك برباط سحري لا ينحل مع الرواية.

(كل الأشياء المرئية أيها الرجل ليست إلا أقنعة من الورق المقوّى ، ولكن في كل حادث ،في العمل الحي، في الفعل اليقيني-يقوم شئ مجهول إلا أنه متعقل، فيخفي طابع ملاحمه وراء ذلك القناع غير المتعقل، فإذا كان للمرء أن يضرب فليضرب من خلال القناع، كيف يمكن للسجين أن ينفذ إلى الخارج إلا إذا اخترق الجدار؟
وآخاب كان السجين والحوت كان الجدار، فظل يبحث عنه ليتحرر من قيده وهو يعلم أنه قد يُنهي حياته وهو يحاول.

كانت رحلة صيد الحيتان هي الحياة بالنسبة لملفل وبرع أيّما براعة في تصويرها فهو يراها زحمة مختلطة وفي هذه الزحمة المختلطة الغريبة التي نسميها الحياة أوقات ومناسبات عجيبة يرى المرء فيها الكون كله نكتة عملية ضخمة ،وإن كان لا يستبين فيها براعة التندر إلا استبانة باهتة ولعله أن يكون على مثل هذا اليقين بأنه هو نفسه محور النادرة،ومع ذلك فإنه لا يرى فيها ما يثبط همته، ولا يجد ما فيها جديرًا بالتنازع، فهو يزدرد كل الأحداث والنحل والمعتقدات والحجج وكل الأمور العسيرة مرئية كانت أو خفية لا يهمه أن تكون من الأساس ، كأنه نعامة ذات قدرة على الهضم فهي تزدرد الرصاص أو شظايا الصوان، أما العقبات والهموم الصغيرة وما قد يحل به من مصائب مفاجئة تعرض حياته للخطر، أما هذه جميعا وأما الموت نفسه فإنه لا يرى فيها إلا دعابات ماكرة في الجنب يمنحه إياها الساخر الأعظم المحجوب عن الأبصار.

تفاصيل الرواية كانت من العظمة بمكان ، تفاصيل مملة ولكنها لا تدفع أبدًا إلى الملل فالكاتب نجح باقتدار في تحويل الملل إلى قن ممتع، وكان ناجح في التركيز على جميع النواحي الحياة ولا سيما حياة الحيتان، فقد تحدث عن كل ما يخصها، عن طريقة صيدها والشعوب التي احترفت تلك المهنة، وخصائصها،تحدث عن كل جزء بالتفصيل، أحجامها وأنواعها وما يثيرها، تحدث عن لحومها وكيف تُؤكل ،تحدث عن ألوانها، بل إنه حتى خصص فصل كامل للتحدث عن اللون الأبيض وفضائله لأن موبي ديك حوت أبيض.

ولا ننسى رسمه للشخصيات والجانب النفسي لها، فقد كان أعظم ما في الرواية على الاطلاق،كل شخصية مهما صغر دورها قُدمت لنا بكامل جوانبها، تعايشها وتعيش معها من فرط دقة رسمها ، ولا سيما شخصية القبطان(آخاب) ، والذي بحق واحدة من أعظم الشخصيات الروائية التي قرأتها في حياتي، شخصية ذات وجود حقيقي (صغير على صفحات الرواية) ولكنه في الوقت ذاته فلك الرواية الذي تدور حوله فأضفت على الرواية بريق لا يُنافس ، شخصية تعشقها وتكرهها ،تحترمها وتحتقرها لدرجة أنك تنتظر ظهوره في الرواية وماذا سيفعل وماذا سيقول؟ وقد عبر الكاتب عن عظمته ببعض من المنولوجات التي تنافس مونولوجات شكسبير نفسه، فمثلا كان يخاطب رأس حوت معلق على جانب السفينة :

تحدث أيها الجبار وخبرنا عن السرّ فيك، أنت بين القامسين أبعدهم قمسا،ذلك الرأس الذي يتلألأ الآن فوق الشمس العلوية قد جاب قرارة الكون حيث أسماء غفل وأساطير مجهولة يعلوها الصدأ،حيث آمال حبيسة ومراسي كثيرة يدركها البلى، حيث هذه الأرض قد تطرمت في وقفتها المهلكة بعظام الملايين الذين غرقوا،هنالك في دبيا الماء الرهيبة هنالك كان موطنك خير موطن تألفه ، لقد كنت حيث لا يبلغ صوت جرس أو جسم غاطس، كنت تنام إلى جانب كثير من البحارة بينما الأمهات مسهدات يمنحن حياتهن رجاء أن يلحدن جثثهم، ولقد رأيت الحبيبين يقفان من السفينة المحترقة ،غرقا والقلب على القلب بين الأمواج المصطفقة، صدقا العهد تبدت السماء لهما كاذبة ..رأيت الضابط القتيل يقذف به القرصان في منتصف الليل على ظهر السفينة،ساعات قضاها وهو ينحدر في ظلمة الفلك الناهم وما يزال قتلته يبحرون سالمين، آه أيها الرأس لقد رأيت ما يكفي ليشق الكوكب ويجعل من ابراهيم الحنيف حانقا ولم تنبس بحرف واحد.

ولكن كل الحوارات والمونولوجات لا تصف خطاب آخاب الأخير بعد ان رأى موبي ديك يدمر سفينته الأثيرة فوقف يخاطب نفسه قبل أي شئ آخر:

يا سفينة مهيبة كالموت،هل تفنين إذن ولابد،دون أن أكون فيك؟ هل أُحرم من آخر كبرياء حمقاء ينالها أدنى القباطنة الذين تتحطم سفنهم؟ آه يا موتًا موحشًا يختم حياة موحشة ! أحس أن ذروة عظمتي تحل في ذروة حزني، هو ، هو ! من أقصى حدودك، انصبي إلى أيتها الموجات الجريئة، موجات حياتي الغابرة جميعا وطاولي موجة موتي، نحوك أتدحرج أيها الموت المبيد الذي لا يحرز غلبة، إلى النهاية أصاولك مصارعًا . من جوف الجحيم أسدد إليك الطعن ،من أجل البغض أبصق عليك آخر أنفاسي، كل التوابيت وعربات الجنائز تغوص في بركة واحدة. وبما أني لن أُحمل على تابوت أو عربة فلأنسحب مزقا وأنا ما أزال أطاردك أيها الحوت اللعين.

ومات آخاب بيد شغفه المكروه وخوفه الداكن وضميره الذي إسوّد من كثرة الحقد قأعماه، رسم الحوت أمل حياته المعقود فقتله، عاش لأجل انتقام أعمى ورأى أن لا مفر من الحوت إلا قتله،رآه سيد الكون الذي لابد من غلبته فكان له الهلاك.

موبي ديك لم يكن مجرد حوت أبيض، بل هو الوهم في حياة كل منا، فكل منا تعلق بشئ وأراد امتلاكه سواء كان قلب حبيب مستحيل وصاله، أو مال كثيف لن يغنيه أو مجد زائف، وفي النهاية آمالنا هي قبورنا الملحدة إن لم نتحرر منها ستقتلنا شر قتلة.

الرواية عظيمة بكل ما تحمله الكلمة من معنى وتستحقه من تبجيل، والترجمة فائقة العذوبة، ترجمة رصينة جزلة لا ابتذال فيها.

I hate this book so much. It is impossible to ignore the literary merit of this work though; it is, after all, a piece of innovative literature. Melville broke narrative expectations when he shed the narrator Ishmael and burst through with his infinite knowledge of all things whale. It was most creative, but then he pounded the reader with his knowledge of the whaling industry that could, quite literally, fill several textbooks. This made the book so incredibly dull. I’m not being naïve towards this book’s place in the literary cannon, but I am sharing my agony for a book that bored me half to death with its singularity of purpose and expression: it’s obsession with whales.

I’m just sick of them

I understand that this is the main motif of the book. Ahab becomes fuelled with his need to slay the leviathan, but it wasn’t Ahab who droned on for three hundred pages about the properties of whales. Despite the allegorical interpretation between the relationship, and the comparisons between man and fish, the book is unnecessarily packed out. There are passages and passages that add nothing to the meaning or merit of the work. Melville explains every aspect of the whaling industry in dry, monotone, manner. There are entire chapters devoted to describing different whale types, and even one even discussing the superiority of the sperm whale’s head:

"Can you catch the expression of the Sperm Whale's there? It is the same he died with, only some of the longer wrinkles in the forehead seem now faded away. I think his broad brow to be full of a prairie-like placidity, born of a speculative indifference as to death. But mark the other head's expression. See that amazing lower lip, pressed by accident against the vessel's side, as as firmly to embrace the jaw. Does not this whole head seem to speak of an enormous practical resolution in facing death? This Right Whale I take to have been a Stoic; the Sperm Whale, a Platonian, who might have taken up Spinoza in his latter years.

It is just so agonising to read. This is quite possibly the most painful book I’ve ever read in my life. I’ve never hated a book more than I hate this behemoth. I just felt there was no purpose to so many of the chapters; they didn’t add to the narrative or increase Ahab’s obsession. Also, at times it wasn’t entirely clear who the narrator was. There would be the occasional glimpse of Ishmael, and his aspect of the story, and then this all knowing entity with an unfathomable depth of whaling knowledge would begin up again.

Tedium defined

The writing gives new breath to the definition of mundane, monotonous and tedious. It is repetitive, expressionless and soul destroying. I became more and more annoyed the further I got into this book, as soon as some semblance of plot would come through, and some small degree of progress, I would be hit with another fifty pages or so describing the properties of whale bubbler, and even on one occasion a chapter devoted to rope. How fun. I began to hate this book with a passion that made me almost scream every time the word “whale” came up. Now, this was some tough reading.

Moreover, I could never understand how Melville could consider whaling such a noble profession. There is nothing noble about it, it may have once been a necessity, but it has always been cruel and brutal. It may have been a means for communities to survive and people to eat, but there is no honour in it. How can shoving a pole through a whale, cutting its head off, slicing away its blubber and desecrating its body be considered in any way praiseworthy? It’s an aspect of life that is comparable to man today slaughtering a cow. There is simply no glamour to be had in the deed. You’d think Melville was describing the life of a group of chivalrous knights; they were whalers not heroes.

This book is awful in every sense of the word. It has achieved literary fame, but I still personally hate it. I found everything about it completely, and utterly, detestable. Never again will I go within five feet of anything written by Herman Melville. I think a part of me died whilst reading this book; it was just that disagreeable to me.

I have tried to read this umpteen times. I have never completed it. I will now try listening to the unabridged audiobook version read by Anthony Heald, a narrator whose performances I highly admire.

****************

I am halfway through this and I am s-u-f-f-e-r-i-n-g. It is tedious. It is boring. OK, if you are a cetologist, you may enjoy the details more than I do. There is a line or two of humor, but for the most part the language is wordy and often unclear. A whole chapter on the inaccuracy of whale paintings was just too much for me! It was the final straw. n  IFn Melville was attempting to say something profound, he does not succeeded in getting his message across to me. n  IFn he was trying to say something philosophical and deep, he should have been more clear.

The audiobook narration is good. Heald enhances the good lines, but fails to make the tedious ones better.

Shall I dump this again?


************

Yep, I have dumped this again! I do not like it, so I am going to have to give it one star. I have tried very hard to like it; I have asked those who do to explain to me what I am missing. Please see the messages below. Many thanks to those who have taken the time to help me, but the book still fails me!

I adore everything about Nantucket, but I do not adore this book. I recommend Ahab's Wife, or The Star-Gazer (5 stars) instead. Or these:

*Nantucket Island 5 stars
*Nantucket: Seasons on the Island 5 stars
*Nantucket: Images of the Island 5 stars
*Nantucket a Camera Impression by Samuel Chamberlain 5 stars
*The Nantucket Way 4 stars
*Nantucket: Gardens and Houses 4 stars

It is worth remembering that the book is not really a story. The plot of the novel consists of only four to six chapters of the actual book, the rest being the main character's observations about the natural history of whales, the whaling industry, religion, basically, like Don Quixote.

Holy mackerel! I made it! I survived these cold, salty, surprisingly DRY waters. I didn't completely drown (though several times I needed CPR), I didn't perish at sea, tricked by the siren call of "literary masterpiece".

I've avoided the whale for years now, and would have continued to swim around it, to ignore its thick spine shaming me from my bookcase... but I have this friend, this very kind and dignified friend who bought me a copy a few years ago (it being his very favourite book of all time). "Have you read it yet?" he would ask, periodically. And I would hang my head. "NO... but I will! Soon! I promise!" And then I wouldn't. Because... truth be told, I was afraid. Because I'm not interested in blubber or harvesting of blubber, or whaling ships, or, let's be honest, most any book over 400 pages. And this one? 707 pages. 7-0-7.

I don't know what I was expecting, other than blubber and a bunch of dirty sailors. It was a lot more than that, though, and also, at the same time, only that. The beginning was fascinating, unexpected - a gay love story between Ishmael and Queequeg. An intriguing introduction to Ahab, the monomaniacal captain of the Pequod.

And then... (cue lullaby music, followed by a deep, deep coma)... 500 or so pages of encyclopediaic description of EVERYTHING pertaining to whales and whaling and the slaughtering of them, and the nobility of slaughtering them. He speaks lovingly of these leviathans, but he's equally passionate about their destruction. I was absolutely dying of boredom during these parts, and I know that those who love the book say that these parts just serve to make every other part more real and substantiated, and maybe that is true. But I dare say that the huge leeway that Moby-Dick's fans give this endless exposition of fact after fact after fact is given out of some unique, inexplicable soft spot people have for the book. I swear, anyone writing in 2019 who tried this literary torture technique would a) never be published in the first place and b) not receive the heartfelt adoration that Dick-lovers everywhere seem to have.

And I understand that this was written in 1851, and people's reading needs and tastes have changed. Folks in 1851 didn't have Wikipedia, and couldn't look up all about the whale's spout, tail, etc. Couldn't look up an in-depth description of how to behead a creature who doesn't have a neck. This was a great exercise in observing how our needs as readers have evolved... and HOW.

Highly sexualized language throughout (the name of the whale - a SPERM whale, at that, is just the beginning - there was, and I kid you not, a scene in which Ishmael says Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze that sperm, all the morning long.) brought back some life after what felt like years of reading a scientific textbook. Then, the magnificent ending - Biblical, Shakespearean, action scenes of the highest calibre. So what if the characterization is almost non existent? So what if Queequeg sort of disappears after sharing Ishmael's bed for the first 100 pages? I was IN, my heart was pounding, I felt the love, I was carried away by the grandness, awash....

And damn it, SO GLAD IT'S OVER.

There once was a grouchy alpha whale named Moby Dick who -- rather than being agreeably shorn of his blubber and having lumpy sperm scooped out of his cranium like cottage cheese -- chose life. Unlike so many shiftless, layabout sea mammals of his generation, Moby Dick did not go gentle into that good night. This whale, in short, was not a back-of-the-bus rider. He assailed a shallow, consumerist society, which objectified him only as lamp oil or corset ribbing, with the persuasive argument of his thrashing tail, gaping maw, and herculean bulk.

In his seminal (in more ways than one) animal rights saga, Herman Melville conjures an aquatic, rascally Norma Rae out of an elephantine albino whale. Reasonably enough, Moby Dick (hereafter M.D., despite possible confusions with the profession) is irritable when people are chasing him, stabbing him with harpoons, and trying to kill him. Thus, in an act which would be protected by law as self defense in most enlightened nations, M.D. bites off part of the leg of one of his many hunters, the humorless Captain Ahab.

Gall alert! Gall alert! Ahab has the nerve to hold a fucking grudge against the whale for this entirely ethical dismemberment. (He also holds a grudge for some incidental damage incurred to Lil' Ahab as a very weak corollary of his lost limb, but I'm not even getting into that. Judge Wapner would've never stomached that half-baked reasoning, so neither will I.) Now mind you, M.D. doesn't, like, come ashore in Nantucket, rent a lowrider horse-drawn carriage, and try to put a cap in the ass of that one-legged old bitch-ass captain who wanted to decapitate him. So, I mean, who's really the petty one in this equation?

The novel Moby-Dick eschews a first-person whale narrator in favor of Ishmael, a bit of a rube who shows up in New Bedford with big dreams of a whaling career. (Whaling was the Hollywood of that era.) He meets this reformed cannibal harpooner named Queequeg who hails from the South Seas, has lots of tattoos, and moonlights as a decapitated-human-head salesman. So basically he's rough trade. Ishmael and Queequeg become fast-friends and do all kinds of jovial homoerotic things together, like cuddle in bed and curiously espy each other undressing -- despite their pronounced cultural differences. I think Ishmael acts as a keen ethnographer when he highlights the variances: Queequeg, the savage, idol-worshipping, hell-condemned, unenlightened, "oogah-boogah" heathen, and Ishmael, the... white guy. Yet their love endures. It's as if all the sexual currents in Neil Simon's Odd Couple were suddenly foregrounded.

Ishmael and Queequeg find employment on the whaler Pequod, helmed by none other than the killjoy Captain Ahab himself -- he of prosthetic whalebone leg, abbreviated schlong, and legendary grudge-holding. So the Pequod embarks upon a three or four year whaling adventure around the globe, ostensibly in search of valuable whale oil, but in fact -- as we later learn -- to bring about Ahab's vengeance against the Marxist whale M.D., who refuses to be expropriated by the Man.

Interestingly enough, as the journey goes on, Ishmael's character seems to evaporate. In other words, he gradually shifts from a compartmentalized first-person narrator to an omniscient third-person narrator. He seems almost to have rescinded his identity (or he only rarely invokes it) in the latter part of the novel, as if -- while we have been distracted by gloppy whale sperm and passing ships -- he morphed into the Star Child. This transformation is, of course, intentional and creates a sense of broadening perspective throughout the novel -- of transcending the menial and specific to embrace a grand, universal tragedy.

Here's the bottom line. Moby-Dick is an American classic that sounds as though it would be absolutely torturous to read. A six-hundred-page nineteenth-century novel about the pursuit of a whale? You've got to be kidding. Did I mention that there are chapters after chapters that merely detail the processes and (often gory) procedures of whaling? I know. Try to control yourself before you run out to the bookstore or library, right? Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

This novel is magnificent. It proves what I have held true ever since I started writing myself -- that any subject at all, from whittling to colonoscopies to Riverdance to bagpipe playing, can be enthralling in the hands of a competent writer -- a writer like Melville, who simultaneously locates the universal in this seemingly very particular narrative and makes even the occasionally perplexing rituals of whaling seem fascinating.

Also, it's a captivating historical document chronicling M.D.'s groundbreaking role in the nascent Whale Power movement. Eat tailfin, honkies!

This novel was on the syllabus of the 19th century literature course I studied when I was a second year university student, back in 1977. About half way through, I got bored. Then I fell ill and I didn’t finish reading it. Notwithstanding the fact that I hadn’t read the entire novel, I managed to write a paper about it and pass the exam thanks to very detailed lecture notes borrowed from a friend. After that, Moby Dick receded into my past and I had no intention of revisiting it.

Years later, my family was very close to a young man – a writer – whose favourite novel was Moby Dick. He and I had lots of interesting literary discussions, but as I had failed to finish the novel and was not interested in going back to it, I couldn’t debate his thesis that Moby Dick was the best and most important novel ever written. Later again, this young man died in tragic circumstances and his beloved copy of the novel was buried with him.

Until four months ago, my response to Moby Dick revolved around these two encounters with the novel: my own failure to finish reading it and my memories of a person to whom it meant everything. It felt like something incomplete but nevertheless significant in my life.

Then along came The Moby Dick Big Read and I decided it was time to finish the unfinished and see if I could discover what had made an intelligent and sensitive young man so passionate about this particular literary work. Along with countless others around the world – and with Goodreads friends Hayes, Laura and Tracey as well as others in the  Moby Dick Big Read group moderated by Vikk – I have listened to Moby Dick as a series of podcasts of one chapter a day, with each chapter read by a different narrator.

As I listened to the novel over the past four months, I discovered a number of things. One is that there is more humour in the work than I either remembered or expected. Another is that Melville wrote beautiful prose and created intensely memorable characters. Yet another is that the novel is a bit like life: sometimes there’s high drama and hustle and bustle, but there are lots of fairly dull bits in between. Although I occasionally wished that Captain Ahab and the crew of the Pequod would just hurry up and find the whale, I still enjoyed the journey I went on waiting for that moment to arrive. At least, I mostly enjoyed it. I liked Melville’s lessons in cetology quite a lot, but I can’t deny that at other times I lost focus, drifted off, and yes, became bored. Occasionally it was like my 1977 experience all over again.

Listening to Moby Dick read by different narrators was a mixed blessing. Some of the narrators were outstanding. For me, the chapters read by Tilda Swinton, Simon Callow, Stephen Fry, Fiona Shaw, Benedict Cumberbatch and Roger Allam were real highlights, reflecting my preference for audiobooks narrated by professional actors. However, there were non-actor narrators who were also excellent, including David Cameron (the British Prime Minister) and newsreader James Naughtie, as well as others whose names don’t come immediately to mind. Some narrators were significantly less impressive and a small handful were - not to mince words - rubbish. Overall, I think I may have enjoyed the experience more if I’d listened to the novel being read by one very good narrator rather than by such a mixed bunch. On the other hand, that would have taken something away from the experience that the creators of the Moby Dick Big Read wanted to achieve.

So, how do I rate this novel? I enjoyed the experience of participating in such a literary event, even if there were times when listening to a chapter felt like a chore. I understand why a reader would be so passionate about the novel that his family would bury it with him when he died. I can appreciate the significance of Melville’s achievement. However, it hasn’t become one of my favourite books and I doubt that I’ll read it again. That said, I’ll remember the writing and the characters and I’ll reflect on the themes for some time to come. All of this makes it worth three stars for how I feel about the novel and an extra star for the Moby Dick Big Read experience.

i tried.

Both ends of the line are exposed; the lower end terminating in an eye-splice or loop coming up from the bottom against the side of the tub, and hanging over its edge completely disengaged from everything. This arrangement of the lower end is necessary on two accounts. First: In order to facilitate the fastening to it of an additional line from a neighboring boat, in case the stricken whale should sound so deep as to threaten to carry off the entire line originally attached to the harpoon. In these instances, the whale of course is shifted like a mug of ale, as it were, from the one boat to the other; though the first boat always hovers at hand to assist its consort. Second: This arrangement is indispensible for common safety's sake; for were the lower end of the line in any way attached to the boat, and were the whale then to run the line out to the end almost in a single, smoking minute as he sometimes does, he would not stop there, for the doomed boat would infallibly be dragged down after him into the profundity of the sea; and in that case no town-crier would ever find her again.
tBefore lowering the boat for the chase, the upper end of the line is taken aft from the tub, and passing round the loggerhead there, is again carried forward the entire length of the boat, resting crosswise upon the loom or handle of every man's oar, so that it jogs against his wrist in rowing; and also passing between the men, as they alternately sit at the opposing gunwales, to the leaded chocks or grooves in the extreme pointed prow of the boat, where a wooden pin or skewer the size of a common quill, prevents it from slipping out. From the chocks it hangs in a slight festoon over the bows, and is then passed inside the boat again; and some ten or twenty fathoms (called box-line) being coiled upon the box in the bows, it continues its way to the gunwale still a little further aft, and is then attached to the short-warp - the rope which is immediately connected with the harpoon; but previous to that connexion, the short-warp goes through sundry mystifications too tedious to detail.

i tried. but any book with that passage, and thousands of passages just like it, can never get five stars from me. and probably not even four. not because i think it is shitty writing, but because when i was growing up, i was told that girls just wanna have fun, and that was not giving me any fun at all.

everyone said, "nooo, karen, you were eighteen when you read this the first time, and you just didn't give it your all - you are bound to love it now, with your years of accumulated knowledge and experience."

and that sounded valid to me, and it's like when i turned thirty, and i decided to try all the foods i had thought were "from the devil" and see if i liked them now that i was old. i thought that revisiting this book might have the same results and discoveries. but this book remains like olives to me, and not like rice pudding, which, have you tried it? is quite good.

but no.
turns out that when i was eighteen, i was already fully-formed.

and it's not that i don't understand it - i get the biblical allusions, i understand the bitter humor of fast fish loose fish, i am aware of the foreshadowing and symbolism - i went to school, i learned my theory and my close-reading, but there are passages, like the one above, that i could not see the glory in. all i could see was the dull.

and the bitch of it is that it started out fine - good, even. i was really getting into the description of the docks and the nantuckters, and it was giving me good new-england-y feelings. and then came that first chapter about whale-anatomy, and i was laughing, remembering encountering it during my first reading and being really angry that this chapter was jaggedly cutting in on the action. and, honestly, it was really good at the end, too. but the whole middle of this book is pretty much a wash. a sea of boredom with occasionally interesting icebergs.

at the beginning, he claims that no one has ever written the definitive book about whales and whaling, so - kudos on that, because this is pretty damn definitive. it's just no fun. maybe i would like it better if it had been about sharks?? i like sharks.

i know you wouldn't know it to look at me, but i don't have a problem with challenging books. i prefer a well-told story, sure, and i am mostly just a pleasure-reader, not one that needs to be all snooty-pants about everything i read, but i've done the proust thing, and while he can be wordy at times (hahaahah) his words will, eventually, move me, i understand them, and i appreciate being submerged into his character's thought-soup. viginia woolf - dense writing, but it is gorgeous writing that shines a light into the corners of human experience and is astonishing, breathtaking. thomas hardy has pages and pages of descriptive nature-writing, but manages to make it matter.

i just wasn't feeling that here. the chapter on the way we perceive white animals, the whale through various artistic representations, rigging, four different chapters on whale anatomy; it's just too much description, not enough story; it seemed all digressive interlude.

and you would think that a book so full of semen and dick and men holding hands while squeezing sperm and grinning at each other would have been enough, but i remain unconverted, and sad of it.

maybe if i had read this one, it would have been different:



oh, no, i have opened the GIS-door:



i am only including this one because i totally have that shark stuffie:



maybe i am just a frivolous person, unable to appreciate the descriptive bludgeoning of one man's quest to detail every inch of the giant whale. or maybe all y'all are wrong and deluded.

heh. dick.

come to my blog!

When my reading group chose this book to serve as one of our monthly requirements, I cringed. After learning it was being allocated two months (giving people longer to read and analyse it), I shivered even more. Classics are not usually my thing and this book has been one I have heard much about, told of its tangential nature and dense nature, leaving me a tad ill at ease. However, like a good reading soldier, I prepared myself and forged into it, nose plugged and hoping for the best from Herman Melville’s classic. Ismael, for that is what he chooses to call himself, begins by telling the reader about the fact that he has some experience at sea, but never captaining a ship. He then explains that he seeks to be a sailor aboard a whaling ship and settles into a harbour town in hopes of being taken on. After an interesting encounter in a boarding house with a harpooner, Ismael heads to the docks to try his luck at being permitted to sail. His ‘interview’ goes well and Ismael is soon chosen to work aboard a ship led by one Captain Ahab. Missing a leg, Ahab speaks of a trip around the world to hunt whales, though he is eager to find his sea-bound nemesis, Moby Dick. The journey is long and there is much to do, so Ismael fills his time telling the reader all about life on the boat, the history of whaling, and whales in general. His attention to detail leaves the reader feeling as though they were right there, even though much of the action occurs in small snippets and the narrative is far more detailed. As Captain Ahab forges ahead, he encounters many a whale and the crew does what they can to do what is asked of them, while Moby Dick eludes them. The whale, nicknamed Leviathan, is out there, and Ismael hopes to come face to face with this beast, if only to help bring some form of retribution to the pains that Captain Ahab suffered those years ago. By the final chapters, there is much to say, giving the reader a treat they have waited so long to discover. A dastardly tale that is by no means free of action or information, Herman Melville does well to pull the reader in from the get-go. I’ll keep this recommendation free, as classics are a beast of their own, but will admit that I was pleasantly surprised with the experience and, like Ahab, am happy to have faced the beast that spooked me!

I am glad that I undertook this reading challenge, as it forced me to stare down this book. However, I chose the audio version to allow me to clip along at a slightly faster pace, which helped me a great deal. Melville has a great deal to say and I am not sure I would have stayed the course if I had only a book to guide me. While Ismael was the central character throughout, it is less his development that pushed the story forward. The reader can follow his sentiments aboard his first whaling ship and see what he thought of the experience, but it is more the asides, tangential comments, and brief narratives of that which is developing around him that connects the reader with the protagonist. I found him easy to like, more because he made me want to know more about the experience and the background of whaling. The other characters who grace the pages of the book helped to strengthen the story, bringing their own flavour to an already intense tale. As a story, Melville does a decent job in getting from A to B, but this was almost secondary in the literary experience. The reader is immersed in background, history, philosophy, and descriptions of all things whales, enough that they, too, can feel they know enough to track Moby Dick. Melville goes on and on so many times, stringing together metaphors and similes like no one I have ever read before...but it works. It gives the reader something on which to build their learning when it comes to a subject that is likely so out of their realm of understanding and not written about a great deal in the fiction I have read. Melville shows his past experience aboard a ship and those experiences bleed through on each page, but it is so full of information that the reader cannot catch their breath long enough to cite any degree of boredom. Ok, while I am not a fan of classics (and am not sure how this one is considered one), I would listen to it again. Read it? Hell no, but I would venture into the depths and let a skilled narrator guide me through it all.

Kudos, Mr. Melville for pushing me out of my comfort zone with a whale of a tail, er... tale!

This book fulfils the June/July 2020 monthly challenge of the Mind the Bookshelf Gap reading challenge.

Love/hate the review? An ever-growing collection of others appears at:
http://pecheyponderings.wordpress.com/

A Book for All Seasons, a different sort of Book Challenge: https://www.goodreads.com/group/show/...

My uncle took me fishing when I was a child. He did all the fishing while I just hung around, observing. During one such trip, I had a fishing rod in my hand but didn't want to catch anything. The thought of catching a live fish was unbearable. I was a fearful and imaginative child, prone to melodrama. And then it happened. I felt a strong tug on the rod. It was the worst experience of my life. I just stood there, frozen, unable to reel in the fish. My location felt like Amity Island, and the catch was no different from Jaws (I told you I was melodramatic). I was scared and felt sorry for the fish at the same time. Worst of all, people were staring at me.

n  n

It was not my destiny to be a master fisherman. I wish Captain Ahab had come to the same realization as I did. His pride ultimately led to his downfall.

Moby Dick is the ultimate tale of man versus nature. What could be more formidable than a sperm whale, the ocean's largest predator? A being so powerful that not even the mighty orca, the ocean's most skillful killer, can defeat it. Who would dare hunt such a creature?

Humans.

n  n

The name orca comes from the Latin phrase Orcinus orca, which translates as 'of the kingdom of the dead.' Great white sharks have the word 'great' as part of their name. Then there are sperm whales. Couldn't they think of something more dignified? I understand the reason behind their naming, but I still find it ridiculous. Dark humor - instead of calling them sperm whales, they could have named them waxy whales or oil lamp whales.

Whaling was a highly lucrative business. Bloody and dangerous, but lucrative nonetheless. Told from the sailor Ishmael's perspective, the story follows Ahab, captain of the whaling ship Pequod, who embarks on a quest for vengeance against a giant sperm whale who maimed him.

Ahab is a man who doesn't know when to quit. I would have noped out of there after the first encounter, but that's not Ahab. He's not like other girls. He wants to kill Moby Dick, no matter the cost. Despite the risks, Ahab's ego fuels his dangerous quest. He is consumed by his desire to defeat the white whale.

I have mixed emotions about this novel. While I acknowledge that it's an important piece of literature, filled with metaphors and double entendres, it's not my cup of peppermint tea.


Why was the whale called Dick? He's just swimming in the ocean, snacking on squid, sharks, and fish, minding his business. He sunk a few ships, but only because he was defending himself. Ahab is the 'Dick' of the story.

I find the real story of Moby Dick much more fascinating than the fictional one. Moby Dick was inspired by a real-life white sperm whale named Mocha Dick, whose story is both fascinating and tragic.

Is the ocean a harsh mistress, or are some people just foolish?

My advice would be to check the weather forecast before going sailing, avoid hunting giant marine mammals, wear sunscreen, and listen to Bobby Darin's "Beyond the Sea."


n  n

Nearly every sentence crackles, sparks, or blazes with the intensity of what is possible to be done with the English language. Everything is multitudinously significant.

No amount of contemporary contempt, modern revisionism, or attention deficiency will sway me from this stance. My allegiance will not be altered.

I’m due for a return to sea.

What can I say about this great American novel that hasn’t already been said by generations of readers and academics?

Moby-Dick is as mammoth, mysterious and elusive as the enormous white whale that gives the book its name. The opening line (“Call me Ishmael”) is one of the most famous in all literature. And even people who’ve never read it are familiar with the peg-legged, vengeance-seeking Captain Ahab, the archetype for any maniacally obsessed leader.

What makes the novel so fascinating is how modern it feels. It’s an adventure tale about a man who’s driven to hunt down the beast who maimed him, but it’s also a treatise on whales and the whaling industry, a sharp look at class and culture (the sailors hail from all around the world), and a bold literary experiment, for 1851 or even today.

It’s hugely digressive, contains dialogue that at times sounds Shakespearean, and there’s not really much action until the end. But somehow it’s still very entertaining. Melville (who, of course, knew all about whaling) is such a clever, genial writer, that you’ll be smiling and chuckling throughout and gasping at his powers of description and observation.

You’ll smell the salty air, feel the churning waves and your heart will beat a little faster when one of the crew cries “There she blows!”

I wasn’t especially moved by the story, but I don’t think we’re meant to be. Each of the characters is distinct, and Melville is savvy in the way that he uses silence to reveal dissent, particularly in the growing animosity between Ahab and Starbuck, the responsible first mate. (Yup, that’s where the coffee chain got its name.)

But what I do feel about the book is awe and respect. Like the ocean itself, it is vast and has unknowable depths, and I can see myself in another couple of years venturing back out for another rewarding trip.