Everyone eventually comes across the White Whale in one form or another. The trick is to not keep its attention for too long.

*****

Avast! Dost thee have a five spot thou can see thyself parting ways with?

No?

Jibberjab up the wigwam! Cuisinart the poopdeck!

What's that ye say? Thou canst not make heads nor tails of what I sayeth?

Here then. Let me take this pipe outta my mouth and stop menacing you with this harpoon. Better? Good.

Huh? No, no! Ho-ho! I wasn't asking for money! I was asking if you've seen the White Whale! Ha-ha!

No?

Okay, okay…well then, do you know who famously wrote, "The world seems logical to us because we have made it logical"?

Here's a hint: his bushy visage and even bushier philosophies have launched a thousand heavy metal bands.

Take your time. I'll just hone the point of this harpoon…

No again? No biggie, I'm happy to report that it is none other than one Friedrich Nietzsche.

But we know what became of that crusty old phrenologist, don't we? He went nuts. Why? Because he grew up in a house full of women, of course. But guess what? Turns out that hanging out with a bunch of guys doesn't work out too well, either.

Especially when they're so monomaniacal about Dick.

Moby-Dick.

You know? The White Whale?

Of course that's what I meant. What else did you --- ? You what?

Put away all that sophomoric homoerotic stuff, won't you? Let us turn to the thrust of the plot. The long and hard plot, whose veiny, undulating, ruminative tributaries all lead back to the all-consuming desire for globulous sperm…aceti.

I know what you're thinking, "Who the hell does this guy think he is, reviewing a canonical work like Moby-Dick? What aplomb!"

Aplomb? Really?

Who says aplomb any more? Just for that, I'm gonna tell you what happens -- EVERYBODY DIES AT THE END!

Jerk.

Yeah, yeah. You're right. I should put the harpoon back down. Sorry. I just get worked up sometimes.

Now. This is the fourth time I've read this weighty tome, and I ain't gonna lie -- I may not be able to bend spoons with my mind, but I'm not as scared of clowns as I used to be.

For reals.

You see, Melville gets me. I'm a little outta my depth arguing epistemology, but a guy who challenges the conceit that any sort of absolute truth can be apprehended already has my sympathies. Then when he opens a book of exhaustive -- and exhausting -- prose, itself like so much chanting by a humble pilgrim before his incomprehensible and terrible god, with a casual, "Call me Ishmael." Well. One thinks that he would be just as comfortable with the moniker The Dude.

What's in a name, man? It's all relative.

Fucking hippie, right?

Right!

And guess what? The hippie's the only one to make it out alive! (So I lied, everybody doesn't die.) There's a mad man at the helm of this rapacious project we call Life and you've got to be a bit of a hippie yourself if you plan on enduring it. Yet, there's nothing you can do about your participation in said project -- where would you go? Jump in the ocean?

HERE BE SHARKS.

And what's worse, what else would a guy like our mad man do than captain a doomsday machine? It's impossible for the mad man to do anything else. What? Ahab as gourmand?

"Damn thy eyes for a Cossack but if this not be the most succulent baked halibut in ten counties!"

Maybe it's a sort of inertia: certain professions attract certain types. Just look at Wall Street. Or the latest amateur video of a cop beating some innocent senseless. Or those child-molesting priest assholes.

Or clowns.

We're doomed!

Still, if you can channel your inner hippie, you might just be okay. "Oh man! admire and model thyself after the whale! Do thou, too, live in this world without being part of it." Not bad advice. The whale's lack of humanly reason isn't just dumb animalism, but is really a sort of supra-reason. The whale, like our hippie, is a wanderer that is never going to complete a journey. Welcome incompleteness! It'll ensure that you survive those brushes with the White Whale. Surrender to the idea of "Doubts of all things earthly, and intuitions of some things heavenly; this combination makes neither believer nor infidel."

To mistake that mossy crust of reason gathered on the back of Schopenhaurean WILL as the conclusion of the Self instead of mere technique available to the same is to invite what D.H. Lawrence calls the "mystic dream-horror" of Moby-Dick.

Come again? You can't wait for Hollywood to suck the last bit of marrow from America's bones with something directed by Guy Ritchie and starring Bruce Willis as Ahab? Keanu Reeves as Ishmael, George Lopez as Queequeg, and Vin Diesel as Starbuck? With the whale rendered in vainglorious CGI?

Me? Oh, nothing. Just setting the pipe so, hefting my harpoon, and ---

n  THAR SHE BLOWS!n

Dude, let it go already!

Massachusetts, 1830s. Ishmael is a young mariner spending time at a local inn, resting from his last sea voyage. When the lure of the seas calls again he signs up to join the crew of the Pequod, a whaler ship leaving dock soon. In charge of the expedition, the implacable Ahab, an old sea captain with a prosthetic leg, lost recently ago in a whaling accident while trying to hunt the infamous Moby Dick, the dreaded white whale of the Pacific seas. Ahab holds a deep grudge against the whale, and is always looking for his chance to enact his revenge.

What a classic! The novel is narrated through the eyes of Ishmael, while he relates the ill-fated events that followed the journey of the Pequod in its relentless search to hunt Moby Dick. Ishmael was an honest and reliable narrator. LOVED the developing camaraderie and affection between Ishmael and the cannibal Queequeg; it was both touching and funny on several occasions, and the most vivid recollection I take from this book. Captain Ahab an iconic antagonist and a flawless dark representation of grief, and the tormentous resentful side of human nature. And Moby Dick, well, you have to love and respect nature.

Beyond the awful subject of whale hunting, or any kind of animal for that matter, you have to admire the excellence and depth in Melville’s magnificent depiction of sea navigation and the life and restless spirit of the born sailor, who suffers the earth and lives the seas. Not for nothing it’s considered one of the best nautical novels ever written. A sea adventure and a maritime encyclopedia all by itself. And not widely known, the story partly based on true events; on the tragic sinking of the ‘Essex’ whale-ship, around 1820.

One of the best picks I ever found in the dusty shelves of my family’s bookcase. It was a condensed edition sadly, realized much later, but still highly memorable and enjoyable, possibly easier to tackle than the original. One of the greatest classics of all time, and THE timeless masterpiece of Nautical Fiction.

Recommendable, for the right audience. Just mind the abundant nautical terminology, which can be sometimes quite overwhelming for the unfamiliar; and that it hits you like a classical bludgeon.

It’s public domain, you can find it HERE.

*** In the Heart of the Sea (2015). By far the most visually stunning and impressive depiction of whaling catastrophe. Yet it’s not an adaptation of Moby Dick but a fictional recreation of the sinking of the ‘Essex’ whaler ship, the true story behind Moby Dick that inspired Melville’s work. Thor was there, his powers were not. Still worth it. (6/10)

*** Moby Dick (1998). A two-episode miniseries starring Patrick Stewart as Ahab, so with him you know you can expect a superb dramatic performance as Captain of the Enterprise Pequod. I barely remember anything else. I think there was a bit of singing, which always annoys me. I think it was faithful to the book, but since I read an abridged version I can’t be sure. (6/10)

*** Moby Dick (1956). I don’t remember a single thing about this film, but I rated it (6/10) on my IMDB account so I guess it is at very least an acceptable adaptation, yet sadly apparently also very forgettable. Also must note my memory is as consistent as a half eaten slice of swiss cheese, so never mind forgettable.



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n  PERSONAL NOTEn:
[1851] [654p] [Classics] [3.5] [Conditional Recommendable]
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★★★☆☆  Moby-Dick or, The Whale.  [3.5]
★★★☆☆  Billy Budd, Sailor.
★★☆☆☆  The Lightning-Rod Man.

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Flaco, ¡cortala!

Massachusetts, 1830. Ismael es un joven marinero pasando el rato en una taberna local, descansando de su último viaje de mar. Cuando el llamado de los océanos golpea otra vez se enlista para unirse a la tripulación del Pequod, una nave ballenera que partirá de los puertos pronto. A cargo de la expedición, el implacable Ahab, un viejo capitán de mar con una pierna prostética, perdida recientemente en un accidente ballenero mientras trataba de cazar a la infame Moby Dick, la temida ballena blanca del océano Pacífico. Ahab guarda un profundo rencor contra la ballena, y siempre busca la oportunidad de concretar su venganza.

¡Qué clásico! Esta novela está narrada desde la perspectiva de Ismael, mientras relata los fatídicos eventos que siguieron al viaje del Pequod en su incansable búsqueda para la caza de Moby Dick. Ismael fue un honesto y confiable narrador. AME el progresivo afecto y camaradería entre Ismael y el caníbal Queequeg; fue en igual medida conmovedora y graciosa en repetidas ocasiones, y el recuerdo más vívido que guardo de esta obra. El Capitán Ahab un icónico antagonista y una impecable oscura representación del dolor, y del tormentoso resentimiento de la naturaleza humana. Y Moby Dick, bueno, uno tiene que respetar y amar la naturaleza.

Más allá de la horrible temática de la caza de ballenas, o de cualquier animal dicho sea de paso, uno tiene que admirar la excelencia y profundidad en la magnífica representación de Melville de la navegación marítima y de la vida y agitado espíritu del marinero innato, que sufre la tierra y vive el mar. No por nada es considerada una de las mejores novelas náuticas jamás escritas. Una aventura de mar y una enciclopedia marítima por sí sola. Y no extensamente conocido, parcialmente basado en eventos reales; en el trágico hundimiento del ballenero ‘Essex’, cerca de 1820.

Una de las mejores selecciones que alguna vez encontré en los polvorientos estantes de la biblioteca familiar. Fue una versión condensada lamentablemente, me di cuenta mucho más tarde, pero aun así altamente memorable y disfrutable, tal vez más fácil de encarar que el original. Uno de los más grandes clásicos de todos los tiempos, y LA obra maestra inmortal de la Ficción Náutica.

Recomendable, para la audiencia correcta. Sólo estén atentos de la abundante terminología marítima, que puede ser sobre abrumadora a veces para el no familiarizado; y que te pega como un mazazo clásico.

Es dominio público, lo pueden encontrar ACA.

*** En el Corazón del Mar (2015). Por lejos la más visualmente impactante e impresionante representación de la catástrofe ballenera. Pero no es una adaptación de Moby Dick sino una recreación ficcional del hundimiento del barco ballenero ‘Essex’, la historia real detrás de Moby Dick que inspiró la obra de Melville. Thor estuvo ahí, sus poderes no. Igual lo valió. (6/10)

*** Moby Dick (1998). Una miniserie de dos episodios con Patrick Stewart como Ahab, así que con él podés esperar una sobresaliente dramática actuación como Capitán del Enterprise Pequod. No recuerdo casi nada más. Creo que hubo un poco de canto, lo cual siempre me molesta. Creo que fue fiel a la obra, pero como leí una versión resumida no puedo estar seguro. (6/10)

*** Moby Dick (1956). No recuerdo absolutamente nada de esta película, pero la califiqué (6/10) en mi cuenta de IMDB así que supongo que cuando menos es una adaptación aceptable, pero lamentablemente creo que también aparentemente muy olvidable. Debo aclarar acá que mi memoria es tan consistente como una rebanada podrida de queso suizo, así que no me hagan caso con olvidable.



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n  NOTA PERSONALn:
[1851] [654p] [Clásicos] [3.5] [Recomendable Condicional]
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LISA: Dad, you can't take revenge on an animal. That's the whole point of Moby Dick.
HOMER: Oh Lisa, the point of Moby Dick is 'be yourself.'
-- The Simpsons, Season 15, Episode 5, “The Fat and the Furriest”

(Ahoy, Matey! Thar be spoilers ahead).

There, there. Stop your crying. You didn’t like Herman Melville’s Moby Dick? You didn't even finish it? I’m here to tell you, that’s okay. You’re still a good person. You will still be invited to Thanksgiving dinner. You won’t be arrested, incarcerated, or exiled. You will not be shunned (except by English majors; they will shun you). Your family and friends will still love you (or at least stand you). Your dog will still be loyal (your cat, though, will remain indifferent).

Moby Dick can be a humbling experience. Even if you get through it, you may be desperately asking yourself things like “why didn’t I like this” or "am I totally missing something” or "how long have I been sleeping?" See, Moby Dick is the most famous novel in American history. It might be the great American novel. But in many ways, it’s like 3-D movies or Mount Rushmore: it’s tough to figure out why it’s such a big deal.

I suppose any discussion about Moby Dick must start with thematic considerations. It is, after all, “classic” literature, and must be experienced on multiple levels, if at all. So, what’s the point of Moby Dick? Is it about obsession? The things that drive each of us in our ambitions, whether they be wealth, hate, prejudice or love? Is it a deconstruction of Puritan culture in colonial America? Is it a Joseph Campbell-style hero’s journey? Is it a good ol' yarn of men against the sea? Is it all of these things?

Perhaps.

Is it a colossal bore?

Decidedly.

Now, I hate to use that word, the b-word. Boring. It means so little. It means nothing. It is the ultimate grade-school criticism: subjective; vague; and expressing annoyance at having been forced to experience the thing at all. To say something is boring implies that nothing happens, when in fact, something is always happening. Whether or not that happening is exciting is another question.

Having said all that, I found Moby Dick boring in the purest sense of the word. On just about every page, I felt a distinct lack of interest. And this is not a response to the subject matter. I love sea stories. I enjoyed Nathaniel Philbrick’s In the Heart of the Sea and Steven Spielberg’s adaptation of Jaws. Normally, a novel about an obsessed man trying to harpoon a terrifying monster would be right in my wheelhouse.

What was the problem? More specifically, what was my problem? (Because despite what I say, most people are going to blame me rather than Melville).

It all comes down to density. I’ve never actually harpooned a whale (or anything, for that matter), but I can only assume that it is slightly easier than finishing this turgid, mammoth work of literature. I found it almost impenetrable. Like reading Hawthorne, except it doesn't end, ever. I tried reading it three different times, and failed. In a meta turn of events, the novel became like my white whale, elusive and cagey, an arch opponent.

I would get through the first few chapters all right. The dinner at the Spouter-Inn. The homo-erotically charged night two men share in bed. Melville’s exquisitely detailed description of his breakfast companions:

You could plainly tell how long each one had been ashore. This young fellow’s healthy cheek is like a sun-toasted pear in hue, and would seem to smell almost as musky; he cannot have been three days landed from his Indian voyage. That man next to him looks a few shades lighter; you might say a touch of satin wood is in him. In the complexion of a third still lingers a tropic yawn, but slightly bleached withal; he doubtless has tarried whole weeks ashore. But who could show a cheek like Queequeg? which, barred with various tints, seemed like the Andes’ western slope, to show forth in one array, contrasting climates, zone by zone.

Somewhere in the neighborhood of the fortieth page, when Father Mapple starts to give his sermon, I’d start to get a little restless. A few pages into his fire-and-brimstone screed, my mind would wander. By the end of the chapter, I’d realize that instead of paying attention to the text, I’d actually started to amuse myself by trying to calculate my income taxes in my head. And then I’d quit.

During one of my periodic bouts of self-improvement (which I regularly intersperse with bouts of day-drinking), I decided to finish this damn thing once and for all. To do this, I hit upon a plan: I brought it to work and forced myself to read twenty pages a day at lunch. No more surfing the internet or listening to podcasts. No more chatting with coworkers. Until I finished, I would dedicate the hour to 20 pages of Melville. As a result I: (1) finished the book; and (2) grew to hate lunch (which is really quite a sad turn of events).

What did I learn?

Not too much.

Moby Dick is about a milquetoast named Ishmael who sets out on a whaling ship called the Pequod. Like many literary heroes, he is a bit of an outcast. Also, following in the tradition of Charles Dickens’ tedious first-person narrators, he is a bit of a cipher. Ishmael doesn't do much, except offer endless exegeses on every aspect of whaling, as well as stultifying digressions on topics too numerous to count (don’t miss the chapter about how the color white can be evil!). Ishmael's pedagogic ramblings will soon have you pleading for the whale – or a squid or an eel or a berserk seagull – to eat him, and eat him quickly (but painfully) so the book will end.

The Pequod is commanded by Captain Ahab, the one-legged nut who is obsessed with finding the whale that ate his now-absent limb. He's sort of the 19th century version of the psycho ex-boyfriend who just can't seem to let go the past. Ahab is an interesting character in the abstract. Profoundly, almost suicidally driven. The obvious progenitor of Robert Shaw’s captivating performance as Quint in Spielberg’s Jaws. However, in the context of the book's thees and thous and utterly excessive verbiage and arcane sentence structure, the sheen wears off mighty quick. It’s one of those instances in which I’d much prefer someone to tell me about Ahab, rather than read about him myself. (In other words, I need an interpreter to translate from Ye Olde English to English).

The challenging language permeates Moby Dick. Melville writes in a overly-verbose, grandiloquent style. His book is packed with symbols and metaphors and allusions and nautical terms. There were very few pages in which I didn't have to stop reading and flip to the back of the book, to read the explanatory notes or consult the glossary. There are digressions and soliloquies and even, at certain points, stage directions. It is also a primer on whaling, in case you wanted to learn:

The Pequod’s whale being decapitated and the body stripped, the head was hoisted against the ship’s side – about half way out of the sea, so that it might yet in great part be buoyed up by its native element. And there with the strained craft steeply leaning over it, by reason of the enormous downward drag from the lower mast-head, and every yard-arm on that side projecting like a crane over the waves; there, that blood-dripping head hung to the Pequod’s waist like the giant Holofernes’s from the girdle of Judith.

Maybe you are familiar with the giant Holfernes and Judith’s girdle. Maybe you want to be familiar with them. If so, by all means, proceed.

Melville’s other notable character is Queequeg, the South Seas cannibal with whom Ishmael shares a bed at the Spouter-Inn (a scene that has launched a thousand dissertations). Ishmael’s best friend on the Pequod, Queequeg expresses the duality of man: outwardly a tattooed savage, he is also purveyor of what might be termed Christian ethics (he gets along with people; he turns the other cheek; and he’s willing to jump into the ocean to save a stranger’s life).

The rest of the cast is too large to get into. Besides, they all run together in my mind. For example, I can’t tell you off the top of my head whether Starbuck or Stubb was the first mate. Frankly, I don't really care. They all end up in the same place. Hint: think Jonah. (Melville really harps on this Biblical allusion, as he harps on everything).

None of this is to say that Moby Dick lacks any charms. There are passages of great beauty. For instance, there is a moment when Pip, the black cabin boy, falls out of one of the longboats and is left in the ocean. Upon being rescued, he is irrevocably changed:

The sea had jeeringly kept his finite body up, but drowned the infinite of his soul. Not drowned entirely, though. Rather carried down alive to wondrous depths, where strange shapes of the unwarped primal world glided to and fro before his passive eyes; and the miser-merman, Wisdom, revealed his hoarded heaps; and among the joyous, heartless, ever-juvenile eternities, Pip saw the multitudinous, God-omnipresent, coral insects, that out of the firmament of waters heaved the colossal orbs. He saw God's foot upon the treadle of the loom, and spoke it; and therefore his shipmate's called him mad.

I’m not going to lie and say I have the slightest idea of what that all means, but it sure is pretty. I suppose that was part of the allure that Moby Dick held for me. Even though I often wanted to quit, every once in awhile, a passage would jump out at me and smack me across the face with its classicalness. Unfortunately, you have to wade through so much, the mind becomes numb.

Moby Dick is quite simply a slog. It is tedious. Detail-laden. Attention-demanding. Then, after 56 billion pages, the climax comes in an instant, and in a matter of a few pages, everything you learned about the ship, the knots that held the sails, the crewmembers, Ahab – everything – is for naught, because it's all gone, and the sea rolls on, as it has for a thousand years. In a way, it's kind of cool to do it that way; I mean, that's life. You don't always get a great death scene. But on the other hand, what a gyp!

I realize my tone is preemptively defensive. After all, I consider myself a high functioning individual. Like you (I assume), I don’t like being told: “You just don’t get it.” Oh no, I get it. At least, I tried very hard to get it. I just didn't like it. And I’ll admit, I didn't like having to try so hard. This complaint is not simply a function of having my brain rotted by soda pop, candy, and first-person-shooter video games. Rather, there is an important argument to be made for clarity. Some say Melville’s stylized prose is elegant; I think it’s tortured. Some find his allusions illuminating; I find them hopelessly outdated. Some discover a higher pleasure in unpacking each complex theme; I just wanted to push Ishmael over the gunwale or hang him from the yardarm.

Melville can gussy things up as much as he wants. He can toss off references to 19th century prizefighters, Schiller’s poetry, and the Bible; he can discourse on civilization and savagery, on man and God; he can teach you every knot needed to sail a whaler; and he can draw out enough metaphors to keep SparksNotes in business for the next hundred years.

Melville can do all these things, but he can’t hide the fact that this is a story about some guys going fishing. That’s it. That simple story is the vessel for Melville’s explorations. Upon this he heaps his complications. Whether Melville’s technique is effective or not, or whether Melville has convinced you that it’s effective, is an open question.

Well, not to me. I think I’ve answered the question.

In short, I would rather be harpooned, fall off my ship, get eaten by a great white shark, and then have the great white shark swallowed by a whale, then read this book ever again.

I can’t get any clearer than that.

the best opening line ever! & hey, one can always skip some of the whale pages...

I shouldn’t like Moby Dick. It’s modern reputation is almost wholly a product of Academia who rediscovered it in the first half of the 20th century and promoted it as the greatest of all American novels. This despite the fact that it was a literary failure when first published that quickly went out of print and was forgotten in its own time.

I usually hate the books and authors that Academia uniquely enshrines - I’m looking at you, James Joyce, T.S. Elliott, and David Foster Wallace. It seems that the primary reason they elevate such books is to create a high brow canon that requires a literary high priesthood, gatekeepers to educate the hoi plloi on what is sophisticated and in good taste. So, by all rights, I should hate Moby Dick.

The fact that I actually love this odd, sprawling novel surprised the hell out of me. It captured me from its famous opening sentence, ”Call me Ishmael,” to its Biblical final line, ”And I only am escaped alone to tell thee.” Between those lines are unforgettable characters (Queequeg, Starbuck, Captain Ahab) adventure, symbolism, morality tale, chapters long asides on the minutia of whaling, critique of 19th century America, a tale of loss, alienation, and nihilistic monomania, and, most surprisingly, laugh out loud humor. It reads like a modern novel (whaling minutia chapters aside) as it has none of the sentimentality that was prevalent in 19th century literature. And most refreshing, it is totally accessible to the modern reader with no need for explanation from the academic high priesthood.

Moby Dick can be intimidating. Its reputation, length, and many digressive chapters on the details of 19th century whaling are enough to put many readers off. But its rewards far outweigh its challenges. I’ve now read it twice and loved it both times. If you haven’t, give it a try. You may be as pleasantly surprised as I was.

In questi giorni ho letto recensioni sulla recentissima traduzione del Moby Dick, confrontata con la traduzione, risalente nel tempo, di Cesare Pavese. Io ho letto il Moby Dick della Universale Economica Feltrinelli tradotto da tale Alessandro Ceni, che –leggo nel retro- è poeta e pittore oltre che traduttore. Ebbene, premesso che non capisco niente di traduzioni, né posso fare confronti perché non ho letto la traduzione di Cesare Pavese, una sola cosa posso dire, che il romanzo è bellissimo.
Non so classificarlo in una categoria o in un genere perché in Moby Dick c’è tutto: è una storia del mondo, dell’uomo, di Dio, di Satana, del bene, del male, della follia, della saggezza, del mare e della terra; unisce, trattandone in modo minuzioso e grandioso assieme, animali e divinità: è un’enciclopedia sui cetacei e sul loro re, il capodoglio; al tempo stesso è una Bibbia trasfigurata da Olimpo, dove dei, semidei, eroi, uomini e creature ultraterrene che vivono nel mondo senza essere del mondo, il cui capo indiscusso è il Leviatano, la balena bianca, si combattono, si ergono ognuno a sfidare l’altro in una lotta mortale, di una potenza e di una grandiosità che lasciano senza fiato. Anche lo stile narrativo è multiforme, passa dai toni epici alla poesia pura, dal linguaggio teatrale a quello scientifico e saggistico, non è leggero, anche a causa dei termini marinareschi usati di continuo da Melville, e per questo il libro va centellinato, le pagine vanno rilette anche per trovare le continue citazioni ed i rimandi soprattutto al Vecchio Testamento (chissà quanti me ne sono sfuggiti).
Insomma Moby Dick è tutto quanto ho scritto sopra e molto di più, è un’opera immensa nella quale ogni lettore trova allegorie e simbolismi sui quali non mi dilungo perché ne è stato detto tanto: l’eterna lotta tra l’uomo e la natura, la sete di conoscenza dell’uomo che si mette alla prova per superare limiti invalicabili. Personalmente ho trovato dominante l’aspetto religioso, ho visto in Achab una specie di sacerdote che celebra un rito ossessivamente ripetuto, la personificazione di un Dio folle nella sua lotta contro il male, e nel finale –stupendo- la distruzione e il crollo universale, la fine di ogni religione, etica e filosofia nell’oceano che inghiotte uomini, dei, eroi e leviatani.
E poi, dimenticavo, ho imparato che della balena, come del maiale, non si butta via niente!

Is there a polite version of saying 'I hope you're roasting in hell since you died Herman Melville!'? If there's not, there should be...Screw you, Melville.

Once on Imdb (books section), I saw some yahoo saying to a naysayer of Moby Dick "It's your loss". The naysayer replied sarcastically. "My loss? On no. What will my boss and my wife and friends think of me when I tell them I gave Moby Dick 1 star?". That's my feeling as well.

This book is only for the pedants, the elite of snootiness, many of whom will be real behemoths intellectually. I persevered with this book just to know how awful a classic can be. I can assure you folks, they don't make them like this anymore.

I don't think I got it. Okay, I admit that. The problem with Moby Dick is not that it's boring. But it's that 99% of people will find it tedious enough not to read it entirely. It's hypnotic in its lack of actual plot. It wouldn't get published today.

Has there been a movie adaptation of Moby Dick? The closest to it is Jaws. That was a masterpiece. Not this book. This book is an editor's nightmare. It is the type of book, that when part of a curriculum of a class will prevent the student from loving books. Unforgivable.

Chapter 1. Call Me Daniel

Call me Daniel. Some years ago--never mind how long precisely--having little money in my bank account, and nothing particular to interest me in the world of mortals, I thought I would pick up a classic book and see a little bit of the literary world. It is a habit I have of chasing away adulthood and the drudgery of office life. Whenever I find myself involuntarily thinking about ditching town or becoming a beach bum; whenever the temptation to live in a Winnebago by the sea grips my soul; whenever I have the temptation to smack some smug coal-suited individual for his money barbarism, it's high time for another literary adventure. This is my substitute for a gambling addiction or alcoholism -- fine gentlemanly pursuits for some weary at heart, but not for me. With a cynical yet philosophical flourish, others go into the business world, I quietly start a new literary adventure, a new book review. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards words and literary adventures as me.

Chapter 2. On the Dignity of Book Reviewers

On behalf of the dignity of book reviewing, I would advance only the facts. But after employing the facts to their best effect, what reviewer would not be tempted, when such enabled with a not unreasonable surmise, to use conjecture to further their cause.

It is well known that in the celebration of classic authors there is a process of ego-massaging that has become quite popular. The typical novice book reviewer might consult the cellar of his imagination, looking for well-oiled phrases of modesty ("Now, I don't have a grounding in the classics..." "Well, I'm no English major but..." "It's not like I'm the most knowledgeable person, but...") These salted and seasoned phrases, anointing as they do a book review, sugaring a negative comment or downplaying a good one, as the sugar-coating of such medicines are often done to help the passage of a pill from the mouth to the stomach, help to maintain the dignity of the profession and the reputation of the reviewer.

But the question remains, does a dead man or woman's ego need any massaging? And are book reviewers really so dignified as their seasoned prose would make them seem?

Having no facts at my disposal and nothing but conjecture, I surmise that many of those who use these well-oiled phrases ("Well, I'm no English major but...") might actually be English majors, may actually believe themselves giants comparable to the long-dead "Greats", and may, in fact, find greater joy in abandoning their dignity from time to time when taking up the noble-yet-vulgar art of the book review.

Such a reviewer might say: "I am an English major AND the long, ponderous prose often left me brain-dead for hours at a time. The book should be subtitled: BRAIN DAMAGE FOR READERS."

I am not such a reviewer, but let me give some vulgar praise not meant to massage any egos. My apologies in advance if the praise is lightly salted: "After living cheaply on the thrift of modern prose, I enjoyed the long, ponderous writing the way someone might enjoy an all-you-can-eat buffet. And like an all-you-can-eat buffet, it often gave me diarrhea."


Chapter 3. Chasing the Literary Masterpiece

"Do you know the literary masterpiece, reader? Have you seen it? If you skinned your eyes twice daily to sharpen their focus, would you be able to see clearly a literary masterpiece in a sea of vulgar paperbacks? Are you game for the chase? Are you game to wade through detail after detail...the boring details of nineteenth-century whaling that make schoolchildren eat their desks and scorn their teachers, put M80s in their mailboxes out of spite or flaming bags of dog manure on their porches? Are you game for the game of hunting the great literary masterpiece?...Well, I am, reader. Aye, aye! and I'll chase literature round Good Hope, and round the horn, and round the Norway maelstrom, and round perdition's flames before I give it up. And this is what ye have shipped for, reader! to chase that fabled story on both sides of land, and over all sides of the earth, till it spouts golden prose. What say ye, reader? Will ye sharpen your eyes, hone your wit, hold fast to your pages, and have your bookmarks on ready? Are you brave enough to weather the rough pages of a thousand useless details to find that literary masterpiece? Are you game for the chase?"


Chapter 4. The Old Used Bookstore

Entering that gable-ended used bookstore, you found yourself in a narrow room, crowded with bookshelves, book stacks, boxes of books, more a place for discarded paper than a repository of knowledge. Such unaccountable masses of paper, must, mold, it seemed the nostalgic creation of some book-loving-or-hating Damien Hirst. But what confounds you the most in this bookstore is the heavy weight of unread and unloved things in the world, an orphanage for the dreams of liberal arts majors, and the used bookstore owner, some dreary soul, burdened with the lumpy, soggy, blotchy forms of the world's unloved.

Yet was there a sort of indefinite, half-attained, unimaginable sublimity about it that you find yourself marveling before.

"Buy something?"

"Huh?"

"Do you intend to buy something?"

You stare at the man, deaf and dumb at his question. Of course, you don't intend to buy anything. That's not the purpose of the used bookstore. Instead, you intend to stare, sympathetically at this monument to human failure...as one would a Damien Hirst exhibit.

"Buy something?"

Isn't your sympathy enough? And when the winter comes and the flowers freeze and die, the bookshop-keeper too will pass away, and another, equally old and pitiable sapling will spring forth to take its place.

The old man holds up an old, moldy copy of Moby Dick. "How about this one?"

You hold up your e-Reader, and as you do, the old bookstore keeper appears to you suspended perpendicular, dissected into three pieces, in three adjacent boxes with his mouth open, as if to be saying perpetually into a void, "Buy something?"

Chapter 5. 30 Years to the Chase!

"Oh, reader! It is a mild, mild day. On such a day, I did write my first short story. An elementary student, yes, an elementary student. Thirty, yes, thirty years ago! Thirty years of continual writing! Thirty years of privation, peril, and solitary penmanship! Thirty years of making war on the mysteries of the human condition! Since then I have not spent one week without a short something being written. How for thirty years I have feasted upon nothing but concise prose and weary, used pages of long abandoned books. Ah, ah, Daniel has furiously, foamingly chased his prey -- the literary masterpiece -- more a demon than a man. A fool--fool--old fool Daniel has been. Why the chase? Why palsy the hands with this foolish chase? Behold, reader, locks of grey in the hair and nothing to show for it but tears and rejection slips. I feel deadly faint, bowed, and humped, as though every rejection had seeped into my bones. Stand close to me, reader! Look into these eyes. Do you see the imaginary worlds waiting to get out? Branded, I am with such imaginary world! And thusly, do I give chase to the great literary masterpiece!"

"Oh weary writer, grand old soul, after all your toil, why do you still give chase to the literary masterpiece? Away with me! Let us fly to a pub or some other diversion to get your mind off of this foolish chase! Away! let us away!—this instant let us go for a pint or a snack, some delirious debauch to sooth the savage writer's soul."

But the writer's glance averted. Like a palm tree in a hurricane, he shook.

"What nameless, inscrutable, unearthly thing drives me forward; what hidden lord and master; that against all inclinations to just chill and share a beer with a bro or take time away to play some X-box, I so keep pushing, and crowding, and jamming myself toward that far off creature -- literary masterpiece? Aye, thirty years to the chase...and thirty years more if need be!"

Chapter 6. Post-Review Interview

Interviewer: So, how do you feel about this book review? Do you feel you nailed it?

Daniel: Perhaps...I think the review was fine. The book at times was a slog, so it was nice to do a creative review that mixed some of the elements from various chapters...and doing it in five or six sections helped keep me fresh throughout.

Interviewer: Was it a good book? Anything lacking?

Daniel: More Ishmael and Queequeg, please! I wish I had gotten a bit more of them at the end. The book started off strong with these characters, so I was disappointed that it was more of Ahab and Starbuck's story at the end. I also wish someone had listed all the chapters that were just about whaling that I cold cut out and still enjoy the book.

Interviewer: Are you going to do another long review like this soon or do you plan to take some time off?

Daniel: I think before I take on another long book review like this, I'm going to do a training montage, Rocky 4 style, in a very cold place. I'm going to play the song "Hearts on Fire" continuously while staring down a copy of "War and Peace" and doing sit-ups. At the end of my training montage, I'll run up a mountain and yell at the top of my lungs..."Tolstoy!...Tolstoy!"

Arguably the first truly modern American novel, published 1851. One of the essential books of life. My third reading.

I've had a copy of this novel for many years now. Every time I have moved, or done some extensive spring cleaning, which usually involves rearranging bookshelves, I would come across it and be reminded that I still hadn't read it. I was daunted by its reputation, both as a (or perhaps even the) Great American Novel, and a boring, unreadable novel. When I finally began it for myself it was with some trepidation, and a determination to finish it no matter how dull it might be.

To my surprise, the early chapters are engaging, interesting and quickly draw you. I wondered how people could find this boring -- everything was great! I didn't mind the meticulous descriptions of every detail. It was insightful and even funny. I was marking pages with great lines or paragraphs constantly. Ishmael and Queequeg were an excellent duo (couple?) and I would happily follow them anywhere.

This view mostly remained, though I did soon come to understand what people meant. Once at sea the action, the plot, falls away. The book was already quite eclectic, at times reading like a play, often veering off in unexpected directions --- I found this fun and strange. Eventually Melville seems determined to cover every aspect of whales, whaling, and the whaling industry. His passion for the whalers, (especially for those from Nantucket) is immense. At times the deluge of information is exhausting----there is a chapter devoted to rope, for example. What it is made out of, how it is used, how it is stored. I'm never sure if these parts are told from the character's, so Ishmael's view, or if it is solely Melville. Either way, his enthusiasm is comprehensive and while there are moments when I wanted him to remember he was writing a novel not a textbook, I found his obsessive relaying of all this information relatable. He seems to be channeling all he knows about the topic into the book (or am I projecting?) I'm no stranger to launching into a detailed description of a subject I adore, only to realise my enthusiasm is not matched by the person I am talking to.
In the end I admired him for it and am glad he went to such efforts. Admittedly I liked the chapters more once I had finished reading them, BUT, I am glad they were there. Not only did I learn a lot (though how much of it I will retain is uncertain) it also serves as a kind of relic of, or monument to, a fairly short, brutal, very specific time in history.

The actual depictions of whaling were more graphic than I had expected. These were difficult chapters to read, and I wished I could have been reading them with the comforting thought that whaling no longer took place, but unfortunately I can't soothe myself with that. Melville seems to view whaling as a glorious thing -- I don't agree, but I do think he succeeded in writing an epic and oddly beautiful tribute to it.

As much as I ended up loving it, I can see why so many don't. I don't really keep track of a star rating while I read, because I want to focus on the book as I am experiencing it, not think too strongly about how I am judging it, but if I did it would have veered wildly from an easy five stars to a half-hearted two stars. I can't deny that I did often find it tough-going, and I'm pretty sure that aspects of it went over my head. I think it's a book to read and reread, so maybe one day I'll return to it and see if that's true for me too. Not for a while though! This took me months to read, and I think if it had been the only book I was reading I would have given up on it. Allowing myself to read it a few chapters at a time (and even take a month or two away from it altogether) helped a lot. It also gave me time to think about it carefully. I think that's why it ended up being a book I did love -- I spend a lot of time with it, whether it was in the actual reading of it, or in the hours I puzzled over it, , and ultimately I found it really worthwhile.

I found this article an interesting read, and it's worth a read if you are trying to decide whether or not to attempt reading the book:
https://www.theguardian.com/books/201...

I'm going to hold off on rating / sharing my feelings, because I am very much so still in the processing stage over here with this one.

“Where the White Whale, yo?”

Ah, my first DBR. And possibly my last, as this could be a complete shit show. Approaching a review of Moby-Dick in a state of sobriety just wasn’t cutting it, though. So let’s raise our glasses to Option B, yeah?

I fucking love this book. It took me eight hundred years to read it, but it was so, so worth it. Melville’s writing is impeccable. The parallels he draws, even when he’s seemingly pulling them out of his ass, which I swear to God he’s doing, because who can find this many parallels to draw when talking about a whale, are just perfect. He can compare any and every aspect of the whale—did you know this whole book is about a whale?—to the human condition. And he does so in a way that is humorous and poetic. It is pretty remarkable, I tell you.

So here’s the thing: I had zero interest in whales before starting this book. But holy hell if I haven’t been googling the crap out of them lately. I mean, it’s the mark of a superior writer (isn’t it?) to command one’s attention—not just to hold it but to carry it forth hither and thither—for seven hundred pages of a book about a whale. It’s impressive, really, when you think about it. And yet, this book suffers a severe level of under-appreciation on TEH GOODREADS. It has an average rating of 3.33, which is extraordinarily dismal by this website’s standards (and with almost a quarter million ratings so far, it is unlikely to migrate much from that figure). So in an attempt to understand what it is people hate about this book, I filtered the community reviews to show 1-star results, and here is what I’ve discovered:

• This book would have been great, admits Anulka, if it weren’t for that darn tootin’ whale interfering with the story.

• The language is too much for Gil Michelini, who believes words have their place (after all we are not heathens!), but they simply do not belong in this novel.

• Marlan’s complaint is that there is too great a lack of story here, so much so that it feels crammed in. It’s like trying to squeeze a cookie into a breadbox.

• Some have experienced extreme aversions to this book. It has made Colleen seasick, quite frankly; it has totally messed up Edwin’s mind; and it has made Robert want to light himself on fire. Even Liz has acknowledged a preference for drowning if such an option existed as a substitute for reading Moby-Dick.

• Tracy Dunning would recommend renting the cartoon version, which far surpasses the actual text in storytelling capability.

• Still others have been befuddled by this novel’s ability to hoodwink its readers into thinking they like it (when in fact they don’t), a bizarre phenomenon Esther Hansen can personally attest to.

• Finally, Keya offers a sobering perspective, which is that people are only reading this book to read it, meaning that if they weren’t reading it, then it would simply be a book not being read. Truly, Yogi Berra couldn’t have put it better himself.

But Keya does bring up an interesting point here: why doesn’t Ahab just “get over it” and live his life? I mean, should that be so hard? In some sense, the White Whale is nothing more than a stand-in for everything that has gone wrong in Ahab’s life. He mounts this campaign against the stand-in but isn’t that sort of disingenuous? After all, it’s not the whale that’s responsible for his miserable life. Ahab claims to be an instrument of fate, but fate in this case seems nothing more than a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Oh, fuck, my fingers hurt from the backspace.

Look, here’s the bottom line. I was afraid this book would be long and boring. And now I wonder how many people hesitate reading it because of its bad rap. Well I’m here to tell you, Potential Reader, this book might be long but it is by no means boring. (Therefore, it is long and exciting? TWSS?) I implore you to ignore the negative reviews! Melville has a talent for flowing, humorous prose, and there is so much of it here to enjoy.

So go find your White Whale.

(P.S. Gin rules.)