This post is worthy of reblogging because it’s words made me run to purchase the novel “Moby Dick” and simultaneously shamed me for having never read it.
While out walking my dog very early one morning I ran into a frantic woman, beseeching directions to Starbucks.
My reflexive internal response was, “I’m sorry to tell you this, ma’am, but he went down aboard the Pequod,” but I kept the joke to myself, stifled my giggles, and directed the woman towards the coffee shop.
For the most part, everything I’ve ever read about Moby-Dick has been either beautiful and solemn like a dull sermon, or dismissive of it as a baggy boring relic of bygone days. The book invites comparisons to the whale itself: the sheer size and density, a brick of over 600 page, as though its treasures must be gleaned from crosshatched ink scars carved in white slabbed pages.
For many, it is A Book To Be Read, almost a Jonahian duty that cannot be shirked lest the gods be angered, an…
View original post 1,156 more words