Before I read Moby Dick for the first time last fall semester, all I really knew about it were the stereotypes that exist: it is a long, boring novel; it is filled with long, hard to read sentences; it is supposed to be a great book; it is about a whale that is something of a monster; and that the plot focuses on the revenge of a sailor who was attacked by this whale.
Clearly, none of these stereotypes were going to make me excited about reading the novel, nor were they likely to excite my classmates, or anyone else—unless of course you’re a person into whales or sailing enough so that the other stereotypes wouldn’t deter you. But I began the book with an open & humble mind because I learned sometime ago, from the rather neglected Joaquim Maria Machado de Assis, that the main defect in many a good book was very often the book’s reader.
The first page of the book began a defiance of the stereotypes, which continued off and on to the end of the novel. In all the grumbling I’d heard about the book, no one had ever mentioned Ishmael, which is outlandish because Ishmael is one of the most charming narrators I’ve ever met. Ishmael invites you from the first sentence of the novel to be his confidant. “Call me Ishmael,” he says, to which I responded, “Okay, Ishmael.” And what a sweetly sad voice filled with wisdom he has!
“Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.”
And this is within the first paragraph of the book!! I’ll admit, I instantly relate to these sentiments, but one need not intimately relate to a book’s narrator to enjoy it, and I would venture to guess that Ishmael is charming enough that once you’ve spent just 20 minutes with him you’ll agree to continue the journey with him—even if only on a conditional basis.
If you stick with Ishmael long enough you’ll get to witness the intriguing friendship between him and Queequeg and if you board the Pequod, then sometime after that you’ll get to meet Captain Ahab, and then it becomes somewhat clear as to why Ahab is the most often discussed character of the novel.
Ahab is a dark, spellbinding hero. He is something of an anti-hero, and it’s unlikely that you’ll ever daydream about having coffee with him (the way I do about Ishmael), but I think you have to respect him. For my part, I am mesmerized by him.
There are many different takes on the central theme and meaning behind Ahab’s obsession with Moby Dick, and I imagine that many of them are quite true, in some manner. Here’s a brief look at one I’ve developed, and I think it captures the quintessence of Ahab’s obsession with Moby Dick.
Ahab’s first encounter with Moby Dick left him with half a leg, which he “fixed” by attaching a carved piece of whalebone to take the place of the missing leg (slightly ironic and yet bold, wouldn’t you say?). The encounter also left him with a completely new consciousness. Ahab had had close encounters with death before—in various ways as a whaler and also the time he was struck by lightning—and each scrape may have changed him a bit, but, after he tangles with Moby Dick, Ahab sees life and death as if for the first time.
Moby Dick exits for Ahab as creature that is wholly beneath him (as a whaler), and yet also as a creature he must respect for its magnificence. Moby Dick is also a creature that is intangible—at least while he is free to swim away. When this intangible beast accosts him, Ahab cannot see it as an accident that is part of being a whaler, he can only see it as a wound that is as much philosophical as it is physical. It is a philosophical wound for Ahab because, as an intangible beast, Moby Dick represents the unknown in life—the unknown ways in which we will all die, the unknown places we will go after our deaths, and the unknown reasons for ever having existed. The wound (both philosophical & physical) that Moby Dick inflicted upon Ahab caused Ahab to have a paradigm shift: the reasons Ahab had for being a whaler, a captain, a husband, and a man are no longer visible or secure for Ahab—everything has been shattered and nothing remains as it was. But Ahab does not readily accept this new, chaotic, and possibly meaningless life. He rages against it.
In chapter 36, The Quarter-Deck, Ahab gives a glimpse of his rationale for his obsession with Moby Dick. In the section of the scene I’m quoting, Starbuck (the firstmate) attempts to reason with Ahab, but he does not yet understand the reason Ahab rages and so Starbuck’s attempt for peace is much like the missionary preaching to a “pagan” of whose beliefs or reasons for living he knows nothing of—it is not only disrespectful but also ignorant.
“Vengeance on a dumb brute!” cried Starbuck, “that simply smote thee from blindest instinct! Madness! To be enraged with a dumb thing, Captain Ahab, seems blasphemous.”
“Hark ye yet again—the little lower layer. All visible objects man, are but as pasteboard masks. But in each event—in the living act, the undoubted deed—there, some unknown but still reasoning thing puts forth the mouldings of its features from behind the unreasoning mask. If man will strike, strike through the mask! How can the prisoner reach outside except by thrusting through the wall? To me, the white whale is that wall, shoved near to me. Sometimes I think there’s naught beyond. But ‘tis enough. He tasks me; he heaps me; I see in him outrageous strength, with an inscrutable malice sinewing it. That inscrutable thing is chiefly what I hate; and be the white whale agent or be the white whale principal, I will wreak that hate upon him. Talk not to me of blasphemy, man; I’d strike the sun if it insulted me. For could the sun do that, then I could the other; since there is ever a sort of fair play herein, jealousy presiding over all creations. But not my master, man, is even that fair play. Who’s over me? Truth hath no confines . . ..”
The anger and the profundity in Ahab’s speech (which continues on for another page or so) can make my heart race, and I’ve reread the passage so often I’ve involuntarily memorized it. Why? Because Ahab is a philosopher who lives his philosophy and who works through his philosophy by living it, not by typing it and not by some maieutic method. This I have to admire and witness in awe.
That is not to say that Ahab is wholly effective in the development of his philosophy, but he is unceasingly Ahab despite efforts by others to make him another person, and, although his efforts may be in vain, still, they are his efforts. And to choose to will oneself eviscerates all possibility of failure. (I realize I am speaking of a fictional character as if he were a real person, yet it bothers me not because the amount I can learn from Ahab [and Ishmael for that matter] about being myself and about being alive surpasses just about anything I can learn from any of the passersby on the street.)
Are any of the negative stereotypes that exist about the book true? Well, yes, kind of. There are long chapters that explore cetology to quite an in-depth degree. The casual reader may object to these and wonder, “Why are these here? They’re slowing down the novel.” Well yes, yes they are. But I think they are intended to have that effect. In some sections, the pace of the cetology chapters are meant to be metaphoric of the art of whaling and at other times they’re simply meant to educate the reader so she knows what’s going on when the action restarts. And yes, there are some pretty long sentences. But Melville was a pretty keen grammarian and if you understand how punctuation works then you’ll be fine—Melville does not leave you lost in the middle of a sentence, if you get lost it’s because you’re mind wandered. And when Melville breaks with convention he does so in such a way that you know what’s going on. And if you feel a bit shaky in your understanding of English conventions, then after reading Moby Dick you will have gained an immense amount of confidence—but only if you read closely and occasionally glance at a list of commonly forgot conventions.
I could continue talking about Moby Dick for many more pages, but I will stop here because I’ve already failed in my attempt to write a brief reverie on literature and do not intend to make that failure any more severe.
Why should you read this book? Well, if you’re after (amongst of a host of treasures the book offers) aesthetic wisdom, aching beauty, deeply philosophical flourishes, and moments that touch upon the sublime, then this book is for you. If you’re after a mild diversion, if you want something to read for the plot’s sake, and if reading is a passive experience for you, then don’t bother with this book. You won’t finish it. And if you do, then you’ll only add to the I-don’t-know-what-I’m-talking-about-but-I-sure-think-I-do stereotypes that already exist about the book.
Post Script.
Which edition should you read? Well, there are many. I would advise staying away from dime-novel versions wherein the margins are nonexistent and leave no place for your thumbs to rest without smearing the text. And with Moby Dick’s length (I knew I couldn’t finish this without at least one obvious pun, sorry), you’ll want an edition you can comfortably sit with for a good while.
If it’s your first time reading Moby Dick, I’d recommend the Modern Library edition. There are a good number of explanatory notes in the back, and there also a few essays about Moby Dick included too. And the illustrations by Rockwell Kent (above picture), which appear here and there throughout the novel, are quite nice to look at.
If you’ve already read Moby Dick, or if you want to dig deep the first time you read it, then there are a number of scholarly editions available. Norton has published two critical editions and each differ enough so that if you’re a completist you might feel compelled to buy both—but you probably don’t need to. I own the second edition (the 150th anniversary edition) and it has a few hundred pages of essays and a few letters by Melville about the book, most of which I’ve read and found, in the least, interesting. And there are a copious amount of footnotes throughout the text. I found them to be somewhat distracting, but they do occasionally help illuminate the novel. Near the beginning of the second Norton critical edition, there’s a map showing the course of the Pequod and the voyages Melville himself took as a whaler, and I thought this was a neat addition.
Anyways, here’s a few closing thoughts from Ishmael from the closing of Chapter 60, and they are another example of why I love this novel.
“All men live enveloped in whale lines. All are born with halters round their necks; but it is only when caught in the swift, sudden turn of death, that mortals realize the silent subtle ever-present perils of life. And if you be a philosopher, though seated in the whale-boat, you would not feel one whit more of terror, than though seated before your evening fire with a poker, and not a harpoon, by your side.”
technorati tags:Moby Dick, Herman Melville, Literature, reverie on literature, Joaquim Maria Machado de Assis, Rockwell Kent
Blogged with Flock
