Moby Dick
Author: Herman Melville
Rating: ā 4/5
Date Read: 2013/10/24
Pages: 527
When I was in third grade, I was supposed to go on a whale-watching field trip with my entire class. We had recently completed a cetology unit, in which we learned some things that Herman Melville didnāt know about whales, like that they arenāt actually fish. The whale-watching field trip turned out to be a disaster.
See, we needed to drive down with our parents and meet up at some pier somewhere in L.A. county (at this point in my childhood, my knowledge of southland freeways was a little nebulous, but if I recall correctly, I think this all happened in Santa Monica). My parents wanted to meet up with the parents of this kid who used to be my friend but I guess he and I had some sort of falling out, because at this point we were not friends. Anyway, the parents spent way too long lingering over their lunch, which I do recall being excellent (the restaurant had both shark and swordfish specials, and I got the shark, which was not shark fin by the way, donāt be alarmed). As you may imagine, fine dining didnāt necessarily mesh well the field trip schedule, and you may have already guessed the outcome.
We missed the boat.
My parents, who did somewhat understand the pedagogical value of being stuck on a boat with hundreds of screaming 8-year-olds, but who also had a strong desire to not be stuck on a boat with hundreds of screaming 8-year-olds, were visibly delighted. They gleefully bought us tickets for the next boat. I was forced to hang out with the other kid (who, remember, I was no longer friends with) and my brother, who was 4 at the time, and a few other stragglers.
We didnāt see any freaking whales (although there were some dolphins jumping around, so we did see some cetaceans, but that doesnāt count). I found out later that all the other kids saw whales.
Following this tragic event, my family forced me to go to the marina and hang out with them and the other kid and the other kidās parents on their yacht, which at the time I didnāt think was cool at all. Naturally, I refused to hang out with anyone and instead went belowdecks. There, I put my worn-out Rolling Stones Greatest Hits cassette tape into my walkman, and listened to āGet Off of My Cloudā over and over as I wallowed in my self-pity and prepubescent despair.
Which is to say that, starting with childhood, Iāve had a complicated relationship with whales. This complicated relationship continues with Moby Dick.
Hereās the thing: everything youāve heard about Moby Dick is true. Itās as poetic as it is long-winded, as hilarious as it is a serious meditation on desire and madness, as riveting as it is mind-numbingly boring. Iām having trouble coming up with a coherent explanation for how I feel about Moby Dick, because I feel a lot of things. Itās not often that I want to highlight every passage and throw my kindle across the El at the same time. Iām glad I read this, and Iām also glad itās over. Iām going to go read something not about whales now.