There seems to be two types of readers of Moby Dick — those who get it and those who don’t. The ones often view Moby Dick as a life changing experience, that it is something that affected them deeply. Those who don’t usually will look upon those who do with outright suspicion thinking “What the fuck are you on about?” I fall into the latter category.
For those who don’t get it, they’ll leave Moby Dick long before Moby Dick shows his hairy back. They’ll leave frustrated, cheated out of their minds that what experts label as the greatest work of American literature is incomprehensible for the common mind.
Look, I read a lot but I enjoy reading for the sake of reading. When I can I will analyse the book that I just read to revisit the underlines and the dog eared page. As I do now, I write about them. I had to take a few days relief to make up my mind about it, and I still am making my mind about it.
Moby Dick for me, was a decent read. It is a difficult read, for sure and there are wtf moments peppered throughout. There are a lot of metaphors here I’ve missed, as Melville draws parallels from aspects of whaling to aspects of life. From the tools of the whaler, the strategy of catching a whale in its seasons, the maritime rituals — all of these is art imitating life.
The book is a test of endurance — it is not to be taken lightly. But at times, it is hard to take is seriously. There is hardly any connection between characters. There is no fabric in between that creates a constant source of conflict and suspense. There are wild, rough characters, especially the shipmates. Starbuck, Stubb and Flask all have interesting characters and they shine in their parts. The dynamic between Ahab and Starbuck interested me. At any point, Starbuck can lose his mind and murder Ahab, and they were always at a knife’s edge.
It is Ahab that is the centrepiece of the book. Moby Dick is an antagonist that exist predominantly in his mind. When Melville writes about Ahab, the book rises to its crescendoes. Sadly, despite his dominant character, he does not predominate the book. It is the meditations of Ishmael in his quest to cover the A-Z of whaling that takes the precedence. And at times, it reads more like an encyclopaedia than a novel of a man’s self-imposed obsession.
Towards the end, Moby Dick becomes increasingly incomprehensible until its inevitable climax. Is it just me, or do I not understand Melville’s humour? At some stage, I had to rely on annotations to guide me through the chapter, and sometimes rereading them more than once, but only finding out that I was no further where I left off.
Those who love Moby Dick reread the book and revisit it in different stages of their lives. I thought before I started the book that it may be one of those books for me, like Magic Mountain, On the Road or Anna Karenina. I doubt that I will reread Moby Dick in its entirety again, and I have read enough around the book to familiarise myself at surface level, but I won’t go any deeper.
The book is its namesake, and perhaps if you fancy yourself an Ahab to comprehend this book in its entirety, your head may be taken off by the line.
