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mamimitanaka's review against another edition
5.0
How exactly do you review a book like this one? Something that’s sustained its classic status for nearly two hundred years or older will almost always have a mythic status, and naturally these works have been talked about and analyzed and pored over by countless voices at this point, so it can often feel like adding your own is a bit of a futile exercise. But a book like Moby Dick can not be pegged down by a single voice anyway; a feature of classics is that continued reading seems to open them up more, and thus many of them end up being naturally conducive to an almost infinitude of interpretations. So I guess the most I can do with a book like this is throw my hat in the ring and add my own thoughts. What Melville created here is like a vision of America’s mythology and the whole of the human experience by way of him being really into the art and science of whaling, a text that functions somewhere between a tragicomic adventure novel, academic textbook, and a religious text all at once. A work this avant-garde in the way it was more than half a century before the advent of modernism is a crazy feat, especially because of how Melville just makes it all seem so effortless, so necessary for telling this wild yarn that the amount of really weird shit in this book just works so perfectly, with some of its most genius elements seeming almost unintentional. And add to all that possibly the most wonderfully enticing first person narrator I’ve met yet in my literary adventures by the name of Ishmael, and overall a mastery of narrative tone and shakingly powerful prose throughout and a writing style that so seamlessly and beautifully glides me through its ostensibly endless avenues of ideas and forms, and it’s easy to see why this has the status it does. It just kinda has to be a classic, by just how ambitious it is and how forward thinking it was in the context of its time. I don’t think I was bored once by this novel, this book is such a wonderfully weird and wild read and in all the most unique ways that I can’t help but love it dearly.
And I want to expand on one point from the previous paragraph especially - “unintentional genius” - because obviously, a work with this scope and obvious self-awareness could not possibly be “unintentional”, and I’m not trying at all to assert that Melville wasn’t acutely attuned to the novel he was writing. What I mean is how this novel helped inform the landscape of literature to come in a way we’re still seeing clear ripple effects of even almost 200 years later without Melville possibly being able to know this would happen, in its use of so many techniques that feel so modern - and while “Moby Dick” obviously did not create these things it assembles them into such an ambitious stew of fiction, fact and form long before people like Joyce, Gaddis and Pynchon were even kicking. There is SO MUCH working at once here - metafiction, stories-in-stories, overdoses of literary references and historical and mythological details, tragedy and comedy and puns and wordplay and political and queer subtext and probably like ten other major variables I can’t even name. But not once while engaging with all of this does it ever feel like Melville is trying to one-up the reader, it just feels like he HAD to write this and had to lay it out in such an unorthodox way because that’s exactly what the manuscript needed. I guess this is all just my typically long winded way of saying this book is incredibly ahead of its time, and that it’s one of if not the landmark in laying out the groundwork for what literary maximalism has looked like ever since.
So what’s it all cohere to? Well, that’s really the big enigma of “Moby Dick”, and the thing that’s kept it so alive in literary and academic discussions for such a long time. While reading the novel I was scribbling my amateurish thoughts in the margins practically every page, but every elucidation I had [if it was not to pin down a reference to look up later] was something to do with Ahab’s quest and man’s eternal search for meaning, the White Whale and whales in general as a microcosm for god and the universe and all that stuff that’s been well-discussed in relation to the book, but even these motifs, as vital as they are, aren’t really conducive to encapsulating the book’s scope. Because really this is a book about anything and everything, and something that seeks to encompass the entirety of the known universe and the experiences therein within it means that attempting to pin it down with any one-size-fits all approach would run contrary to what the author is shooting for here. And that’s why this book is as formally scattershot as it is - within this novel you will find chapters comprised of stories-within-stories, prose poetry, Shakespearean monologues, academic dissertations on all sorts of avenues of science and anatomy and philosophy related to whales, comic episodes, chapters set up like stage plays [this in particular got to me because it was just so brilliant and unexpected], allegories to literature and mythology - I could go on for awhile, you get the point. And it all works, because if this were any less all over the place, then Melville’s goals could not reach their full breadth. It isn’t possible for any piece of art to truly capture the totality of existence, but Melville shoots for the stars and he certainly comes damn close, perhaps closer than any other novelist I’ve read to this point. And that he does it while honing in on such particulars makes this already impressive affair even more astounding.
To work off that last point, another thing that makes this book’s wild structural and stylistic shifts work so well is that it operates with two respective “cores” - the narrative core and the thematic core [bear with me here; they both necessarily overlap at varying intervals and the distinction isn’t, cannot be concrete, but it’s the most useful application I can make to help me break the book down]. The narrative core is, of course, Ahab’s doomed revenge odyssey, his quest for absolution through a bloodshed that damns his soul, while the thematic core is the subject of whales themselves; the particulars of whaling and whale behavior, their anatomy, their presence in history and the sciences and arts, and the animal as a multi-pronged metaphor for existence, the human condition, and the symbiotic relationship between humanity, the natural world and the universe as well as our age old search for God through these things. Like the roots of Yggdrasil, these cores uphold the novel’s weight, and allow an ostensible infinity of concepts to sprout from these cores while still being tethered to them, like branches of said giant tree. This is even textually supported by one of the novel’s many metafictional flourishes, coming in the middle of the book with one of my favorite lines here: "Out of the trunk, the branches grow; out of them, the twigs. So, in productive subjects, grow the chapters."
And what threads these all together so wonderfully is the utterly spellbinding voice of the narrator, Ishmael. He occupies a space which I'm sure is older than "Moby Dick", but unsure if older in American literature - that of the passive observer narrating the larger story around him, the storyteller but not the protagonist [and if there is any protagonist I don't even know if Ahab cuts it, it's probably more like Humanity as a whole]. But though the story is not focused on him, Melville's writing is so spectacular that every turn in the novel is abided by his presence and unique quirks, even when the book takes perspective detours away from him. Ishmael is one of the most charming unreliable narrators I've ever encountered, because he isn't fabricating or embellishing details to hide some part of his psychology, he's doing it because he genuinely thinks he knows what's best, even when making ridiculously tall claims about whales he doesn't really know the full details of. This is why the much-maligned "textbook" chapters cannot be glossed over - their purpose is not only to serve the allegorical and thematic meat of the novel but to elucidate who Ishmael is, they illuminate his psychology clearly despite the unreliability of his narration. He's just so charming to read in his absolute dorky confidence in things that are at best questionable, as well as his love for a tall tale [see the nested story about Steelkilt], and the warmth and coziness emanating off his narrative voice - seriously, this guy is just so FRIENDLY in spite of everything else, I just wanted to have a beer with him and listen to him ramble about his love for whales.
I think that last bit is pertinent because at every turn, despite being immersed in the cruel industry he is in [and indeed exalting said industry], Ishmael is just so damn interested in absolutely everything to do with whales, compounded by the tenderness and humanity with which he talks about them, that his true feelings on the animal are made clear, and I think this was possibly the emotional core of the novel that I expected least, but one that kept me the most enthralled of maybe anything else in the book. Ishmael's passion for the creatures bleeds through every sentence, there is a sense on every page that though he may be set in his ways as a proponent of whaling, there is a cognitive dissonance within him when he experiences the animals for what they are, that these men are hunting creatures which may indeed be greater than humanity. Just look at the way he talks about them that almost reaches a pitch of religious fervor and awe, or the way he humanizes them through his phrasing and monologuing as though he sees whales as as human or perhaps even more than his own kind.
It makes me wonder how much Ishmael reflects Melville himself [and there's plenty here that may support this, such as the novel's metafictional touches and the awareness displayed by Ishmael that he's writing a book], because this book is such a vast canvas of Stuff Related to Whales and Whaling that it necessarily reflects Melville's own deep passion for the subject [I feel like this is supported by the opening twenty or so pages which are just decontextualized quotes about whales through history and literature, which is not only hilarious and sets you up for the book perfectly but also lets you know what kind of weirdness you're getting into]. I think this is the heart of why this works so much, because to me at least it doesn't feel like it's trying particularly hard to be the Great American Novel, it just kind of IS because of the breadth of knowledge and passion Melville engages with here. Melville makes no attempts to obfuscate the novel's lifeblood as an obvious passion project - for whales and for the art of storytelling first and foremost, but also for everything he can reasonably fit into the space of a book, because as I said earlier this is a novel about everything by why of the particulars [what's that Joyce quote again?] In this book Melville not only illuminates the world and characters he created but his own artistic ethos, and what a wonderfully captivating and unique ethos it is.
What else can I say?? Well, I can talk at length about a lot of things I didn't go into here, but the novel is so vast in its scope, and the minutiae themselves so worthy of individual analysis, that if I kept rambling then I'd probably just end up recreating all the cetology and science chapters but much less well written, as I am a lowly internet reviewer. But this was fucking great from front to back, not a single dull moment like I was warned, in fact I can only imagine this being dull if you're hyperfocused on plot instead of form [nothing wrong with that it's just not how I roll]. Obviously requires multiple readings throughout the years, and the middling average rating here for what is obviously a monumental work of art is pretty much a crime. I would seriously caution newer readers to go in with an open mind and disregard any preconceived notions about what this novel is, because even with indepth reviews like this one it will likely defy you. But let it do so; difficult fiction does not necessarily have to be a code to be broken [and I'd argue Melville doesn't try that here even slightly], only immersed within. So glad to have chosen this for my long-running July read, with the heat and the prevalence of storms up here where I live there's possibly no better time to have read it, other than being on the sea, an experience with this novel I hope to have some day.
[Side note: many thanks to one of my best friends who got me a copy of this book for free, a Franklin Library edition copy that is almost 50 years old and feels appropriately aged, as I feel like newer copies would make it feel a bit too clean, and is just gorgeously designed on its own - the minimalist hardcover design is simplistic yet beautiful, complete with an opening stretch of gorgeous illustrations and the fringes of the pages lined enticingly with a light gold hue, and scars running along the circumference of the outer lining of the copy likely attributable to its age but adding to the overall mystique nonetheless. These were all lovely accompaniments to the reading experience!]
"Is it that by its indefiniteness it shadows forth the heartless voids and immensities of the universe, and thus stabs us from behind with the thought of annihilation, when beholding the white depths of the milky way? Or is it, that as in essence whiteness is not so much a color as the visible absence of color; and at the same time the concrete of all colors; is it for these reasons that there is such a dumb blankness, full of meaning, in a wide landscape of snows — a colorless, all-color of atheism from which we shrink? And when we consider that other theory of the natural philosophers, that all other earthly hues — every stately or lovely emblazoning — the sweet tinges of sunset skies and woods; yea, and the gilded velvets of butterflies, and the butterfly cheeks of young girls; all these are but subtile deceits, not actually inherent in substances, but only laid on from without; so that all deified Nature absolutely paints like the harlot, whose allurements cover nothing but the charnel-house within; and when we proceed further, and consider that the mystical cosmetic which produces every one of her hues, the great principle of light, for ever remains white or colorless in itself, and if operating without medium upon matter, would touch all objects, even tulips and roses, with its own blank tinge — pondering all this, the palsied universe lies before us a leper; and like wilful travellers in Lapland, who refuse to wear colored and coloring glasses upon their eyes, so the wretched infidel gazes himself blind at the monumental white shroud that wraps all the prospect around him. And of all these things the Albino whale was the symbol. Wonder ye then at the fiery hunt?"
And I want to expand on one point from the previous paragraph especially - “unintentional genius” - because obviously, a work with this scope and obvious self-awareness could not possibly be “unintentional”, and I’m not trying at all to assert that Melville wasn’t acutely attuned to the novel he was writing. What I mean is how this novel helped inform the landscape of literature to come in a way we’re still seeing clear ripple effects of even almost 200 years later without Melville possibly being able to know this would happen, in its use of so many techniques that feel so modern - and while “Moby Dick” obviously did not create these things it assembles them into such an ambitious stew of fiction, fact and form long before people like Joyce, Gaddis and Pynchon were even kicking. There is SO MUCH working at once here - metafiction, stories-in-stories, overdoses of literary references and historical and mythological details, tragedy and comedy and puns and wordplay and political and queer subtext and probably like ten other major variables I can’t even name. But not once while engaging with all of this does it ever feel like Melville is trying to one-up the reader, it just feels like he HAD to write this and had to lay it out in such an unorthodox way because that’s exactly what the manuscript needed. I guess this is all just my typically long winded way of saying this book is incredibly ahead of its time, and that it’s one of if not the landmark in laying out the groundwork for what literary maximalism has looked like ever since.
So what’s it all cohere to? Well, that’s really the big enigma of “Moby Dick”, and the thing that’s kept it so alive in literary and academic discussions for such a long time. While reading the novel I was scribbling my amateurish thoughts in the margins practically every page, but every elucidation I had [if it was not to pin down a reference to look up later] was something to do with Ahab’s quest and man’s eternal search for meaning, the White Whale and whales in general as a microcosm for god and the universe and all that stuff that’s been well-discussed in relation to the book, but even these motifs, as vital as they are, aren’t really conducive to encapsulating the book’s scope. Because really this is a book about anything and everything, and something that seeks to encompass the entirety of the known universe and the experiences therein within it means that attempting to pin it down with any one-size-fits all approach would run contrary to what the author is shooting for here. And that’s why this book is as formally scattershot as it is - within this novel you will find chapters comprised of stories-within-stories, prose poetry, Shakespearean monologues, academic dissertations on all sorts of avenues of science and anatomy and philosophy related to whales, comic episodes, chapters set up like stage plays [this in particular got to me because it was just so brilliant and unexpected], allegories to literature and mythology - I could go on for awhile, you get the point. And it all works, because if this were any less all over the place, then Melville’s goals could not reach their full breadth. It isn’t possible for any piece of art to truly capture the totality of existence, but Melville shoots for the stars and he certainly comes damn close, perhaps closer than any other novelist I’ve read to this point. And that he does it while honing in on such particulars makes this already impressive affair even more astounding.
To work off that last point, another thing that makes this book’s wild structural and stylistic shifts work so well is that it operates with two respective “cores” - the narrative core and the thematic core [bear with me here; they both necessarily overlap at varying intervals and the distinction isn’t, cannot be concrete, but it’s the most useful application I can make to help me break the book down]. The narrative core is, of course, Ahab’s doomed revenge odyssey, his quest for absolution through a bloodshed that damns his soul, while the thematic core is the subject of whales themselves; the particulars of whaling and whale behavior, their anatomy, their presence in history and the sciences and arts, and the animal as a multi-pronged metaphor for existence, the human condition, and the symbiotic relationship between humanity, the natural world and the universe as well as our age old search for God through these things. Like the roots of Yggdrasil, these cores uphold the novel’s weight, and allow an ostensible infinity of concepts to sprout from these cores while still being tethered to them, like branches of said giant tree. This is even textually supported by one of the novel’s many metafictional flourishes, coming in the middle of the book with one of my favorite lines here: "Out of the trunk, the branches grow; out of them, the twigs. So, in productive subjects, grow the chapters."
And what threads these all together so wonderfully is the utterly spellbinding voice of the narrator, Ishmael. He occupies a space which I'm sure is older than "Moby Dick", but unsure if older in American literature - that of the passive observer narrating the larger story around him, the storyteller but not the protagonist [and if there is any protagonist I don't even know if Ahab cuts it, it's probably more like Humanity as a whole]. But though the story is not focused on him, Melville's writing is so spectacular that every turn in the novel is abided by his presence and unique quirks, even when the book takes perspective detours away from him. Ishmael is one of the most charming unreliable narrators I've ever encountered, because he isn't fabricating or embellishing details to hide some part of his psychology, he's doing it because he genuinely thinks he knows what's best, even when making ridiculously tall claims about whales he doesn't really know the full details of. This is why the much-maligned "textbook" chapters cannot be glossed over - their purpose is not only to serve the allegorical and thematic meat of the novel but to elucidate who Ishmael is, they illuminate his psychology clearly despite the unreliability of his narration. He's just so charming to read in his absolute dorky confidence in things that are at best questionable, as well as his love for a tall tale [see the nested story about Steelkilt], and the warmth and coziness emanating off his narrative voice - seriously, this guy is just so FRIENDLY in spite of everything else, I just wanted to have a beer with him and listen to him ramble about his love for whales.
I think that last bit is pertinent because at every turn, despite being immersed in the cruel industry he is in [and indeed exalting said industry], Ishmael is just so damn interested in absolutely everything to do with whales, compounded by the tenderness and humanity with which he talks about them, that his true feelings on the animal are made clear, and I think this was possibly the emotional core of the novel that I expected least, but one that kept me the most enthralled of maybe anything else in the book. Ishmael's passion for the creatures bleeds through every sentence, there is a sense on every page that though he may be set in his ways as a proponent of whaling, there is a cognitive dissonance within him when he experiences the animals for what they are, that these men are hunting creatures which may indeed be greater than humanity. Just look at the way he talks about them that almost reaches a pitch of religious fervor and awe, or the way he humanizes them through his phrasing and monologuing as though he sees whales as as human or perhaps even more than his own kind.
It makes me wonder how much Ishmael reflects Melville himself [and there's plenty here that may support this, such as the novel's metafictional touches and the awareness displayed by Ishmael that he's writing a book], because this book is such a vast canvas of Stuff Related to Whales and Whaling that it necessarily reflects Melville's own deep passion for the subject [I feel like this is supported by the opening twenty or so pages which are just decontextualized quotes about whales through history and literature, which is not only hilarious and sets you up for the book perfectly but also lets you know what kind of weirdness you're getting into]. I think this is the heart of why this works so much, because to me at least it doesn't feel like it's trying particularly hard to be the Great American Novel, it just kind of IS because of the breadth of knowledge and passion Melville engages with here. Melville makes no attempts to obfuscate the novel's lifeblood as an obvious passion project - for whales and for the art of storytelling first and foremost, but also for everything he can reasonably fit into the space of a book, because as I said earlier this is a novel about everything by why of the particulars [what's that Joyce quote again?] In this book Melville not only illuminates the world and characters he created but his own artistic ethos, and what a wonderfully captivating and unique ethos it is.
What else can I say?? Well, I can talk at length about a lot of things I didn't go into here, but the novel is so vast in its scope, and the minutiae themselves so worthy of individual analysis, that if I kept rambling then I'd probably just end up recreating all the cetology and science chapters but much less well written, as I am a lowly internet reviewer. But this was fucking great from front to back, not a single dull moment like I was warned, in fact I can only imagine this being dull if you're hyperfocused on plot instead of form [nothing wrong with that it's just not how I roll]. Obviously requires multiple readings throughout the years, and the middling average rating here for what is obviously a monumental work of art is pretty much a crime. I would seriously caution newer readers to go in with an open mind and disregard any preconceived notions about what this novel is, because even with indepth reviews like this one it will likely defy you. But let it do so; difficult fiction does not necessarily have to be a code to be broken [and I'd argue Melville doesn't try that here even slightly], only immersed within. So glad to have chosen this for my long-running July read, with the heat and the prevalence of storms up here where I live there's possibly no better time to have read it, other than being on the sea, an experience with this novel I hope to have some day.
[Side note: many thanks to one of my best friends who got me a copy of this book for free, a Franklin Library edition copy that is almost 50 years old and feels appropriately aged, as I feel like newer copies would make it feel a bit too clean, and is just gorgeously designed on its own - the minimalist hardcover design is simplistic yet beautiful, complete with an opening stretch of gorgeous illustrations and the fringes of the pages lined enticingly with a light gold hue, and scars running along the circumference of the outer lining of the copy likely attributable to its age but adding to the overall mystique nonetheless. These were all lovely accompaniments to the reading experience!]
"Is it that by its indefiniteness it shadows forth the heartless voids and immensities of the universe, and thus stabs us from behind with the thought of annihilation, when beholding the white depths of the milky way? Or is it, that as in essence whiteness is not so much a color as the visible absence of color; and at the same time the concrete of all colors; is it for these reasons that there is such a dumb blankness, full of meaning, in a wide landscape of snows — a colorless, all-color of atheism from which we shrink? And when we consider that other theory of the natural philosophers, that all other earthly hues — every stately or lovely emblazoning — the sweet tinges of sunset skies and woods; yea, and the gilded velvets of butterflies, and the butterfly cheeks of young girls; all these are but subtile deceits, not actually inherent in substances, but only laid on from without; so that all deified Nature absolutely paints like the harlot, whose allurements cover nothing but the charnel-house within; and when we proceed further, and consider that the mystical cosmetic which produces every one of her hues, the great principle of light, for ever remains white or colorless in itself, and if operating without medium upon matter, would touch all objects, even tulips and roses, with its own blank tinge — pondering all this, the palsied universe lies before us a leper; and like wilful travellers in Lapland, who refuse to wear colored and coloring glasses upon their eyes, so the wretched infidel gazes himself blind at the monumental white shroud that wraps all the prospect around him. And of all these things the Albino whale was the symbol. Wonder ye then at the fiery hunt?"
kintha's review against another edition
3.0
It may seem that i should love a book for long discussions of marine life and its biology, but we have real science now.
lesbrary's review against another edition
3.0
I feel like I shouldn't mark this as read, because I found myself tuning out a lot while listening to the audiobook, and there may have been a glitch where Part 19/20 was just a repeat of Part 18? So I think I missed a chunk? But I listened to something like 18 hours of this, so I'm claiming it.
I actually found the beginning much more interesting than the bulk of the book. Ishmael/Queequeg. I also liked the philosophical bits scattered throughout, but I don't think I'll be coming back to this, despite what I liked of parts of it. I do want to read some literary criticism about race in Moby Dick, though, because I found the depiction of Queequeg really interesting, but he kind of loses that after the beginning of the book.
I actually found the beginning much more interesting than the bulk of the book. Ishmael/Queequeg. I also liked the philosophical bits scattered throughout, but I don't think I'll be coming back to this, despite what I liked of parts of it. I do want to read some literary criticism about race in Moby Dick, though, because I found the depiction of Queequeg really interesting, but he kind of loses that after the beginning of the book.
rschmidt7's review against another edition
2.0
What more can be said about this book? Vastly overrated and praised by literary blowhards today, but rightfully torn apart by the critics upon its release, this is one of the worst books I've ever read. The core story, however, is incredible, the character of Ahab is among the best in literature, and if the book had been properly edited, it could have been the best novel in American history. Sadly, the many beautiful lines are lost amongst the sea of irrelevant ramblings about the minutia of Whaling. About 350 pages too long. Glad I read it, but would never read it again, and I would only recommend this to someone who, like me, feels compelled to read it because it is regarded as such a seminal work.
pickleballlibrarian's review against another edition
4.0
The descriptions in this book was amazing. One man's obsession was captured well. This is quite a story. Unfortunately, the reader has to trudge through the book. It's not an easy read.
lemeilleurs's review against another edition
3.0
I know that this is a classic.... but sometimes the classics and I just don't gel. I didn't dislike Moby-Dick, but I had a hard time getting into this one. MD was less a story than it was a love letter to whales, and a textbook of everything I never wanted to know about whales in the process. There were times I would get really into the book, when it was something that furthered the narrative. However, I found my mind drifting a lot when Melville would get into detailed explanations of whaling, whale anatomy, and the different types of whales. For a book mostly set at sea, I found the writing rather... dry.
nuska's review against another edition
5.0
"La historia de los fanáticos no es ni la mitad de sorprendente que resulta la capacidad inmensa que tienen para engañarse a sí mismos, así como su ilimitado poder de engañar y hechizar a muchísimos más". (63).
"Cualquier hombre que aliente suele tener, de uno u otro modo, un lazo siamés que le une a diversos otros mortales. Si nuestro banquero quiebra, nosotros saltamos; si el farmacéutico, por error, nos envía veneno en sus píldoras, nos morimos. (68 - 69).
"Si izáis por una lado la cabeza de Locke, os inclinaría hacia allí, y luego, por el otro lado la de Kant, volvéis a recobrar el equilibrio, pero ¡en qué desdichado estado! Hay algunos espíritus que se mantienen a flote de ese modo. ¡Oh, imbéciles! ¡Tirad todas esas cabezas por la borda y flotaréis tan frescos y erguidos!" (77).
"¿Sois capaces de captar la expresión de las ballenas espermáticas? Es la misma con que ha muerto, tan sólo que alguna de las más grandes arrugas de su frente parecen haberse desvanecido. Su ceño me da la impresión de estar lleno de la placidez de una pradera, nacida de una irreflexiva indiferencia acerca de la muerte. Pero notad la expresión de la otra cabeza. Reparad en ese inquietante labio inferior, constreñido accidentalmente contra el costado del barco, como si abrazase con firmeza la mandíbula. ¿No parece expresar la totalidad de esta cabeza una enorme resolución práctica de enfrentarse con el problema de la muerte? Sostengo que esta ballena común debe haber sido una estoica, mientras la ballena espermática una platónica, que debe haberse inspirado en Spinoza en sus últimos años". (87).
"¿Cuántos, considero yo, no habrán caído de este modo en la melosa cabeza de Platón, para perecer en ella dulcemente?" (97).
"No hay animal alguno en la tierra cuya estupidez no sea infinitamente superada por la del hombre". (146).
"Semejantes a hordas de escolares, son pendencieros, bromistas y malignos y van dando tumbos por el mundo a tal velocidad, que no habrá asegurador sensato que se atreva a asegurarlos, como tampoco lo haría con ningún estudiante de Yale o Harvard". (157).
"Siéntate a la manera de un sultán entre los satélites de Saturno, y toma al hombre hecho abstracción, y aparecerá como una maravilla, una grandeza, una aflicción. Pero desde el mismo lugar toma a la humanidad en su conjunto, y aparecerá como una multitud de repeticiones innecesarias, desde el punto de vista de la contemporaneidad y de la herencia biológica". (244).
"Lo que verdaderamente hay de admirable y pavoroso en el hombre jamás apareció expresado en palabras o en libros". (257).
"En esta vida no existe ningún progreso permanente. No avanzamos de forma gradual y prefijada para alcanzar al fin una pausa: a través del inconsciente hechizo de la infancia y de la inconsciente fe del adolescente, y la duda -la común maldición-, después, el escepticismo, luego la incredulidad, para ir a descansar finalmente en la viril y condicional parada del 'si'... más una vez que hemos atravesado el proceso, volvemos de nuevo a empezarlo: y la niñez, la adolescencia, la madurez, el reposo reflexivo, son eternos. ¿Dónde está el puerto final del que ya no volveremos a desatracar? ¿En qué mágico éter navega el mundo, que nunca llega a cansar a los cansados? ¿Dónde se halla escondido el padre del niño inclusero? Nuestras almas semejan huérfanos cuyas madres solteras han muerto al darles la existencia. El secreto de nuestra paternidad yace en su tumbas, y debemos aprenderlo allí". (273).
Capítulo "Sinfonía". (331 - 335).
Hace tiempo en alguna parte leí para referirse a dos cosas que nada tenían que ver la una con la otra, usar la expresión "Tiene tanto que ver como Moby Dick con la caza de ballenas" es decir: nada en absoluto. Lo que a primera lectura puede parecer un libro de aventuras e incluso un tratado de forma, vida, costumbres y caza de la ballena blanca; no es más que una enorme ironía sobre la Historia de la Filosofía y sobre el hombre. Cada una de las cosas que aparecen en la novela son la metáfora de otra: las cabezas de ballena son filósofos, el mar es ese gran desconocido en donde todo ser humano debe terminar algún día y la enorme ballena blanca, el increíble y aterrador monstruo Moby Dick, es la misma muerte. Esa a la que nos pasamos la vida intentando arponear pero a la que por supuesto nadie ha conseguido dar caza jamás y que seguirá meciéndose sobre las blancas olas por toda la eternidad.
"Cualquier hombre que aliente suele tener, de uno u otro modo, un lazo siamés que le une a diversos otros mortales. Si nuestro banquero quiebra, nosotros saltamos; si el farmacéutico, por error, nos envía veneno en sus píldoras, nos morimos. (68 - 69).
"Si izáis por una lado la cabeza de Locke, os inclinaría hacia allí, y luego, por el otro lado la de Kant, volvéis a recobrar el equilibrio, pero ¡en qué desdichado estado! Hay algunos espíritus que se mantienen a flote de ese modo. ¡Oh, imbéciles! ¡Tirad todas esas cabezas por la borda y flotaréis tan frescos y erguidos!" (77).
"¿Sois capaces de captar la expresión de las ballenas espermáticas? Es la misma con que ha muerto, tan sólo que alguna de las más grandes arrugas de su frente parecen haberse desvanecido. Su ceño me da la impresión de estar lleno de la placidez de una pradera, nacida de una irreflexiva indiferencia acerca de la muerte. Pero notad la expresión de la otra cabeza. Reparad en ese inquietante labio inferior, constreñido accidentalmente contra el costado del barco, como si abrazase con firmeza la mandíbula. ¿No parece expresar la totalidad de esta cabeza una enorme resolución práctica de enfrentarse con el problema de la muerte? Sostengo que esta ballena común debe haber sido una estoica, mientras la ballena espermática una platónica, que debe haberse inspirado en Spinoza en sus últimos años". (87).
"¿Cuántos, considero yo, no habrán caído de este modo en la melosa cabeza de Platón, para perecer en ella dulcemente?" (97).
"No hay animal alguno en la tierra cuya estupidez no sea infinitamente superada por la del hombre". (146).
"Semejantes a hordas de escolares, son pendencieros, bromistas y malignos y van dando tumbos por el mundo a tal velocidad, que no habrá asegurador sensato que se atreva a asegurarlos, como tampoco lo haría con ningún estudiante de Yale o Harvard". (157).
"Siéntate a la manera de un sultán entre los satélites de Saturno, y toma al hombre hecho abstracción, y aparecerá como una maravilla, una grandeza, una aflicción. Pero desde el mismo lugar toma a la humanidad en su conjunto, y aparecerá como una multitud de repeticiones innecesarias, desde el punto de vista de la contemporaneidad y de la herencia biológica". (244).
"Lo que verdaderamente hay de admirable y pavoroso en el hombre jamás apareció expresado en palabras o en libros". (257).
"En esta vida no existe ningún progreso permanente. No avanzamos de forma gradual y prefijada para alcanzar al fin una pausa: a través del inconsciente hechizo de la infancia y de la inconsciente fe del adolescente, y la duda -la común maldición-, después, el escepticismo, luego la incredulidad, para ir a descansar finalmente en la viril y condicional parada del 'si'... más una vez que hemos atravesado el proceso, volvemos de nuevo a empezarlo: y la niñez, la adolescencia, la madurez, el reposo reflexivo, son eternos. ¿Dónde está el puerto final del que ya no volveremos a desatracar? ¿En qué mágico éter navega el mundo, que nunca llega a cansar a los cansados? ¿Dónde se halla escondido el padre del niño inclusero? Nuestras almas semejan huérfanos cuyas madres solteras han muerto al darles la existencia. El secreto de nuestra paternidad yace en su tumbas, y debemos aprenderlo allí". (273).
Capítulo "Sinfonía". (331 - 335).
Hace tiempo en alguna parte leí para referirse a dos cosas que nada tenían que ver la una con la otra, usar la expresión "Tiene tanto que ver como Moby Dick con la caza de ballenas" es decir: nada en absoluto. Lo que a primera lectura puede parecer un libro de aventuras e incluso un tratado de forma, vida, costumbres y caza de la ballena blanca; no es más que una enorme ironía sobre la Historia de la Filosofía y sobre el hombre. Cada una de las cosas que aparecen en la novela son la metáfora de otra: las cabezas de ballena son filósofos, el mar es ese gran desconocido en donde todo ser humano debe terminar algún día y la enorme ballena blanca, el increíble y aterrador monstruo Moby Dick, es la misma muerte. Esa a la que nos pasamos la vida intentando arponear pero a la que por supuesto nadie ha conseguido dar caza jamás y que seguirá meciéndose sobre las blancas olas por toda la eternidad.
mimima's review against another edition
4.0
When I read this in High School, my boss at the time told me that she had loved this book. I thought that she was wrong. It was a long slog and not interesting at all.
Now that I am also an adult, I can't believe how wonderful this novel is! Such a sense of humor, such beautiful writing (yeah, you learn a lot about blubber rendering, but you can skim that,) and fabulous plot. Truly this is wasted on the young!
(On a humorous side note, I had remembered it as soooooo long - I was surprised it was under 500 pages)
Now that I am also an adult, I can't believe how wonderful this novel is! Such a sense of humor, such beautiful writing (yeah, you learn a lot about blubber rendering, but you can skim that,) and fabulous plot. Truly this is wasted on the young!
(On a humorous side note, I had remembered it as soooooo long - I was surprised it was under 500 pages)
errantreads's review against another edition
3.0
The language is dated making it hard to read and hard to absorb its moments of brilliance. But there are moments of brilliance. A great and not so great book all at the same time. I will be thinking about this whale for some time... and that says something.