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Call me Ishmael. Some years ago -- never mind how long precisely --
having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to
interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see
the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the
spleen, and regulating the circulation. 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
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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 or other, cherish very nearly the same
feelings towards the ocean with me. --opening paragraph

\medskip

"Now, three to three, ye stand. Commend the murderous chalices! Bestow
them, ye who are now made parties to this indissoluble
league.... Drink, ye harpooneers! drink and swear, ye men that man the
deathful whaleboat's bow -- Death to Moby Dick! God hunt us all, if we
do not hunt Moby Dick to his death!" --Chapter 36 (The Quarter-Deck)

\medskip

Already several fatalities had attended his chase. But though similar
disasters, however little bruited ashore, were by no means unusual in
the fishery; yet, in most instances, such seemed the White Whale's
infernal aforethought of ferocity, that every dismembering or death
that he caused, was not wholly regarded as having been inflicted by an
unintelligent agent.

Judge, then, to what pitches of inflamed, distracted fury the minds of
his more desperate hunters were impelled, when amid the chips of
chewed boats, and the sinking limbs of torn comrades, they swam out of
the white curds of the whale's direful wrath into the serene,
exasperating sunlight, that smiled on, as if at a birth or a bridal.

His three boats stove around him, and oars and men both whirling in
the eddies; one captain, seizing the line-knife from his broken prow,
had dashed at the whale, as an Arkansas duellist at his foe, blindly
seeking with a six inch blade to reach the fathom-deep life of the
whale. That captain was Ahab. And then it was, that suddenly sweeping
his sickle-shaped lower jaw beneath him, Moby Dick had reaped away
Ahab's leg, as a mower a blade of grass in the field.... Small reason
was there to doubt, then, that ever since that almost fatal encounter,
Ahab had cherished a wild vindictiveness against the whale, all the
more fell for that in his frantic morbidness he at last came to
identify with him, not only all his bodily woes, but all his
intellectual and spiritual exasperations. The White Whale swam before
him as the monomaniac incarnation of all those malicious agencies
which some deep men feel eating in them, till they are left living on
with half a heart and half a lung. That intangible malignity which has
been from the beginning; to whose dominion even the modern Christians
ascribe one-half of the worlds; which the ancient Ophites of the east
reverenced in their statue devil; -- Ahab did not fall down and
worship it like them; but deliriously transferring its idea to the
abhorred white whale, he pitted himself, all mutilated, against
it. All that most maddens and torments; all that stirs up the lees of
things; all truth with malice in it; all that cracks the sinews and
cakes the brain; all the subtle demonisms of life and thought; all
evil, to crazy Ahab, where visibly personified, and made practically
assailable in Moby Dick. He piled upon the whale's white hump the sum
of all the general rage and hate felt by his whole race from Adam
down; and then, as if his chest had been a mortar, he burst his hot
heart's shell upon it. --Chapter 41 (Moby Dick)

\medskip

It was while gliding through these latter waters that one serene and
moonlight night, when all the waves rolled by like scrolls of silver;
and, by their soft, suffusing seethings, made what seemed a silvery
silence, not a solitude: on such a silent night a silvery jet was seen
far in advance of the white bubbles at the bow. Lit up by the moon, it
looked celestial; seemed some plumed and glittering god uprising from
the sea. --Chapter 51 (The Spirit-Spout)

\medskip

But the placing of the cap-sheaf to all this blundering business was
reserved for the scientific Frederick Cuvier, brother to the famous
Baron. In 1836, he published a Natural History of Whales, in which he
gives what he calls a picture of the Sperm Whale. Before showing that
picture to any Nantucketer, you had best provide for your summary
retreat from Nantucket. In a word, Frederick Cuvier's Sperm Whale is
not a Sperm Whale, but a squash. --Chapter 55 (Of the Monstrous
Pictures of Whales)

\medskip

The hatch, removed from the top of the works, now afforded a wide
hearth in front of them. Standing on this were the Tartarean shapes of
the pagan harpooneers, always the whale-ship's stokers. With huge
pronged poles they pitched hissing masses of blubber into the scalding
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pots, or stirred up the fires beneath, till the snaky flames darted,
curling, out of the doors to catch them by the feet. The smoke rolled
away in sullen heaps. To every pitch of the ship there was a pitch of
the boiling oil, which seemed all eagerness to leap into their
faces. Opposite the mouth of the works, on the further side of the
wide wooden hearth, was the windlass. This served for a sea-sofa. Here
lounged the watch, when not otherwise employed, looking into the red
heat of the fire, till their eyes felt scorched in their heads. Their
tawny features, now all begrimed with smoke and sweat, their matted
beards, and the contrasting barbaric brilliancy of their teeth, all
these were strangely revealed in the capricious emblazonings of the
works. As they narrated to each other their unholy adventures, their
tales of terror told in words of mirth; as their uncivilized laughter
forked upwards out of them, like the flames from the furnace; as to
and fro, in their front, the harpooneers wildly gesticulated with
their huge pronged forks and dippers; as the wind howled on, and the
sea leaped, and the ship groaned and dived, and yet steadfastly shot
her red hell further and further into the blackness of the sea and the
night, and scornfully champed the white bone in her mouth, and
viciously spat round her on all sides; then the rushing Pequod,
freighted with savages, and laden with fire, and burning a corpse, and
plunging into that blackness of darkness, seemed the material
counterpart of her monomaniac commander's soul. --Chapter 96 (The
Try-Works)

\medskip

There is, one knows not what sweet mystery about this sea, whose
gently awful stirrings seem to speak of some hidden soul beneath; like
those fabled undulations of the Ephesian sod over the buried
Evangelist St. John. And meet it is, that over these sea-pastures,
wide-rolling watery prairies and Potter's Fields of all four
continents, the waves should rise and fall, and ebb and flow
unceasingly; for here, millions of mixed shades and shadows, drowned
dreams, somnambulisms, reveries; all that we call lives and souls, lie
dreaming, dreaming, still; tossing like slumberers in their beds; the
ever-rolling waves but made so by their restlessness. --Chapter 111
(The Pacific)

\medskip

It was a clear steel-blue day. The firmaments of air and sea were
hardly separable in that all-pervading azure; only, the pensive air
was transparently pure and soft, with a woman's look, and the robust
and man-like sea heaved with long, strong, lingering swells, as
Samson's chest in his sleep.

Hither, and thither, on high, glided the snow-white wings of small,
unspeckled birds; these were the gentle thoughts of the feminine air;
but to and fro in the deeps, far down in the bottomless blue, rushed
mighty leviathans, sword-fish, and sharks; and these were the strong,
troubled, murderous thinkings of the masculine sea.

But though thus contrasting within, the contrast was only in shades
and shadows without; those two seemed one; it was only the sex, as it
were, that distinguished them.

Aloft, like a royal czar and king, the sun seemed giving this gentle
air to this bold and rolling sea; even as bride to groom. And at the
girdling line of the horizon, a soft and tremulous motion -- most seen
here at the equator -- denoted the fond, throbbing trust, the loving
alarms, with which the poor bride gave her bosom away.

Tied up and twisted; gnarled and knotted with wrinkles; haggardly firm
and unyielding; his eyes glowing like coals, that still glow in the
ashes of ruin; untottering Ahab stood forth in the clearness of the
morn; lifting his splintered helmet of a brow to the fair girl's
forehead of heaven. --Chapter 132 (The Symphony)

\medskip

Like noiseless nautilus shells, their light prows sped through the
sea; but only slowly they neared the foe. As they neared him, the
ocean grew still more smooth; seemed drawing a carpet over its waves;
seemed a noon-meadow, so serenely it spread. At length the breathless
hunter came so nigh his seemingly unsuspecting prey, that his entire
dazzling hump was distinctly visible, sliding along the sea as if an
isolated thing, and continually set in a revolving ring of finest,
fleecy, greenish foam. He saw the vast, involved wrinkles of the
slightly projecting head beyond. Before it, far out on the soft
Turkish-rugged waters, went the glistening white shadow from his
broad, milky forehead, a musical rippling playfully accompanying the
shade; and behind, the blue waters interchangeably flowed over into
the moving valley of his steady wake; and on either hand bright
bubbles arose and danced by his side. But these were broken again by
the light toes of hundreds of gay fowl softly feathering the sea,
alternate with their fitful flight; and like to some flag-staff rising
from the painted hull of an argosy, the tall but shattered pole of a
recent lance projected from the white whale's back; and at intervals
one of the cloud of soft-toed fowls hovering, and to and fro skimming
like a canopy over the fish, silently perched and rocked on this pole,
the long tail feathers streaming like pennons....

On each soft side -- coincident with the parted swell, that but once
laving him, then flowed so wide away -- on each bright side, the whale
shed off enticings. No wonder there had been some among the hunters
who namelessly transported and allured by all this serenity, had
ventured to assail it; but had fatally found that quietude but the
vesture of tornadoes. Yet calm, enticing calm, oh, whale! thou glidest
on, to all who for the first time eye thee, no matter how many in that
same way thou may'st have bejuggled and destroyed before. --Chapter
134 (The Chase -- First Day)

\medskip

As if to strike a quick terror into them, by this time being the first
assailant himself, Moby Dick had turned, and was now coming for the
three crews. Ahab's boat was central; and cheering his men, he told
them he would take the whale head-and-head, -- that is, pull straight
up to his forehead, -- a not uncommon thing; for when within a certain
limit, such a course excludes the coming onset from the whale's
sidelong vision. But ere that close limit was gained, and while yet
all three boats were plain as the ship's three masts to his eye; the
White Whale churning himself into furious speed, almost in an instant
as it were, rushing among the boats with open jaws, and a lashing
tail, offered appalling battle on every side; and heedless of the
irons darted at him from every boat, seemed only intent on
annihilating each separate plank of which those boats were made. But
skilfully manoeuvred, incessantly wheeling like trained chargers in
the field; the boats for a while eluded him; though, at times, but by
a plank's breadth; while all the time, Ahab's unearthly slogan tore
every other cry but his to shreds. --Chapter 134 (The Chase -- Second
Day)



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