Oh, Moby Dick, Moby Dick! As you can easily guess, the book is not about the dignity of a famous bald American DJ-musician-singer-producer, but about a white whale. The one unrequited love of Herman Melville's life. If one imagines that Moby Dick is a female whale after all - not a whale, but a whaleess - then the lines from an A-ha song would perfectly describe my impressions of Herman Melville's relationship with the long-suffering whale, to whom the nickname "Snowball" or "Varenik" would be appropriate. But if you love a whale, let it go and don't give it a nickname, or you won't be able to harpoon it and catch it with a ling.
Herman Melville was an American novelist, short story writer, essayist, and poet. His first two books gained much attention, though they were not bestsellers, and his popularity declined precipitously only a few years later. By the time of his death he had been almost completely forgotten, but his longest novel, Moby Dick — largely considered a failure during his lifetime, and most responsible for Melville's fall from favor with the reading public — was rediscovered in the 20th century as one of the chief literary masterpieces of both American and world literature.
I apologize for the frequent mention of the "L" word, which in John Lennon's hierarchy of needs replaces Maslow's entire seven-level pyramid, but this is really a book about love. And these words will not be a strong exaggeration, because the author writes about what he knows best, what he is more interested in and loves, loves with all his soul without abandon, without hope for reciprocity.
Let the multi-page, lengthy descriptions and annoying insertion of cetological chapters do not scare you and do not mislead. The book is really interesting, permeated by the lyricism of life, then light and refined, then rude, vernacular and sailor. Yes the book is not simple, boring in places, dragged on somewhere, but it never leaves the feeling that Melville, tearing off bit by bit from his soul, shares with you the most intimate that he has, what in his time one of the few keen explorers of whales possessed, besides surfing the oceans in plenty.
From the very first chapters you will feel the breath of a salty breeze in the neighborhood of not so pleasant aroma of harbor taverns and their inhabitants. But at the same time you'll see a vivid reflection of Nantucket's heyday and get a chance to become a part of the incredible and long adventures of the whalers, retold from the person of the simple sailor Ishmael. With him you will walk through the streets and visit the local church, taste the unpretentious food, but one way or another you will be captivated by the beauty of the turquoise and azure waters, the slight ripples and choppy waves. Standing on the pier, it is so pleasant to gaze into the distance and look for the point where the boundless sky meets the mirror of human life, water, the source and the primary cause, the conductor of all things. We human beings are made of water. And without it, we are neither here nor there.
No wonder that the writer, his literary correspondent and many other characters are so enticing and call the mysterious distances, secrets and unknown dangers of the oceans, adventures and trials. Everything that makes men men, pioneers, explorers and explorers. I just could not remain indifferent and not wish to be a sailor, a rower or a hunter, but to test my fate and myself, to steel my body and character, to find harmony with my soul and nature, to find peace and freedom from the burdensome problems that bog us down on land, like in a swamp in our stuffy and hectic cities and offices. Of course, I love my life and these concrete cities, but the sea... the ocean... No, I can't resist that temptation. I will not make any excuses for such a crazy and frantic desire. I'm not going to do it.
I know that this novel has endured both praise and criticism, many stones have been thrown in its direction. And there is some truth in that, because "lots of letters" is no small price to pay to read a story that might well have taken no more than a quarter or a fifth of the book if a stern editor had crossed out "methodical" material told in the spirit of Discovery or bbc, but with nautical jargon and fervent love. So if whales, unlike seals, disgust you, you're an ardent opponent of hunting, can't stand the change of style in the middle of a narrative, or are easily lost in the lyrical digressions that Melville comes up with at the most interesting and climactic points, then this book is not for you. Put it aside if the first 100-200 pages make you feel seasick or want to join Greenpeace. Put it off if you feel the torments of hell or find yourself suicidal. There are many of Melville's contemporaries who wrote more succinct and simple books. Torturing yourself is the last thing to do. And I would have done the same thing myself, if it were not for the spirit of adventure in me, but for the love of learning, even such distractions from modern life and my sphere of activity.
The recipe for the book is outrageously simple: we take some characters, add a little courage, a pinch of sanity, a few drops of insanity. Stir them into the whaling ship, add the velobots one by one, until all the sides are covered. We put it on a slow fire of adventure, bring it to the hunt. Periodically we check the mood of the crew, and if necessary, or even without it, sprinkle esotericism. Don't forget to generously sprinkle with cetology and descriptions of rigging. And now the oars have browned and the harpoons have melted. Almost done, it only remains to trace the continents and islands, and mark the currents and stars. Now to dry out a little, until the whale fountain appears. Then hastily remove the dish from the oven. Blindfold yourself with a black kerchief, turn off the light. And whatever happens, let's dance a jig with a pie on our heads!
That's the way it is, practically no politics, history, love lines, snot and treasure. Just hunting, revenge, religion, omens and evil doom. And when something really interesting happens and you suddenly read something along the lines of "and now I'll tell you about..." and righteous anger rises from your chest. But at the same time, you feel like a timid and embarrassed schoolboy. Here is an entertaining description of a dissected specimen of a real whale or sperm whale. And Melville is extremely convincing, because his contemporary society was no longer so accepting of the facts that official science hadn't had time to stick its stanza in. And at the end of such "instructional" chapters, one expects the familiar words from childhood:
"And now, children, put away your textbooks, take out your double-spaced papers..."
Whew, that went well. The exam was canceled.
Melville is not bad as a teacher, and I would compare him to a musician who, in his novel, incidentally teaches the principles of harmonies and dissonances, gives scores and the secrets of "lighting up" the hall, so as to make the reader more accessible to his characters and the action, to inspire and enchant the romance of the sea, to share the passion.
In practical life is unlikely to be useful to anyone information obtained from this book, unless you are a fan of participation in intellectual quizzes or brain-rings. The novel is no longer perceived as it was in the middle of the century before last, when it was criticized. And not as it was at the beginning of the last century, when it was appreciated. It is a classic, but also a play on the brink of foul. Readers' sympathies are too volatile a substance. And this book is not an easy read. But with a certain mindset and level of expectation, "wading" through the text won't be that hard. Imagine going on a hike, into the mountains. If you are not dragged against your will, and you yourself lead the procession, you walk measuredly, without straying, seeing the goal. To be led against your will is violence...
I got my profit, as I wish those who are looking in the direction of this
This article was sponsored by Steven Spector
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