Moby-Dick, or, The Whale

The grand, epic work is written by Herman Melville, and it is 572 pages long. A whale of a book. Surely jokes have been cracked again and again relating its subject matter to its size, growing old and stale, but for now I enjoy the connection.

American Literature, the class for which I had to purchase Moby-Dick, begins Monday at 6 p.m., but Moby-Dick himself swam into my life a week early with an email from Professor Pannapacker: "I don't have an assignment for you, yet; just bring yourself and be prepared to begin the exploration of two centuries of American literary history. (Well, if you're really ambitious, you can start reading Moby-Dick.)"

If you're really ambitious... thus began the challenge, and since homework is sparse this week, the whale settled himself into my backpack and, feeling lonely, has been pressing me to take him out from time to time.

I took him to the Dow to work out this morning and then managed to avoid him for the rest of the day. Studied at Martha Miller, ate dinner with friends and savored a cupcake in my dorm room. But as I ate the last bite, the whale appeared on my desk, fat as ever, upset with me.

So we're sitting on the futon, the whale and I, and Melville is alternately putting me to sleep and surprising me with his insightful, proverbial, and often quirkily humorous writing. Sections drag, bogged down with detail and derailment from the plot, and yet I hang on for the ride. When the waves crash and the sailors put out to sea, when fragrant chowder satisfies the hungriest belly, when the eery mood is interrupted with something funny, I chuckle and cozy up against the futon. It makes the whale happy, I think.

Melville's something, man. He's really something.