A Brief Book Review of Moby-Dick; or, The Whale by Herman Melville
Come, all ye good people, come! Step into a world in which the superabundant terror and indifference of the sea are foremost; step into a world in which the whale hunt, that wild Scandinavian activity first broached by old Norse sea-kings along the steep cliffs of Viking fjords, is chronicled at depths as great as the vast, blue ocean itself; step into a world in which antebellum, adolescent America, from Nantucket bluffs to Great Lake canals, from dark Manhattan alleyways to bright New Bedford mansions, built and lit with the profits and fat of the sea, is mapped with as much humor, character, and casual racism as the Bard brought to the ancient cities of Europe; step into a world in which the entire globe is a stage and so very many of its ports, and its straights, and its capes, and so very much of human probability are mythologized with as much drama and poetry as the Bible; step into a world in which the leviathan, Moby Dick, that great white monster himself, never daunted, never moored, rarely seen, preys on the minds and fortunes of old, vengeful Ahab, the colorful crew of the Pequod, brave Queequeg, and our narrator Ishmael. Come! I promise if thou hast the stamina for it, and the $3 a used copy will run ye, your rewards both along the voyage and at the end are massive. Two thumbs up.