Moby-Dick, written by Herman Melville starting in 1850, is considered by many to be among the greatest literary pieces of the American canon, and I fortunately had the pleasure of reading this impactful classic during the winter holidays.
While it’s not a novel I believe everyone would enjoy, I found its unique encyclopedia-like style to be really intriguing, although those who prefer deeply plot-driven narratives may find it quite vexing. I’d even argue Melville’s genius and comical absurdity actually shines through his repeated digressions throughout the novel into its omniscient, yet convoluted conversations on metaphysical philosophical musings, the human psyche, as well as the deeply technical cetology of whales and the infrastructure of the whaling industry. He opens up a brand new world, and as someone who knows nothing of it, it feels as though you’re truly getting sucked in. You become so deeply aware of all the intersections between varying perspectives and knowledge systems that shape human understanding of this whaling world, that you can’t help but feel like you’re getting the absolute most holistic view of what it felt like to be a whaler—to be a pillar of the early American economy, but also, to be nothing but a passionate man at sea.
This novel is so dense I couldn’t possibly summarize all there is that it has to offer, from deep intellectual and philosophical insights, to artistic and religious interpretations, to comedic whimsical characters, I can only implore you to look into it, although, it is pretty damn long. One of the most beautiful things this novel did in my eyes, is how it intersected various modes of understanding in ways I’d never imagined, and truly opened up the way I interpret the world. It’s comical and almost ADHD-like, the way that Melville, or rather the narrator Ishmael, is constantly just jumping all over the place, his absolute obsession with whales, being at sea, and being a whaler, being discussed through his chaotic info dumps from a plethora of different lenses: from scientific and natural knowledge like whale cetology, biology, anatomy, and ship/whaling technology; to mythological and artistic understandings of whales through paintings, engravings, mythology, the Bible, and history; to practical knowledge of navigating currents, and economics of the whaling industry; to epistemology; to metaphysics and philosophy; to religion and theology. It’s almost funny how Ishmael is harping on about the precise, minute, scientific details of the whale’s anatomy one second, and then the next he’s like ah yes, but the whale is also … covered in hieroglyphics! and, can ubiquitously be spotted in two places at once… It is as though he seeks to balance an understanding of the whale’s technical physicality with its mysterious nature, refusing to reduce it to mere corporeality. Instead, he traces its deeper, more profound influence—on the economy, the mind, and the soul; on the social collective gathered aboard the ship; on its role in history and the future, in God’s plans and theology, in the arts and literature, even in etymology, and in so much more.
My favourite chapter in this entire novel was easily fourty-two: The Whiteness of the Whale. This chapter alone depicts this very intersection I’ve been discussing in an effective and powerful way. Originally, Ishmael’s description of whiteness being the most terrifying aspect of the whale, followed by descriptions of all the ways in which whiteness is normally goodness, beauty, purity, and divinity, struck me as annoyingly hilarious. It seemed like he, a white man, was so insanely terrified by the whale’s whiteness, because the colour white couldn’t possibly be associated with something so abhorred, terrifying and wretched as that whale. However, as he goes on, the philosophical rants and psychological explanations of how the colour white is both dually divine and a source of pure terror, integrated with a discussion of colour theory made me realize how mystical even hard-science can sometimes seem: “… symbolize whatever grand or gracious thing he will by whiteness, no man can deny that in its profoundest idealized significance it calls up a peculiar apparition to the soul.” He goes on to describe how the muteness and universality of the colour would drive one to madness, and how it is both no colour, and yet technically all colours, a “mystical cosmetic which produces every one of her hues” and thus is a divine source of light. Yet, in its unnerving, transcending universality it is a “colorless, all color of atheism” and a void that is both an absence and combination of colour, suggesting a universe lacking divine meaning. For me, it made me reflect on what a blessing it truly is to experience colour and diversity, because as Melville describes, technically, we are in fact living in an all white world that might drive us mad.
Perhaps, this is an example of its dual terror and divinity, a powerful reminder that we can not handle God, or the universe, or whatever higher being you might believe, in its utmost pure, singular form, and thus expression must be fractioned, like colour, for us to even handle and interpret it, instead of driving us to madness.
It was these many reflective moments throughout the novel which made reading it so memorable for me, as the book consistently pushed me to reflect and engage with its conversations, themes, and ideas in ways that seeped into my personal life and outlook. Herman Melville created something absurd, yet profound in its own right, leaving readers with depth, insight and churning thoughts that likely linger longer than the story itself.