Yes, I know. This book should speak to me as a writer for the themes it explores. And it should speak to me, personally, about the mad pursuit of the unobtainable.
But I just…
get through it.
Forgive me, for I have sinned. I’ve read Three Musketeers (and all the companion books). I’ve read Candide and Anna Karenina. I’ve read Don Quixote. I’ve even read Tom Brown’s School Days . Even Gilgamesh! I know how to set aside the twenty-first century me and become a simpler, less-expectant, slower-paced me, to read a book for its merit and discover the charm as those did hundreds of years before. But Moby Dick – I simply can’t get through it.
I’ve tried. I’ve forced myself to focus on it, to not lose my way when Melville spends thirty pages on the types of whales. All I know is that twice I’ve challenged this novel and twice I’ve failed. Last time, I got to where Starbuck wanders the deck, babbling though the night and keeping the crew awake. But no, I can’t do it. I simply can’t get through this windy, dusty tale.
And that’s too bad, since tales with a cautionary take on the weaknesses and foibles of humans really appeal to me. But no, there is something about Melville (just as there is something about lettuce) that I can’t get down.
And it’s not just that tale: I’ve tried Billy Budd and barely made it out of that novella alive. I just can’t read Melville, no matter how hard I try.
So sorry – there is your review. Good luck with this fish story. I simply can’t force it into my eyeballs.