Calling Ishmael

I once tried to read Moby Dick in high school. It defeated me, much as the Russians did (except Crime and Punishment, I read that shit and wanted to smack Raskolnikov even at a tender age) and I decided life was too short.

Cue to *mumblemumble* years later, and the Moby Dick at Sea Twitter feed. I thought, well, there’s some nice turns of phrase there. Maybe I should try the book again.

HOLY CRAP I AM ON PAGE 240 OF 427 AND I CAN’T STOP. Ishmael is exactly the kind of sarcastic jerk I’d be if I were a sailor, I think. The only thing giving me trouble is the stomach-churning descriptions of killing whales–noble creatures, much nicer than humans, and to be preferred to the latter indeed.

Also, FOOTNOTES. I love Norton Criticals, and their Moby Dick is no exception. I’m chugging along somewhat slowly, because I’m stopping to roll around in said footnotes like a dog in buttercups and stink. Once the first read is done, I’ll set the book aside to marinate a bit, and schedule a second read, where I’ll go through with a pencil and underline all the things I love.

I am looking forward to this with all an eight-year-old’s anticipation of Christmas, I’m telling you.

Right at the moment, though, I’ve a 10km run to get in, and Season One of Roadtrip Z to revise. I plan on releasing the seasons one at a time, but of course, if you want to read the serial as it comes out, check out my Patreon.

And that’s my Monday. I am anxious to get back to the pursuit of the White Whale. Except last night’s chapter was Stubb’s Supper, and I am fairly sure Stubb demanded whale testicles for breakfast.

Seriously, why did I not read this book before?