Moby-Dick

It came to be, in the winter of this year, that, having finished Herbert’s Dune and seeking something new to read, though not yet ready to read Dune Messiah, I came upon an untouched paperback in my bookcase, and, willing to plunge into a nautical adventure, I began reading Moby Dick. This being so, I, prepared to read a legendary classic and unaware of the Goliathan task before me, embarked upon a thee month navigation of dense prose which, in the end, I juggled with five other books; Stoker’s gothic masterpiece Dracula, for I am subscribed for the Dracula Daily newsletter; Crummey’s Sweetland, a novel I read with utmost haste to catch its adaptation ere it departed the silver screen; the aforementioned Dune Messiah, which I began late one evening when, finding myself tucked snugly in my bed and missing my copy of Moby Dick, I reached for the nearest book I had on hand; and ultimately God’s own Holy Bible, which I began reading for the express purpose of understanding the myriad of biblical references Miller employs. Nor was my reading in any way hastened — or indeed unimpeded — by the twisting, winding sentences one must reread twice ere grasping fully; a poetic labyrinth of prose one cannot parse without losing oneself of times; and the White Whale himself more terrible, more loathsome than any mere bull-headed Minotaur that Pasiphaë could muster! Alas, humble thyself Daedalus! Thy labyrinth may house a beast of Neptune’s own twisted design, but the Minotaur could do not but flail and drown when met with his elder brother, the leviathan!