This was a book club read, that is a classic that I wanted to take a look at for a while.  I find it hard to review because it's a gigantic piece of work, it's written over a hundred years ago, and it's a complex mess of merits and flaws.

The book is a whale of a tome. It's much more heavy on information, philosophy, history, and poetic prose than it is in plot. It takes a long time for anything to happen and we first have to wade through treatises on whales in art, whales in myth, the art of whaling, the cetology and nomenclature, how to live in boats, the status of whalers, the uses of whale bodies and the reliance of society on those resources, the runnings of ship-board politics, the phrenology of whales, legal precedent in the matters of whale ownership, and the gorier bits of how whales are processed after their demise. More than half the book is the "kernel of truth" around which the story is told, interwoven to make it seem realistic (we could use the word "verisimilitude" - Melville did; in fact it's best to bring a dictionary on your voyage with the Piquod).

As a historical classic (published in 1851) this entire account is peppered with things that I found affronting. The most personable character in the book is a Polynesian from an un-named archipelago, whose name is Queequeg. (Right there that breaks my belief in the narrative because there's no way that's a Polynesian name.) When we first encounter him he is selling desiccated Māori heads. This is distressing to me, as my family is descended from White seal and whale boat people in New Zealand / Aotearoa, so this depiction of brutality against the indigenous Māori, the indifference to selling sacred parts of the body to people in other countries, is a somber affair. This is obviously part of a portrayal to make Queequeg seem, dichotomously, the barbaric, cannibal heathen, but also an affectionate, devout and gracefully capable man. All the characters in the tale seem similarly profiled, and caricatures of Race and age. The labels used are all indicative of the prevailing attitude of White people, and of a sense of racial superiority. It's "a  sign of it's time".. and it's horrible. 

There are musings on mono-mania and infatuation.. or what today we would call obsession, compulsivity, hyper-focus.. and prepossessing passion. This book could aptly be described as an exploration of the madness of whalers. I can't help but correspond this single-mindedness of purpose with that of the author who pens an 800-page adventure novel about whaling. The tale of obsession is clearly allegorical, being an extreme to which most men wouldn't go (going to sea for 3 years at a stint to hunt giant sea-game, in a high-risk high-reward endeavour), that hyperbolically illustrates the bravery, and folly, of being prepared to go to great lengths in pursuit of a goal (while leaving your women and children to their own matters). Cowardice and the desire to remove oneself from shame are also portrayed by way of dark comedy. The description of phantom-limb experiences in amputees is interesting and one of the more relevant observations I noticed, as are the accommodations made for those with missing limbs on a ship.  

Whales. *deep sigh* Just.. 
I found some of the narrative about the hunting of whales to be very distressing. Melville states that he does not consider whales to be anything but big fish, and he denies that the actions of whalers are diminishing whale populations, saying that they just move on, and always have more places to hide; that seeing fewer of them just means that they escaped that area. The ignorance makes me angry, but he didn't have the facts. I think that some of the narrative is designed to be very unsettling; there are poetic musings about how the fat of whales is used as fuel for the ovens that render the fat, or cook whale flesh; that whales are used to consume themselves. Likewise, there is no scruple when recounting the hunting of nursing mother whales, or utilising the skin of a whale's dork to make a butcher's coat. Rather, these musings are incorporated into darkly humorous stories, but I am not sold on this humour. It's clever, but vile.

The cutest parts of the book are dialogues that are written in the form of plays. These allow the characters to be developed and fluff around with some interesting wordplay. It provides some levity and gravity that might be otherwise lost in between rants. I feel like it also humanised characters who otherwise would not be fleshed out. I don't know that the characters are particularly loveable, but you at least get to know them a bit as people.

In all, I feel somewhat whelmed by the sheer scope of the book. It's huge, and wordy and uses archaic turns of phrase. I can see why reading this is an ordeal that people sometimes brag about, but at the same time, I didn't find it entertaining. The "science" as it was has been surpassed wholly, and so this is entirely a historical snapshot of the understanding of whales in times gone by. It calls into stark detail my position in the world.. as the Privileged daughter of a conquering culture. It informs my understanding of the importance of fossil fuels in replacing oils that were once acquired by hazardous oceanic hunting. All in all, it leaves me feeling a little sick.

Not sure what Miss Honey was thinking letting Matilda read this tome….
It’s BIZARRE.
Melville’s style switches, Jekyll and Hyde-esque. There are the parts that tell the story of the hunt for Moby Dick (which are well written, few and far between and odd. If I’d have been told Melville was on hallucinogenic drugs when writing these bits, I wouldn’t be surprised) and then there are the parts that would be better placed in a non-chron about whales. Who cares about cetology, or fossils, or why sperm whales are called sperm whales? 
I only got through this book by listening to it on The Big Read. I’d never have made it through if I actually had to read it all. Chop out the unnecessary bits and it would be less than 200 pages. 

It's impossible to ignore the racism (despite the historical context) when it's shoved in your face every other paragraph ;__;

Jfc. This book took me a year and one month to read (possibly due to my poor attention span and the onslaught of whale/maritime data that I have to make sense of) I ended up finishing the book instead of abandoning it out of pure spite. 

The first part (around ⅓) is interesting and Melville's humor is hilarious. The second part is dry and the plot moves slower than before, it's just pure whale facts– Melville basically bludgeons you into submission with an encyclopedia. The latter part of the book (thankfully), the action picks back up. 

Also, the prose can sometimes cause a headache or two so you may need to list down (and search) some of the maritime terms used to avoid future confusions.

The author has put some nice ideas in the book, but he buried them under a pile of descriptive text, which did not have to be there in such quantities. The only positive thing was the great quality and elaboration of the audiobook I was listening to. I had to put that physical book away and it was unreadable. I finished a book, thanks of that audiobook. Overall, the book did not read me well and was sometimes lifeless and tedious to me.

i can't believe the novel started with the "there is only one bed" trope and ended with ahab trying to attack and dethrone God

In some circles this has been referred to as the greatest of American novels. I wanted to know the basis for this, because surely there must be some merit if it is still brought up today. What did I find? I found that Moby Dick is, in a way, two separate books. First, there is a book of whale anatomy. Our narrator Ishmael, being a member of the crew, has many things to say about the process and subject of the whaling industry. Dozens of chapters will go by that are more educational than narrative, and that is why the book is so vilified: This educational content is like 80% of the book. Or at least it feels that way. The second part of this book is the story of our ship, the Pequod, and Captain Ahab’s relentless search for the malicious white whale. And this, surprisingly, was everything it was said to be. The sea is described like the primordial all-encompassing force that it is, and Melville through Ishmael taps into the innate fear of such an alien place, making this book scarier than many books in the horror genre. And within this void is Moby Dick himself, who comes and goes like a cosmic horror of the great deep, presaged by strange omens and otherworldly harbingers. So I recommend the narrative portion of the book, despite it being the minority of the page count. So why might this be called the greatest American novel? There are two possibilities. One, it is, but this is unlikely. Or two, this book was written in the mid-1850s, and there were like two books back then, so it was either this or Uncle Tom’s Cabin, and this one is pretty cool. 8/10.