“…to the last gasp of my earthquake life…”

So much funnier than I expected. So many wonderful sentences, and so many shifting moods and modes where he was either just fucking around w writing styles or really indulging his obsession w whales and whaling. It took me a long time to get bogged down because I loved the informative whale content, too, but did eventually find myself yelling at Melville to get on with it. And then he did in an extremely satisfying way. 

This book made me realize that I don't care about whaling the slightest bit.

It is drawn out, mostly very boring, and jumps from genre to genre. The language is so archaic it desperately needs modernization.

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. 

Too much and detailed animal cruelty