Moby-Dick or, the Whale

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!