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- Герман Мелвилл
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Moby Dick
Call
me
Ishmael
.
Some
years
ago
--
never
mind
how
long
precisely
--
having
little
or
no
money
in
my
purse
,
and
nothing
particular
to
interest
me
on
shore
,
I
thought
I
would
sail
about
a
little
and
see
the
watery
part
of
the
world
.
It
is
a
way
I
have
of
driving
off
the
spleen
and
regulating
the
circulation
.
Whenever
I
find
myself
growing
grim
about
the
mouth
;
whenever
it
is
a
damp
,
drizzly
November
in
my
soul
;
whenever
I
find
myself
involuntarily
pausing
before
coffin
warehouses
,
and
bringing
up
the
rear
of
every
funeral
I
meet
;
and
especially
whenever
my
hypos
get
such
an
upper
hand
of
me
,
that
it
requires
a
strong
moral
principle
to
prevent
me
from
deliberately
stepping
into
the
street
,
and
methodically
knocking
people
's
hats
off
--
then
,
I
account
it
high
time
to
get
to
sea
as
soon
as
I
can
.
This
is
my
substitute
for
pistol
and
ball
.
With
a
philosophical
flourish
Cato
throws
himself
upon
his
sword
;
I
quietly
take
to
the
ship
.
There
is
nothing
surprising
in
this
.
If
they
but
knew
it
,
almost
all
men
in
their
degree
,
some
time
or
other
,
cherish
very
nearly
the
same
feelings
towards
the
ocean
with
me
.
There
now
is
your
insular
city
of
the
Manhattoes
,
belted
round
by
wharves
as
Indian
isles
by
coral
reefs
--
commerce
surrounds
it
with
her
surf
.
Right
and
left
,
the
streets
take
you
waterward
.
Its
extreme
downtown
is
the
battery
,
where
that
noble
mole
is
washed
by
waves
,
and
cooled
by
breezes
,
which
a
few
hours
previous
were
out
of
sight
of
land
.
Look
at
the
crowds
of
water-gazers
there
.
Circumambulate
the
city
of
a
dreamy
Sabbath
afternoon
.
Go
from
Corlears
Hook
to
Coenties
Slip
,
and
from
thence
,
by
Whitehall
,
northward
.
What
do
you
see
?
--
Posted
like
silent
sentinels
all
around
the
town
,
stand
thousands
upon
thousands
of
mortal
men
fixed
in
ocean
reveries
.
Some
leaning
against
the
spiles
;
some
seated
upon
the
pier-heads
;
some
looking
over
the
bulwarks
of
ships
from
China
;
some
high
aloft
in
the
rigging
,
as
if
striving
to
get
a
still
better
seaward
peep
.
But
these
are
all
landsmen
;
of
week
days
pent
up
in
lath
and
plaster
--
tied
to
counters
,
nailed
to
benches
,
clinched
to
desks
.
How
then
is
this
?
Are
the
green
fields
gone
?
What
do
they
here
?
But
look
!
here
come
more
crowds
,
pacing
straight
for
the
water
,
and
seemingly
bound
for
a
dive
.
Strange
!
Nothing
will
content
them
but
the
extremest
limit
of
the
land
;
loitering
under
the
shady
lee
of
yonder
warehouses
will
not
suffice
.
No
.
They
must
get
just
as
nigh
the
water
as
they
possibly
can
without
falling
.
And
there
they
stand
--
miles
of
them
--
leagues
.
Inlanders
all
,
they
come
from
lanes
and
alleys
,
streets
avenues
--
north
,
east
,
south
,
and
west
.
Yet
here
they
all
unite
.
Tell
me
,
does
the
magnetic
virtue
of
the
needles
of
the
compasses
of
all
those
ships
attract
them
thither
?
Once
more
.
Say
you
are
in
the
country
;
in
some
high
land
of
lakes
.
Take
almost
any
path
you
please
,
and
ten
to
one
it
carries
you
down
in
a
dale
,
and
leaves
you
there
by
a
pool
in
the
stream
.
There
is
magic
in
it
.
Let
the
most
absent-minded
of
men
be
plunged
in
his
deepest
reveries
--
stand
that
man
on
his
legs
,
set
his
feet
a-going
,
and
he
will
infallibly
lead
you
to
water
,
if
water
there
be
in
all
that
region
.
Should
you
ever
be
athirst
in
the
great
American
desert
,
try
this
experiment
,
if
your
caravan
happen
to
be
supplied
with
a
metaphysical
professor
.
Yes
,
as
every
one
knows
,
meditation
and
water
are
wedded
for
ever
.
But
here
is
an
artist
.
He
desires
to
paint
you
the
dreamiest
,
shadiest
,
quietest
,
most
enchanting
bit
of
romantic
landscape
in
all
the
valley
of
the
Saco
.
What
is
the
chief
element
he
employs
?
There
stand
his
trees
,
each
with
a
hollow
trunk
,
as
if
a
hermit
and
a
crucifix
were
within
;
and
here
sleeps
his
meadow
,
and
there
sleep
his
cattle
;
and
up
from
yonder
cottage
goes
a
sleepy
smoke
.
Deep
into
distant
woodlands
winds
a
mazy
way
,
reaching
to
overlapping
spurs
of
mountains
bathed
in
their
hill-side
blue
.
But
though
the
picture
lies
thus
tranced
,
and
though
this
pine-tree
shakes
down
its
sighs
like
leaves
upon
this
shepherd
's
head
,
yet
all
were
vain
,
unless
the
shepherd
's
eye
were
fixed
upon
the
magic
stream
before
him
.
Go
visit
the
Prairies
in
June
,
when
for
scores
on
scores
of
miles
you
wade
knee-deep
among
Tiger-lilies
--
what
is
the
one
charm
wanting
?
--
Water
--
there
is
not
a
drop
of
water
there
!
Were
Niagara
but
a
cataract
of
sand
,
would
you
travel
your
thousand
miles
to
see
it
?
Why
did
the
poor
poet
of
Tennessee
,
upon
suddenly
receiving
two
handfuls
of
silver
,
deliberate
whether
to
buy
him
a
coat
,
which
he
sadly
needed
,
or
invest
his
money
in
a
pedestrian
trip
to
Rockaway
Beach
?
Why
is
almost
every
robust
healthy
boy
with
a
robust
healthy
soul
in
him
,
at
some
time
or
other
crazy
to
go
to
sea
?
Why
upon
your
first
voyage
as
a
passenger
,
did
you
yourself
feel
such
a
mystical
vibration
,
when
first
told
that
you
and
your
ship
were
now
out
of
sight
of
land
?
Why
did
the
old
Persians
hold
the
sea
holy
?
Why
did
the
Greeks
give
it
a
separate
deity
,
and
own
brother
of
Jove
?
Surely
all
this
is
not
without
meaning
.
And
still
deeper
the
meaning
of
that
story
of
Narcissus
,
who
because
he
could
not
grasp
the
tormenting
,
mild
image
he
saw
in
the
fountain
,
plunged
into
it
and
was
drowned
.
But
that
same
image
,
we
ourselves
see
in
all
rivers
and
oceans
.
It
is
the
image
of
the
ungraspable
phantom
of
life
;
and
this
is
the
key
to
it
all
.
Now
,
when
I
say
that
I
am
in
the
habit
of
going
to
sea
whenever
I
begin
to
grow
hazy
about
the
eyes
,
and
begin
to
be
over
conscious
of
my
lungs
,
I
do
not
mean
to
have
it
inferred
that
I
ever
go
to
sea
as
a
passenger
.
For
to
go
as
a
passenger
you
must
needs
have
a
purse
,
and
a
purse
is
but
a
rag
unless
you
have
something
in
it
.
Besides
,
passengers
get
sea-sick
--
grow
quarrelsome
--
do
n't
sleep
of
nights
--
do
not
enjoy
themselves
much
,
as
a
general
thing
;
--
no
,
I
never
go
as
a
passenger
;
nor
,
though
I
am
something
of
a
salt
,
do
I
ever
go
to
sea
as
a
Commodore
,
or
a
Captain
,
or
a
Cook
.
I
abandon
the
glory
and
distinction
of
such
offices
to
those
who
like
them
.
For
my
part
,
I
abominate
all
honorable
respectable
toils
,
trials
,
and
tribulations
of
every
kind
whatsoever
.
It
is
quite
as
much
as
I
can
do
to
take
care
of
myself
,
without
taking
care
of
ships
,
barques
,
brigs
,
schooners
,
and
what
not
.
And
as
for
going
as
cook
--
though
I
confess
there
is
considerable
glory
in
that
,
a
cook
being
a
sort
of
officer
on
ship-board
--
yet
,
somehow
,
I
never
fancied
broiling
fowls
;
--
though
once
broiled
,
judiciously
buttered
,
and
judgmatically
salted
and
peppered
,
there
is
no
one
who
will
speak
more
respectfully
,
not
to
say
reverentially
,
of
a
broiled
fowl
than
I
will
.
It
is
out
of
the
idolatrous
dotings
of
the
old
Egyptians
upon
broiled
ibis
and
roasted
river
horse
,
that
you
see
the
mummies
of
those
creatures
in
their
huge
bakehouses
the
pyramids
.
