Moby Dick

Herman Melville

Description

Ishmael finds himself on a sprawling, epic hunt for the great white whale in one of the most singular and celebrated novels in American literature.

First published in 1851, Moby Dick is narrated by the young seaman Ishmael who takes ship on the whaler Pequod, under the command of Captain Ahab. Once at sea Ahab reveals that their voyage is not aimed at profitable whaling so much as pure vengeance as they are to hunt the white whale that maimed him, leaving him with a single leg. A rich array of memorable characters are introduced as the Pequod sails the sea, encountering other whalers, hunting whales and seeking Moby Dick. Sprawling and discursive, luxuriant and richly textured, Melville’s novel is almost a world unto itself. Life aboard ship, friendships between the diverse collection of sailors and the hazardous adventure of confronting whales on the open sea are captured unforgettably, but all of this is under the shadow of Ahab’s all-consuming hatred of the white whale. As the ship draws nearer to confrontation with her captain’s nemesis, the novel moves toward a devastating climax. Initially greeted with little enthusiasm by American critics, a notable exception being Nathaniel Hawthorne, Moby Dick has since come to be seen as one of the greatest achievements of American fiction and a classic for the ages.

With an eye-catching new cover, and professionally typeset manuscript, this edition of Moby Dick is both modern and readable.

Sujets

• Ajab
• Nueva Inglaterra
• Pequod
• Great American Novel
• Moby-Dick
• Ahab
• New England
• Classics
• Achab
• Moby Dick
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Mint Editions
• Date de parution: 22 novembre 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 4
• EAN13: 9781513265308
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 3 Mo

Extrait

Moby Dick
Herman Melville
 
Moby Dick was first published in 1851.
This edition published by Mint Editions 2020.
ISBN 9781513264622 | E-ISBN 9781513265308
Published by Mint Editions ®

minteditionbooks.com
Publishing Director: Jennifer Newens
Project Manager: Gabrielle Maudiere
Design & Production: Rachel Lopez Metzger
Typesetting: Westchester Publishing Services
 
C ONTENTS     1.   L OOMINGS     2.   T HE C ARPET -B AG     3.   T HE S POUTER -I NN     4.   T HE C OUNTERPANE     5.   B REAKFAST     6.   T HE S TREET     7.   T HE C HAPEL     8.   T HE P ULPIT     9.   T HE S ERMON   10.   A B OSOM F RIEND   11.   N IGHTGOWN   12.   B IOGRAPHICAL   13.   W HEELBARROW   14.   N ANTUCKET   15.   C HOWDER   16.   T HE S HIP   17.   T HE R AMADAN   18.   H IS M ARK   19.    T HE P ROPHET   20.   A LL A STIR   21.   G OING A BOARD   22.   M ERRY C HRISTMAS   23.   T HE L EE S HORE   24.   T HE A DVOCATE   25.   P OSTSCRIPT   26.   K NIGHTS AND S QUIRES   27.   K NIGHTS AND S QUIRES   28.   A HAB   29.   E NTER A HAB ; TO H IM , S TUBB   30.   T HE P IPE   31.   Q UEEN M AB   32.   C ETOLOGY   33.   T HE S PECKSNYDER   34.   T HE C ABIN -T ABLE   35.   T HE M AST -H EAD   36.   T HE Q UARTER -D ECK   37.   S UNSET   38.   D USK   39.    F IRST N IGHT -W ATCH   40.   M IDNIGHT , F ORECASTLE   41.   M OBY D ICK   42.   T HE W HITENESS OF THE W HALE   43.   H ARK !   44.   T HE C HART   45.   T HE A FFIDAVIT   46.   S URMISES   47.   T HE M AT -M AKER   48.   T HE F IRST L OWERING   49.   T HE H YENA   50.   A HAB ’ S B OAT AND C REW . F EDALLAH   51.   T HE S PIRIT -S POUT   52.   T HE A LBATROSS   53.   T HE G AM   54.   T HE T OWN -H O ’ S S TORY   55.   O F THE M ONSTROUS P ICTURES OF W HALES   56.   O F THE L ESS E RRONEOUS P ICTURES OF W HALES , AND THE T RUE P ICTURES OF W HALING S CENES   57.   O F W HALES IN P AINT ; IN T EETH ; IN W OOD ; IN S HEET -I RON ; IN S TONE ; IN M OUNTAINS ; IN S TARS   58.    B RIT   59.   S QUID   60.   T HE L INE   61.   S TUBB K ILLS A W HALE   62.   T HE D ART   63.   T HE C ROTCH   64.   S TUBB ’ S S UPPER   65.   T HE W HALE AS A D ISH   66.   T HE S HARK M ASSACRE   67.   C UTTING I N   68.   T HE B LANKET   69.   T HE F UNERAL   70.   T HE S PHYNX   71.   T HE J EROBOAM ’ S S TORY   72.   T HE M ONKEY -R OPE   73.   S TUBB AND F LASK KILL A R IGHT W HALE ; AND T HEN H AVE A T ALK OVER H IM   74.   T HE S PERM W HALE ’ S H EAD —C ONTRASTED V IEW   75.   T HE R IGHT W HALE ’ S H EAD —C ONTRASTED V IEW   76.    T HE B ATTERING -R AM   77.   T HE G REAT H EIDELBURGH T UN   78.   C ISTERN AND B UCKETS   79.   T HE P RAIRIE   80.   T HE N UT   81.   T HE P EQUOD M EETS T HE V IRGIN   82.   T HE H ONOR AND G LORY OF W HALING   83.   J ONAH H ISTORICALLY R EGARDED   84.   P ITCHPOLING   85.   T HE F OUNTAIN   86.   T HE T AIL   87.   T HE G RAND A RMADA   88.   S CHOOLS AND S CHOOLMASTERS   89.   F AST -F ISH AND L OOSE -F ISH   90.   H EADS OR T AILS   91.   T HE P EQUOD M EETS T HE R OSE -B UD   92.   A MBERGRIS   93.   T HE C ASTAWAY   94.   A S QUEEZE OF THE H AND   95.   T HE C ASSOCK   96.    T HE T RY -W ORKS   97.   T HE L AMP   98.   S TOWING D OWN AND C LEARING U P   99.   T HE D OUBLOON 100.   L EG AND A RM 101.   T HE D ECANTER 102.   A B OWER IN THE A RSACIDES 103.   M EASUREMENT OF T HE W HALE ’ S S KELETON 104.   T HE F OSSIL W HALE 105.   D OES THE W HALE ’ S M AGNITUDE D IMINISH ?—W ILL H E P ERISH ? 106.   A HAB ’ S L EG 107.   T HE C ARPENTER 108.   A HAB AND THE C ARPENTER 109.   A HAB AND S TARBUCK IN THE C ABIN 110.   Q UEEQUEG IN H IS C OFFIN 111.   T HE P ACIFIC 112.   T HE B LACKSMITH 113.   T HE F ORGE 114.   T HE G ILDER 115.    T HE P EQUOD M EETS T HE B ACHELOR 116.   T HE D YING W HALE 117.   T HE W HALE W ATCH 118.   T HE Q UADRANT 119.   T HE C ANDLES 120.   T HE D ECK T OWARDS THE E ND OF THE F IRST N IGHT W ATCH 121.   M IDNIGHT .—T HE F ORECASTLE B ULWARKS 122.   M IDNIGHT A LOFT .—T HUNDER AND L IGHTNING 123.   T HE M USKET 124.   T HE N EEDLE 125.   T HE L OG AND L INE 126.   T HE L IFE -B UOY 127.   T HE D ECK 128.   T HE P EQUOD M EETS T HE R ACHEL 129.   T HE C ABIN 130.   T HE H AT 131.   T HE P EQUOD M EETS T HE D ELIGHT 132.   T HE S YMPHONY 133.    T HE C HASE —F IRST D AY 134.   T HE C HASE —S ECOND D AY 135.   T HE C HASE .—T HIRD D AY E PILOGUE
 
Chapter 1
L OOMINGS
C all 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 in. And there they stand—miles of them—leagues. Inlanders all, they come from lanes and alleys, streets and 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 some