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Moby-Dick
by Herman Melville
CHAPTER 1
Loomings
Call me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely— having little orno money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thoughtI would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way Ihave of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I findmyself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November inmy soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses,and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever myhypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principleto prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodicallyknocking people's hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soonas I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophicalflourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. Thereis nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in theirdegree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards theocean with me.
There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by wharves asIndian isles by coral reefs—commerce surrounds it with her surf. Right andleft, 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 fewhours previous were out of sight of land. Look at the crowds of water-gazersthere.
Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Corlears Hook toCoenties Slip, and from thence, by Whitehall, northward. What do yousee?—Posted like silent sentinels all around the town, stand thousands uponthousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries. Some leaning against thespiles; some seated upon the pier-heads; some looking over the bulwarksglasses! of ships from China; some high aloft in the rigging, as if striving toget a still better seaward peep. But these are all landsmen; of week days pentup 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 seeminglybound for a dive. Strange! Nothing will content them but the extremest limit ofthe 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 fallingin. And there they stand—miles of them—leagues. Inlanders all, they come fromlanes and alleys, streets and avenues,— north, east, south, and west. Yet herethey all unite. Tell me, does the magnetic virtue of the needles of thecompasses of all those ships attract them thither?
Once more. Say you are in the country; in some high land of lakes. Take almostany path you please, and ten to one it carries you down in a dale, and leavesyou there by a pool in the stream. There is magic in it. Let the mostabsent-minded of men be plunged in his deepest reveries—stand that man on hislegs, set his feet a-going, and he will infallibly lead you to water, if waterthere be in all that region. Should you ever be athirst in the great Americandesert,