It should have come as no surprise to me that Moby-Dick, a novel famous for being boring, was… well, boring. But it did, a little. I put too much faith, apparently, in the potential thrill of a madman’s swash-buckling adventures on the sea in pursuit of a living, breathing holy grail: the White Whale himself, a.k.a. Moby-Dick. And I indulged too far, it seems, in the comfort and relief of the novel’s opening chapters—which, if not exhilarating, are at least readable.
It should have come as no surprise to me that Moby-Dick, a novel famous for being boring, was… well, boring. But it did, a little. I put too much faith, apparently, in the potential thrill of a madman’s swash-buckling adventures on the sea in pursuit of a living, breathing holy grail: the White Whale himself, a.k.a. Moby-Dick. And I indulged too far, it seems, in the comfort and relief of the novel’s opening chapters—which, if not exhilarating, are at least readable.
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