My first sighting of the White Whale came from the 1992 April issue of Boy’s Life magazine when I was eight years old. In addition to articles on how to be a good cub scout and some otherwise average comic strips, this monthly publication would sometimes include a graphic novel-style retelling of a classic novel. To this day, I can still remember the amazing artwork and evocative imagery in their version of Herman Melville’s most famous work. The single image that’s stayed with me the most from that comic was of Moby Dick himself. Unlike all other depictions I’ve ever seen, this whale wasn’t a pristine white. He was dirty, old, and wrinkled, with more than a dozen old harpoons lodged into his massive body. He seemed ancient, unworldly, less a mortal animal and more a mythical force that man was powerless against. I finished that comic with a desperate need to encounter the beast again.
Searching through my mother’s impressive collection of classic literature, I quickly found a copy of the unedited, unabridged novel. It was large and imposing, but I’d already read similarly impressive novels, both on my own and with my mother before bedtime every night. I started to read, and at first things went well. I recognized Ishmael and Queequeg from the comic, and followed their adventures through Nantucket until they signed on to the ill-fated Pequod under the sinister Captain Ahab. But then the story stopped, and for the first time I encountered the first storms in my personal odyssey.
Anyone who’s ever tried to read this novel will know what I’m talking about. Chapter after chapter dedicated to subjects like the anatomy of whales or the supposed prestige of the whaling profession dominate the entire book. I hate these sections. While the occasional philosophical side-track or insight into 1850’s marine biology can be interesting, Melville’s self-indulgent ramblings soon become infuriating. Needless to say, my eight-year-old self didn’t get very far, but the phantom of the White Whale stayed with me.
For several years I flirted with starting the book over again. I’d pick it up, read a chapter or two, then give up again. It wasn’t until my senior year of high school that I decided to make another serious voyage in search of the White Whale. I started from the beginning again, full of confidence and bravado. Since this was part of an assignment for English class, I kept a reading journal and faithfully made entries every time something interested me. I made good progress, powering through the arrogantly bloated chapters with the stubborn determination of a student trying to get a good grade in his best subject.
But I couldn’t do it. By the end of the course I’d only made it about two-thirds of the way through the novel. I fell back on a tactic that would save me (perhaps too often) at various times throughout my academic career, writing an eloquent appeal explaining why I didn’t finish an assignment. I told my teacher how important this novel was to me on a personal level, and I committed to continue reading it on my own time to finally conquer this personal demon. I got an A on the assignment, graduated from high school, and put Moby Dick back on the shelf, unfinished.
I made several more failed voyages in the decade or so that followed. Each time I began from page one, fully committed to seeing this hunt all the way to the end, and every time I fell short. It wasn’t until late 2014 that I decided to try yet again. I wish I could say that there had been some compelling, dramatic reason why this time would be different, but I can’t think of anything specific. Maybe I took the novel in smaller portions at a time. Maybe I was just more stubborn. Whatever the reason, I managed to get as far as I’d ever gotten in the book, and then just kept going.
It never got any easier. Even when the book finally started focusing on the characters again in the last hundred pages or so, nearly every line of dialogue was a page-long soliloquy that was about as engaging as the dusty-dry expositional chapters had been. In fact, I was shocked to find that the titular Moby Dick doesn’t even make a physical appearance until the last thirty or so pages. Friends who had read the book encouraged me, saying that the final confrontation between man and beast would make it all worthwhile. And did it?
No. How could it? No single scene could live up to the more-than twenty years it took to reach it, especially a scene written by the self-important Melville. But the truth is that reading and finishing this book had gone beyond just the words on the page. When I finally got to the one-page epilogue and read the last word of the last sentence, I felt I had driven my own lance deep into the eye of this hard-bound leviathan. After twenty four years, I had finally, successfully, hunted my own Moby Dick.
Note: While writing today’s article, I thought I’d try doing an online search for the Boy’s Life comic that had first captured my imagination. To my surprise and delight, I found a free, online copy on Google Books. I eagerly read through the comic again, and felt the same stirrings of emotion and wonder that I felt years ago as a young boy. I’ve provided a link to the issue below, in the hopes that someone might want to share in this tender memory with me. Just beware the siren’s call of the White Whale…
Link to Boy’s Life April 1992 Issue (comic begins on page 43)
An intriguing look at the classic. Good post!
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