Everyone has heard about Herman Melville’s Moby Dick, which chronicles the tale of Captain Ahab and his ivory leg, the demonic white whale, the doomed ship Pequod, and a quest for vengeance that spans every ocean. Published in 1851 to little fanfare, the gargantuan novel has gone on to be acclaimed as one of world literature’s greatest feats.
The story is so ubiquitous that it’s now mostly referenced through caricature. When I actually thought about what I knew about Moby Dick before I sat down and read it, I realized that most of my knowledge came from a parody episode of The Fairly OddParents: man loses leg to the jaws of a sperm whale, goes on an irrationally bloodthirsty quest to extract revenge, and somewhere in the midst, a narrator named Ishmael makes long soliloquies about the sea.
Over the years between The Fairly OddParents and now, I began to hear rumours of other things hidden within this book. Tales of giant squids, prophetic cabin boys, and surprisingly progressive views on LGBTQ+ relationships beckoned to me as if they were the sea itself. Soon, like Ishmael, I found myself determined to see these things with my own eyes; and I set out upon the vessel that would take me to the strange waters where they lie.
Moby Dick proved to be one of the strangest reading experiences I’ve ever had.
Whaling
One of the reasons Moby Dick is one of the weirdest novels of all time is because of the profession it describes: whaling. Whaling involved harvesting oil from sperm whales, which was an essential component in lighting and other aspects of emerging industrial societies at the time of the novel’s publication.
This was a dangerous and messy undertaking. Whaling crews followed sperm whale migration routes in search of their prey for years, and the harsh conditions drove some to superstition. The violent clashes that occurred when a target was sighted often darkened the waves with the blood of both sailors and whales alike.
Melville himself had experience with this bizarre industry. In 1839, he jumped aboard a whaling ship and embarked on a three-year ocean voyage. While Moby Dick is by no means an autobiographical tale, the narrator, Ishmael, is a clear stand-in for Melville himself.
Melville routinely paused the action of his story to describe virtually every aspect of whaling. If you’ve ever wanted to know how oil is extracted from a whale’s slain carcass or what the best method of cooking a whale steak is, then I cannot recommend this book highly enough.
Surprisingly, this encyclopedic approach rarely feels bland. Just as I was getting tired of reading about boiling blubber and forging harpoons, Melville would slap me awake with a passage so gripping or absurd I’d find myself scrolling through websites on the history of whaling. I had to verify if what I’d just read was true.
If you want to find out what some sailors did with the whale’s severed genitals or how one lone man could repel a swarm of sharks, then you’ll have to pick up a copy for yourself.
Almost progressive
Another thing that makes Moby Dick so fascinating is Melville’s brushes with progressivism. The novel tackles issues such as race and sexuality in ways that undoubtedly left white 19th century audiences uncomfortable.
Early on in Ishmael’s quest to cure the “damp, drizzly November in (his) soul,” he makes the acquaintance of a Polynesian harpooner named Queequeg. It is from this meeting that the novel’s most interesting relationship develops.
Ishmael is initially frightened of Queequeg and describes him in racist terms such as “savage,” and “cannibalistically developed,” but a friendship is kindled between them that quickly becomes intimate and sensual.
I had heard briefly about this relationship before diving into Moby Dick, but was expecting the relationship to be buried in layers of subtext. With giddy excitement, I discovered my assumptions were very wrong. Despite skirting around the issue of direct consummation, Melville even marries off Ishmael and Queequeg. The ceremony that binds them—while lacking in any legal authority—proved to be one of the most genuine and tender expressions of love I’d ever read.
Melville uses this early relationship to spit in the face of Western supremacy. Ishmael’s racist assumptions of Queequeg are broken down as their bond grows. Eventually, he discards his Christian beliefs to show even more acceptance of Queequeg by partaking in what he views as more “Pagan” forms of worship.
Despite the growing intimacy and understanding between the two, Ishmael continues to refer to Queequeg using jarring racial slurs. Their relationship is also disappointingly put on hold halfway through the novel. Both characters fade into the background of the plot: Ishmael becomes an omniscient narrator and Queequeg’s portrayal slides even more into the territory of racist caricature.
I got the impression that Melville had very indecisive views on race and sexuality. His presentation of both throughout Moby Dick certainly made him a radical for his time, but he was held back by long-held biases.
These stabs at being progressive don’t diminish his racist shortcomings, but seeing his views in hindsight is certainly eye-opening. If a pre-Civil War white American author can include at least some humanized BIPOC characters and LGBTQ+ relationships, why can’t certain modern authors do the same?
If you’re a fan of H.P. Lovecraft, you’ll find the book immensely gratifying. It was a joy to watch the novel unfold and discover that at its heart, Moby Dick is a lot like it’s namesake: a horrifically romantic tale that you won’t believe until you’ve read it for yourself.
Featured image by James Kerr.
