Chapter 103: Measurement of the Whale’s skeleton
Chapter 105: Does the Whale’s Magnitude Diminish?—Will he Perish?
Chapter 108: Ahab and the Carpenter
Chapter 109: Ahab and Starbuck in the Cabin
Chapter 110: Queequeg in His Coffin
Chapter 115: The ‘Pequod’ Meets The ‘Bachelor’
Chapter 120: The Deck Towards the End of the First Night Watch
Chapter 121: Midnight—The Forecastle Bulwarks
Chapter 122: Midnight Aloft—Thunder and Lightning
Chapter 128: The ‘Pequod’ Meets the ‘Rachel’
Chapter 131: The ‘Pequod’ Meets the ‘Delight’
Chapter 133: The Chase—First Day
Chapter 134: The Chase—Second Day
Chapter 135: The Chase—Third Day
Classic Literature: Words and Phrases adapted from the Collins English Dictionary
Call 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 coral reefs—commerce surrounds it with her surf. Right and left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme down-town 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 White-hall, 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;
