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>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.
Why was this handsome faggot such a genius? And why did no one recognize it at the time?
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>>9920603
Agreed. Even years ago when I was not the /lit/izen I was today I read this book and was instantly floored by the very structure of the sentences, nevermind the word choice and subtexts. From this alone I can still practically hear Ishmael's voice
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>>9920603
Rightly called the greatest American novel.
I would go so far as to say it is the greatest piece of literature after The Holy Bible, Dante's Commedia and Dostoevsky's Brother's Karamazov. I've read it twice a year for the past 6 years and it gets better every time.
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