"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."
160 years ago, a promising young writers career came to an end when his treatise on life as a whaler was labelled by critics as a disaster; strange how it’s now a classic… Moby Dick celebrated its 160th year anniversary this week and I would recommend you read it; though it’s kind of like the Star Trek movies, skip every second chapter which goes into the ‘science’ of Whales (no, every second Star Trek movie isn’t about whales, it’s just crap)… You can download it for free here
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