Pierce the Whale

Posted on November 15, 2025 by Diego Aguirre

Considering the Loose-Fish doctrine and the whiteness of the whale acting as a blank canvas for Ahab to project upon “all that most maddens and torments… all evil” (200), you can see how vain and piteous Ahab’s final curses upon Moby Dick are: “Towards thee I roll, thou all-destroying but unconquering whale; to the last I grapple with thee; from hell’s heart I stab at thee; for hate’s sake I spit my last breath at thee” (623). Having finally arrived at the expected point, watching his ship perish without him, knowing his death is imminent, he, for the last time, resigns himself to the obsession that set him on this voyage because it is all he knows. Even though we, along with Starbuck and other characters, don’t view the whale as malicious but rather as a dumb brute, Ahab is firm in his declaration that Moby Dick is “all-destroying but unconquering.” This refusal to be “conquered” in his final moments is Ahab’s last attempt at claiming Moby Dick as his Loose-Fish. If Ahab convinces himself that he is righteous in this endless hunt, which he has done throughout the entirety of the novel, he is justified in his own mind to continue walking down the doomed path, no matter the deaths he is responsible for. By piercing Moby Dick with his final curses from hell’s heart for hate’s sake, Ahab willingly condemns himself as a martyr; but Ahab is no martyr in the way he desired. Rather, he is a warning to America of this unrelenting chase towards one thing built upon a vain justification. Ironically, Ahab has become the Fast-Fish, fastened to the whale, tied to “all evil” (his own words), even after death.

Essay 2

Posted on November 15, 2025 by Diego Aguirre

Throughout Moby Dick, Herman Melville constantly shines an honorary light on the people that have served as the foundation for the whaling industry and the United States. In “The First Lowering” to hunt whales, Melville zooms in on a peculiar scene where, acting as a mast-head, the “noble negro” Daggoo bears the “vivacious, tumultuous, ostentatious, little Flask” upon his shoulders (Melville 241). This scene on Flask’s boat serves as a microcosm of the United States in which the black man literally uplifts the white; Melville uses this to reverse the preconceived notions of nobility based on race all while praising the stability of the foundational Daggoo.

At the start of this scene, it is described that little King-Post (Flask) was “recklessly standing upon the top of the loggerhead” in hopes of satisfying his “large and tall ambition” (Melville 240). In a situation where these men are chasing their main source of profit, it’s important to note that the ambitious yet little King-Post could not satisfy his desires by himself. Fortunately for Flask, his harpooner Daggoo “volunteered his lofty shoulders for a pedestal” (Melville 240). Daggoo’s volunteering of himself as a pedestal or mast-head here can be viewed as a reclamation of power. If we are to view this scene as a representation of the state of the 1850s United States, Daggoo willingly offering himself directly goes against the subjugation of slaves’ labor. Daggoo is proud to offer himself as a mast-head because their unified work is what will lead to their success in this whale hunt.

Though there may be something to argue about Daggoo maintaining the status of an object, specifically one that lets the white man stand upon him, Melville proposes we change our minds about which position really deserves praise. He writes:

But the sight of little Flask mounted upon gigantic Daggoo was yet more curious; for sustaining himself with a cool, indifferent, easy, unthought of, barbaric majesty, the noble negro to every roll of the sea harmoniously rolled his fine form. On his broad back, flaxen-haired Flask seemed a snow-flake. The bearer looked nobler than the rider. (Melville 241)

It would be easy to forget that this is all happening during the chaos of their initial whale hunt, rolling on the waves within their small boats, all eager to pierce the whale. Yet Daggoo is described as “sustaining himself with a cool, indifferent, easy, unthought of, barbaric majesty.” Maintaining his posture and balancing himself is a second nature to Daggoo; he is able to stand firm and support the little Flask in his “barbaric majesty.” No longer is Flask referred to as little King-Post, now Daggoo receives the title of majesty. Melville employs his common trick of pairing opposing terms, barbaric and majesty, to overthrow the idea that they’re meant to be separate. He continues to use this honorific language as “the noble negro to every roll of the sea harmoniously rolled his fine form.” Again, Melville gives praise to the ones that not only withstand the pressure of nature and those they’re uplifting, but are harmoniously able to roll with its flow. It’s no surprise “the bearer looked nobler than the rider”, for Daggoo, and the many noble negroes enslaved by the majestic barbarians of 1850s America, were the pedestal that provided the stability that Flask and all the other snow-flakes relied on to satisfy their ambitions.

While Melville sings the praises of Daggoo, Flask seems to have fallen from grace. He was already stripped of his title of King-Post, but Melville only continues to mock the attitude of this snow-flake:

Though, truly vivacious, tumultuous, ostentatious little Flask would now and then stamp with impatience; but not one added heave did he thereby give to the negro’s lordly chest. So have I seen Passion and Vanity stamping the living magnanimous earth, but the earth did not alter her tides and her seasons for that. (Melville 241)

One way to think of it is that Flask has now been reduced to a spoiled and bratty prince. He maintains his lively and obnoxious attitude, trying to lord over the boat, stamping with impatience, but his power has diminished. And he knows how reliant he is in this situation too, as he does not dare add one heave to “the negro’s lordly chest.” Melville can’t help but sprinkle in some more compliments for Daggoo, again referring to him as “lordly”, now bearing not only Flask, but his authority as well. Then Melville closes this scene with one last comparison for both men: Flask is assigned to the “Passion and Vanity” that stamps “the living magnanimous earth” that is Daggoo. The once lordly King-Post, now just a vain bundle of intense emotion and pride, can only try and stamp his desires upon the generous and forgiving Daggoo. But in this celebratory scene of Daggoo, we are presented with an alternative to the United States in which the noble negro refuses altering for the ones they bear on their backs.

In the context of their first frenzied chase of whales, it is important that Melville stops for a second to focus on this comedic scene of Flask and Daggoo. By positioning the mast-head Daggoo as noble, majestic, firm, and magnanimous, we are left to commend him rather than the ambitious, ostentatious, vain, snow-flake known as Flask. A whale boat in which the ambitions of the head are prioritized over the stability of the pedestal cannot even participate in the chase. The humbling mockery of Flask and glory given to Daggoo is a direct reversal of the narratives that have persisted since the 1850s United States, in which the figureheads are praised while the people they stand upon are belittled, mocked, ignored, enslaved, and persecuted. Should the United States desire any success in our hunt of prosperity, we should follow this example and recognize that the bearer truly is nobler than the rider.

Light and Labor: The Price of Illumination

Posted on November 15, 2025 by Aurora Copp

In Chapter 97, “The Lamp,” Ishmael writes, “But the whaleman, as he seeks the food of light, so he lives in light” (Melville 466). The sentence appears simple, even poetic, as if merely describing the sailor’s surroundings: a man whose work deals literally with oil and flame, dwelling in brightness amid his dangerous and quite lonely life at sea. Yet, like much of Moby-Dick, this moment actually contains a deeper, unsettling paradox. What begins as just a factual observation about whale oil, which happens to be the literal “food of light,” expands into a moral and metaphysical reflection on the cost of illumination itself. Melville’s language transforms physical light into a spiritual metaphor, complicating the whaleman’s apparent purity by revealing the violence and destruction that make such light possible in the first place. Through this sentence, Melville explores the moral ambiguity of enlightenment, suggesting that the pursuit of knowledge and progress always casts shadows. To “live in light,” in this sense, is not a state of purity but one of contradiction: a human condition sustained by the very darkness it seeks to overcome.

At its surface level, Ishmael’s statement describes the basic reality of the whaling industry. The “food of light” refers to whale oil, which is the material substance that, once extracted from the whale, refined, and then burned, illuminates homes, streets, and cities across the world. The whaleman literally harvests the world’s light from the sea, working amid furnaces, boiling blubber, and lamps that glow through the ship’s night. In this sense, he does indeed always “live in light.” Yet even within this literal interpretation, Melville’s phrasing evokes something even more mythic to the reader. The whaleman becomes not merely a laborer of the ocean but more of a Promethean figure, the one who brings fire to humanity at great personal and moral cost. The “food of light” recalls both nourishment and sacrifice, suggesting that illumination must be fed, sustained by something perishable, in this case, even living. That food, of course, is the whale itself, whose body becomes the actual physical foundation of civilization’s brightness. Melville’s specific word choice here in this sentence collapses the boundaries between consumption, destruction, and enlightenment. The world’s ability to “see” depends on an ongoing act of death, on the rendering of life into death into fuel. In that transformation, the whaleman stands as both the agent and the witness of light’s creation. The one who participates in an enterprise that makes human vision possible, even as it stains that very same vision with blood.

Melville’s syntax deepens this tension through its balance and rhythm. The clause “as he seeks the food of light” establishes a more causal, almost moral equivalence: we are supposed to believe that the whaleman’s purpose aligns with his environment, his labor mirrored by his world and their desires. But then the symmetry between “seeks” and “lives” suggests more than any type of coincidence; it implies justification. If he “lives in light,” then perhaps his violent work is redeemed by its very luminous result. Melville toys with this logic, allowing the sentence to hover between affirmation and irony. The actual structure of the line reads like a moral proverb to the audience, neat and almost comforting, but its context undercuts that quiet simplicity. Ishmael’s narrative at this point describes the grisly processes of rendering blubber into oil, how the ship is transformed into a floating factory, and the men laboring in smoke and heat. The “light” that surrounds them comes from the fires of their own making. What appears as divine illumination is in fact just an industrial glow, born from the destruction of the very creatures they hunt. Melville’s juxtaposition of the spiritual and the mechanical turns the whaleman’s work into a representation for human progress itself: every light we kindle depends on something we extinguish.

This irony reveals Melville’s larger philosophical concern with the relationship between knowledge and violence. The pursuit of enlightenment, whether that may be through scientific, intellectual, or spiritual ways, requires a certain amount of dissection, penetration, and the laying bare of what was once whole or known by the consumer. In this sense, the whaleman’s rendering of the whale parallels Ishmael’s own rendering of meaning. To “seek the food of light” is to participate in an endless process of breaking down the world in order to understand it. Melville’s language often blurs this line between the physical and the epistemological: the same curiosity that drives men to cut open whales also drives them to dissect nature, God, and, in turn, themselves. The “light” they seek is both literal and figurative, an emblem of reason, discovery, and power that they can reach for. Yet, this light is often accompanied by a terrifying glare that threatens to consume those who labor within it. When Ishmael writes that they “live in light,” the statement becomes disturbingly double-edged. The same light that signifies enlightenment may also suggest a possible damnation. In Melville’s moral universe, illumination is never innocent.

The phrase “lives in light” also carries a certain amount of theological resonance. Light has long been a symbol of divinity, purity, and truth, from the opening words of Genesis, “Let there be light,” to the Christian notion of spiritual illumination. To “live in light,” then, evokes an almost saintly or angelic image, as if the whalemen are chosen vessels through whom divine radiance enters the world. Yet at the same time, Melville destabilizes this association by placing such holiness in the hands of those engaged in an act of slaughter against seemingly innocent creatures. The whalemen are both creators and destroyers; their light is a paradoxical mixture of grace and guilt. This inversion echoes throughout Moby-Dick: the line between sanctity and sin is perpetually blurred. Melville suggests that human beings cannot separate their search for truth from their capacity for destruction. The whaleman’s “light” thus becomes a microcosm of civilization’s moral compromise: with every advancement, every brightening of the world, there is a hidden darkness that always lies just beneath the surface.

The communal aspect of this illumination adds another layer of complexity as well. The whaleman’s labor produces the oil that fuels lamps across nations, so his private suffering enables collective vision. Melville uses this image to question the ethics of progress built on invisible toil. Those who may “live in light” aboard the Pequod do so through peril and deprivation, while the consumers of that light remain untouched by its very violent and barbaric origins. This disconnect mirrors the broader human tendency to enjoy the benefits of knowledge or comfort without ever thinking about or confronting their cost. The “light” of modern civilization, such as its science, industry, and expansion, rests directly upon the bodies of those rendered seemingly invisible by the glow. Ishmael’s phrasing exposes that blindness even as it embodies it: the sentence itself glimmers with poetic beauty, concealing the blood and labor it describes. Melville thus implicates language, and maybe even literature itself, in this economy of light, where aesthetic pleasure risks masking any type of moral awareness. To read Moby-Dick attentively is to recognize the shadow that every illumination casts.

In this way, the passage encapsulates Melville’s broader meditation on the limits of human vision. To “live in light” may seem to promise clarity, but in Moby-Dick, light often blinds as much as it reveals. The whalemen’s proximity to flame makes them less capable of seeing beyond it; the brightness becomes overwhelming, distorting any perception. The lesson is clear: illumination, when pursued without humility, leads to madness. Ahab, too, “lives in light” of his own making. A constant fiery, obsessive glow that consumes him. His monomaniacal vision is a different form of enlightenment, a search for ultimate truth that obliterates everything else in its way. In this sense, the whaleman’s “light” is both the beginning and the very end of human aspiration. It represents the desire to know, to see, to master, and then the inevitable self-destruction that such strong desire entails.

Ishmael’s brief but poignant reflection in Chapter 97 shows Moby-Dick’s entire philosophical tension in a single sentence. The whaleman’s life of light is both his glory and his doom, a very real figure for humanity’s contradictory condition. We are creatures who burn for understanding, who turn the world and its animals into literal fuel for our enlightenment, yet in doing so, we run the very real risk of extinguishing ourselves along the way. Melville’s imagery reminds us that every light depends on its opposite, that there can be no illumination without shadow, no knowledge without cost. The “food of light” that sustains civilization is inseparable from the death that feeds it and allows it to grow. Through this paradox, Melville exposes the moral and metaphysical price of human illumination. To “live in light” is to live with that awareness, to recognize the darkness within the glow, and to be able to see, even in the brightest of flames, the very trace of what it consumes.

The Meaning That Passed Ahab By

Posted on November 15, 2025 by Omar Arvizu

In the Town-Ho’s Story, Melville creates a moment of meaning that Ahab never experiences, and this gap is key to understanding his destructive obsession. Ishmael says the ship saw “one of those so-called judgments of God which at times are said to overtake some men,” where Moby Dick stops a murder at sea. But Melville points out that “this secret part of the story never reached the ears of Captain Ahab” (Melville, pg. 265). The sailors who knew about it kept quiet, and only by chance does Ishmael learn the story from Tashtego’s sleep-talk. When Ishmael views the whale as an agent of justice rather than just a violent animal, the reader gains a new perspective on Moby Dick, one rich in moral complexity. Ahab never gets this perspective. He only sees the whale through his own trauma and hatred, and the story itself keeps him from seeing it any other way. By letting Ishmael hear what Ahab never will, Melville shows how obsession can limit a person’s view, how meaning comes from listening to others, and how the story of the whale changes depending on who tells it and who listens. In this way, the Town-Ho episode hints that when understanding is withheld or ignored, fear fills the empty space, shaping the world into something far more monstrous than it truly is.

The difference in who hears the story stands out even more when Melville shows how closely the tale is kept within the crew of the Town-Ho. Melville makes it clear that this hidden meaning is not just something Ahab misses by chance, but something that barely survives on the ship at all. Ishmael says the most important moral moment is “the secret part of the tragedy,” so carefully kept that it “never reached the ears of Captain Ahab or his mates.” Even the Town-Ho’s captain “himself” never knew this deeper version. The meaning of the whale’s actions spreads through rumor, hints, and luck, not through any official story. This secrecy matters because it highlights the fragility of interpretation on a whaling ship. The stories with the most moral weight are the least likely to reach those in charge, and the truths that could change someone’s view of the whale only travel in broken, whispered pieces. When the story finally reaches Ishmael, its power comes from the fact that it was never meant for someone like Ahab, who needs certainty instead of suggestion. The Town-Ho’s story shows that some meanings last only for those willing to hear them, while others, like Ahab, stay trapped in their own narrow view.

How Ishmael handles this fragile knowledge shows even more about the difference between him and Ahab. Even though he hears the story indirectly, Ishmael treats the whale’s actions as meaningful, revealing the moral depth of the world around him. He calls the event a “judgment of God,” and by repeating this phrase, he shows that the whale should not be seen only through violence or fear. Ishmael’s openness lets him see the whale as more than just a beast, but as a creature tied to justice, mystery, and moral consequence. Ahab never gets this. Since the secret part of the story never reaches him, Ahab can only see the whale through his own pain and anger. Ishmael, on the other hand, makes the story bigger, and the reader is invited to do the same. In this way, the Town-Ho’s Story becomes a moment where Ishmael offers an alternative to Ahab’s obsession. He listens, thinks, and lets uncertainty make his view of the whale deeper, not harder. The passage shows that meaning depends on being willing to accept it, and that the whale’s moral complexity is there only for those ready to hear more than one version of the story.

Melville builds this divide into the structure of the novel itself, making the Town-Ho episode more than just a story within a story. Melville’s decision to place this story in Ishmael’s hands, rather than Ahab’s, creates a quiet structural divide that shapes the entire novel. By letting Ishmael receive a version of the whale that Ahab never encounters, Melville interprets it as a kind of test. The Town-Ho’s Story shows that understanding the whale depends not on strength, authority, or experience, but on who is willing to listen. Ahab’s absence from the story is not an accident; it is a sign of his deeper failure, a refusal to take in anything that does not confirm his obsession. Ishmael, meanwhile, becomes the novel’s faithful interpreter because he gathers meaning from chance, from fragments, and from the voices lower in the ship’s hierarchy. Melville builds the narrative so that the reader’s knowledge and Ahab’s knowledge never overlap. We follow Ishmael into stories that complicate the whale, but Ahab is left with only the narrow version he carries within himself. This separation matters because it turns the whale into a mirror. For Ahab, it reflects hatred. For Ishmael, it reflects mystery and moral force. The Town-Ho chapter reveals that the novel is not just a hunt for a whale, but a conflict between ways of understanding the world.

The Town-Ho episode also illustrates how easily fear grows when understanding is incomplete. Because Ahab never hears the part of the story that treats the whale as a moral force instead of a mindless beast, he fills that silence with the only meaning he has: the memory of violence. Ignorance becomes the ground where fear takes root, and fear gradually hardens into the hatred that drives the rest of the novel. Ishmael’s experience shows the opposite pattern. When he receives more information, even in fragmented form, his fear lessens and his sense of the whale expands. In this way, the Town-Ho chapter demonstrates how knowledge reshapes emotion, and how the stories we receive determine whether we confront the unknown with curiosity or with rage.

Ahab’s absence from the Town-Ho’s story shows how fear grows where understanding is missing. Ishmael gets a version of the whale shaped by secrecy, chance, and moral possibility, while Ahab is left with only the memory of his injury and his own story about the whale. When something is unknown, it is easier to fill the gap with fear, and over time, fear can turn into hatred. Ishmael’s willingness to listen lets the whale become complex and mysterious, while Ahab’s refusal to hear anything beyond his pain keeps him stuck in a single, violent view. Melville uses the Town-Ho episode to show that knowledge does not just inform perspective; it changes it. The terror around the whale comes not from the whale itself, but from the limits of the human mind facing it. In the end, the story suggests that the more someone closes off meaning, the more frightening the world seems, while those open to many voices find a depth that fear alone cannot show.

Chapter 134: Seeking the Thing That Could Destroy

Posted on November 15, 2025 by Zoe Olow

Towards the beginning of chapter 134 I read this part which had their impending doom coming for them. “Clinging to a spar with one hand some reached for the other with impatient wavings; others, shading their eyes from the vivid sunlight, sat far out on the rocking yards; all the spars in full bearing of mortals, ready and ripe for their fate. Ah! how they still strove through that infinite blueness to seek out the thing that might destory them.” This foreshadows what is to come of their fates in just one more chapter as they finally come across the whale.

These lines prove that these men were ready for what was to come upon them with this mission to find and kill this whale. “Clining to a spar” illustrates that these men were armed with the means to kill this whale with their harpoons. “Impatient wavings” shows that their are waiting to see this whale so they can kill him immediately and get this mission over so that they can get their money that Ahab promised them. Some of their other crewmates waited patiently as they were “shading their eyes from the vivid sunlight” showing that they were waiting for the sun to go down as they were in their positions waiting to see the whale breech in the water. They were very adamant about finding this whale as this was Ahab’s wish, to find and kill the whale even if it was dangerous. The line “all the spars in full bearing of mortals, ready and ripe for their fate” shows that these men were in a vulnerable position abord the Pequod as they were hunting down the thing that would surely destory them easily. They were all in their designated spots in case the whale was seen to that they can easily take him down. Ahab was so crazy that they did all of this for a whale that he was so passionate about killing that they “strove through that infinate blueness” the world’s many oceans so that he can take vengance against this whale. This Moby Dick is the most dangerous and powerful creature in this ocean and they wanted “to seek out the thing that might destory them” which again proves they would do all of this for money and passion.

Ahab and these men were so adamant about finding this whale that it does lead to their destruction in the end. This foreshadowing shows us that they are doomed in the end. They won’t return home, Ahab won’t get his victory, but they did so much to get to this point.

Short Essay: Close Reading #2

Posted on November 14, 2025 by Liz Martin

Herman Melville’s Moby-Dick repeatedly blurs the boundaries between the physical and the metaphysical, especially in moments where characters confront the ocean as something more than an environmental setting. This tension becomes most relevant in Chapter 112, “The Blacksmith”, where Ishmael moves from narrating the blacksmith’s tragic biography to reflecting more broadly on the psychology of sailors whose lives have been hollowed out by grief, failure, and spiritual exhaustion. After detailing how the blacksmith’s losses render him numb to life on land, Melville turns to a broader meditation on the kind of men who go to sea, the men who yearn for release yet recoil from the moral stain of suicide. Melville transforms the ocean into a liminal space that invites sailors to imagine escape from the moral weight of selfhood rather than literal self-destruction. Melville’s imagery of “Death seems the only desirable sequel for a career like this; but Death is only a launching into the region of the strange Untried; it is but the first salutation to the possibilities of the immense Remote, the Wild, the Watery, the Unshored; therefore, to the death-longing eyes of such men, who still have left in them some interior compunctions against suicide, does the all-contributed and all-receptive ocean alluringly spread forth his whole plain of unimaginable, taking terrors, and wonderful, new-life adventures; and from the hearts of infinite Pacifics,” (Melville 529) suggests that the men long not simply for death but for relief from the isolating burden of their own identities, choices, and moral responsibilities. In this way, the ocean becomes a threshold where melancholy blurs the boundary between transcendence and self-erasure, revealing Melville’s critique of the human desire to death when individuality feels too heavy to bear.

When Melville opens the passage with “Death seems the only desirable sequel for a career like this”, he reframes death as a logical outcome rather than a moral rupture. In doing so, he places sailors within a psychological landscape where exhaustion and exposure to vastness distort the meaning of mortality. The phrasing “seems” is crucial, Melville suggests not that sailors rationally desire death, but that the ocean’s psychological pressure distorts perception, making death appear coherent and almost natural. Sailors do not rationally desire death, rather, the ocean’s immensity conditions them to imagine death as part of the natural continuum of their existence. By presenting “death” as a tempting “sequel “rather than an ethical violation, Melville situates sailors in a mental landscape where the immensity of the sea dissolves moral frameworks built on land. The language is crucial because it dramatizes one of the novel’s central tensions, which is the collapse of land-based ethical norms in the face of nature’s boundless indifference. Melville’s diction thus supports the idea of how the ocean destabilizes identity by framing self-erasure as a seductive continuation rather than a moral violation.

Melville intensifies this destabilization when he writes “Death is only a launching into the region of the strange Untried.” By using the verb “launching”, a word associated with maritime, he transforms death from an ending into the beginning of another voyage. This metaphor is important because it reflects how the ocean reshapes the sailor’s conceptual framework, it absorbs death into its own logic of exploration and discovery. The language pointedly avoids Christian associations of death with sin or final judgment. Instead, the ocean’s vastness reorients spiritual meaning, rendering death spiritually neutral, even generative. Melville’s decision to frame the afterlife as a “strange” reinforces the paradox at the core of the chapter that terror and desire are inseparable, and the unknown becomes strangely inviting. In this reframing, Melville exposes how the ocean seduces sailors into imagining dissolution not as destruction but as transcendence.

With the cascading list, “the immense Remote, the Watery, the Unshored”, it magnifies the ocean’s overwhelming scale. Melville’s piling of adjectives functions rhetorically like a wave, engulfing both the reader and the sailor in a rhythm of expansiveness. This excess of description matters because it reflects the sailor’s psychological dissolution in the face of something that cannot be contained or comprehended. Melville’s ocean, defined by remoteness and the absence of boundaries, becomes a symbol of nonidentity, a space where human limitations lose their meaning. The language mimics the reverence that the terror of boundlessness becomes indistinguishable from the desire to be absorbed in it. This imagery is significant because it constructs the ocean as a spiritual force that both terrifies and seduces, turning death into an appealing surrender. By presenting the sea’s enormity as almost redemptive, Melville critiques humanity’s fantasy of escaping individuality by merging with something larger than the self. With Melville using this phrasing, it shows how beauty and death coexist inseparably.

Melville deepens the psychological tension by invoking “death longing eyes” belonging to sailors who still possess “interior compunctions against suicide.” This juxtaposition highlights an internal struggle between instinctual desire and moral restraint. The phrase matters because it reveals the sailor’s temptation is not purely emotional or aesthetic but ethically fraught. The term “compunctions” underscores that these men are aware of the moral gravity, yet the ocean’s seductive vastness weakens their resistance. Melville’s language thus frames the ocean as a force capable of eroding the boundary between self-preservation and self-erasure. In this spiritual space, suicide is reimagined as self-dissipation—a merging with the environment rather than a transgressive act. By foregrounding this inner conflict, Melville illustrates how extreme environments destabilize moral frameworks, exposing the dangerous proximity between transcendence and destruction.

Melville’s description of the “all-contributed and all-receptive ocean” further emphasizes the ocean’s paradoxical nature. The ocean “receives” everything — bodies, ships, histories, desire — while also giving back a sense of unity through dissolution. This specific phrasing matters because it casts the sea as a universal absorber, a space where individuality dissolves into a larger whole. The personification of the ocean “alluringly spreading forth his whole plain” suggests intent, as though the natural world acts as a spiritual tempter. Melville highlights the human impulse to surrender to something vast and impersonal, to escape responsibility by merging into a larger whole. The oceans’ “plain of unimaginable, taking terrors” blends beauty and danger, promising both death and renewal. Here, Melville’s diction shows how the natural world can be mythologized into a spiritual alternative to human society, a place where burdens can be shed but only through self-erasure.

Melville concludes the passage with how the ocean offers “wonderful, new life adventures” emerging “from the hearts of infinite Pacifics.” The juxtaposition between “new-life” and the earlier emphasis on death reveals Melville’s deliberate conflation of ending and beginning. The phrase is significant because it frames the ocean as a site of potential rebirth, but only through the destruction of oneself. The “infinite Pacifics” suggests multiplicity and endless spiritual possibility, but this infinite promise is intimately tied to the dissolution of individuality. The language is important because it exposes the underlying contradiction in the sailor’s fantasy; the desire for transcendence is inseparable from the desire for extinction. By characterizing death as a getaway to “Adventures”, Melville critiques how romanticized visions of nature can distort moral judgment. The ocean embodies a form of spiritual seduction that tempts sailors toward self-loss. Melville’s phrasing reinforces that transcendence in Moby-Dick is always shadowed by mortality.

Through this elaborate imagery in Chapter 112, Melville transforms the ocean into a liminal and spiritual space where sailors confront the temptation of self-dissipation with the moral finality of suicide. The passage’s language — framing death as a “launching”, describing the sea as “Unshored”, addressing the “death-longing eyes” of morally conflicted sailors, and presenting the ocean as “all receptive” — all contribute to a depiction of nature that invites surrender while destabilizing land-based ethical boundaries. Melville’s imagery of death as paradoxically alluring and redemptive exposes humanity’s deeper desire to escape the burdens of individuality and morality imposed by Western social structures, including capitalist pressures, by dissolving into something vast and impersonal. The solemn tone heightens the tension between transcendence and death, revealing that the human longing for spiritual elevation often masks a darker yearning for release from the self. Ultimately, Melville critiques the dangerous appeal of metaphysical escape, exposing the ocean as both a spiritual frontier and a seductive abyss where enlightenment and oblivion become indistinguishable.

Chapter One-Hundred Thirty Five

Posted on November 14, 2025 by Liz Martin

In Chapter 135, “The Chase—The Third Day”, Ahab’s final cry, “Towards thee I roll, thou all-destroying but unconquering whale … from hell’s heart I stab at thee; for hate’s sake I spit my last breath at thee”, serves as the ultimate expression of his monomaniacal defiance. It reveals how his Obsession transforms him into a tragic figure who seeks meaning in a universe that offers none. Spoken in the climactic moment of the final chase, the passage occurs at the precise point where Ahab’s quest can no longer be sustained by rhetoric, willpower, or self-mythologizing, he is quite literally being pulled toward death, yet he insists on framing his struggle as an extraordinary battle. The language of the passage shows how completely Ahab’s identity has collapsed into hatred, spitting verbs such as grapple, stab, and spit form a relentless chain of physical aggression that contrasts with his powerlessness. By calling the whale “all destroying but conquering,” Ahab asserts a moral victory even as he is defeated, clinging to the belief that his refusal to yield to the whale makes him superior to the indifferent force that has destroyed him. This is crucial because the whale itself is not malicious, it’s the people surrounding the whale that are malicious, making the whale a representation to the impersonal vastness of nature or fate. Ahab’s language with “from hell’s heart” echoes defiance, reinforcing the idea that he casts himself as a cosmic rebel battling an order he perceives as unjust. The final command with “Sink all coffins and all hearses to one common pool!, dramatizes his rejection of human mortality and meaning. He calls for the destruction of all symbols of orderly death, signaling his desire to obliterate the structures that deny him control. This moment is important not only as the climax of this event but it also culminates many themes that are important to the novel like the self-destruction inherent in obsession and the tragic futility of attempting to impose human meaning onto nature. This passage represents Ahab’s transformation into the embodiment of his own rage; an extraordinary but doomed figure who mistakes defiance for victory as he plunges to his death.

Essay #2: Life or Profit?

Posted on November 14, 2025 by Zoe Olow

Herman Melville’s novel Moby Dick focuses on a very profitable industry during the time of the 1830s, the whaling industry. Melville writes characters that are driven by profit and greed, which can be seen through these capitalistic sailors. He shows that capitalism is a driving force, as one values profit more than the well-being of their fellow sailors. Stubb, in chapter 93, shows his true colors as Pip almost dies while they are in pursuit of a whale. “Stick to the boat, Pip, or by the Lord, I won’t pick you up if you jump; mind that. We can’t afford to lose whales by the likes of you; a whale would sell for 30 times what you would, Pip, in Alabama. Bear in mind, and don’t jump anymore.” Hereby, perhaps Stubb indirectly hinted, that the man loves his fellow, yet man is a moneymaking animal, which propensity too often interferes with his benevolence” (452). Human life is very crucial to the industry, and one needs these men so that they can make their living, but is profit more valuable than each other’s lives? Melville has stated his view on this, as he believes that human connection is valued less than the gain that the sailors will receive within this industry. As these sailors are out for profit from hunting these whales, one sees that they valued what they could receive over the value of human life, as they were surrounded by a world of capitalism.

Whaling was a very profitable industry in the 1830s, which nearly led to the extinction of whales, as they were a large source of material and money that one could get from them. This whole novel is surrounded by this subject, and one can see how the profit that these whales could bring them will lead to greed and maybe not value other aspects of their career. The whaling industry is a very dangerous career as they risk death from many factors, like storms, diseases, tragic accidents, and even the whale attacking them, as they seek them out to kill them. Reading through chapter 93, one can see an instance of an accident like that which proves that these sailors cared more about the pursuit of a whale than the life of one of their comrades. Pip, a young African boy who was also aboard the Pequod with Stubb, had jumped overboard board amisdt hunting down a whale. He had gotten caught in the line, then Tashtego asked Stubb if he could cut him free, as he saw him struggling, and Pip was saved, but they lost the whale. This section truly shows that these men, particularly Stubb, value money more than the life of one of their comrades.

“Stick to the boat, Pip, or by the Lord, I won’t pick you up if you jump; mind that” was the first command Stubb had said to Pip after pulling him back aboard the smaller boat used to spear and pursue the whale. Here, Stubb gives Pip a harsh command and a warning of what he will do next time if he jumps overboard. The whale clearly is the main goal in mind for him, not saving anyone who might go overboard. Stubb’s warning to Pip can be seen as a literal warning and as an existential meaning behind it, as he tells him not to do it again, or else he will be left at sea and no one will come back for him, as they have the whale, which is seen as more important. Stubb’s comment here shows the beginning of what drives them towards capitalism and favoring money over human life.

Stubb’s morality and values are being questioned here by Melville, suggesting that he prioritizes profit over saving a life. “We can’t afford to lose whales by the likes of you” says Stubb, which also shows that Stubb was not willing even to save his life as the whale was seen as more important than he, then says, “a whale would sell for 30 times what you would, Pip, in Alabama. Bear that in mind, and don’t jump anymore.” Stubb had said this, which can be seen as proving that money is what he sought after in his pursuit of the whale and that, as Pip was a young African boy, he could be sold for less than what a whale would get him. This proves that money is what motivates them and exposes their true nature, in this instance, Stubb. He uses the imagery of how much he would get for a whale over what he would get for selling him into slavery, which he says would be “30 times what you would, Pip, in Alabama,” which shows that Pip’s life was not of much value to him compared to what the whale would get him. The whaling industry proves that people who pursued these whales were in it for what they could gain. As they did this, the value of human life versus profit became apparent as they realized the potential gains from this industry.

Man’s value for what they could earn from hunting these whales is more evident when Ishmael says this about what Stubb had said to Pip. “Hereby, perhaps Stubb, indirectly hinted, that the man loves his fellow, yet man is a moneymaking animal, which propensity too often interferes with his benevolence.” Stubb does show some empathy towards Pip as he did save him, but he warns him that he isn’t the priority, as “man is a moneymaking animal” in pursuit of the whale for gain. Melville had even compared humans to animals, as they are even hunting down one that they will then use for profit. “Propensity too often interferes with his benevolence,” Melville writes, showing that they care about each other aboard the Pequod, but then, when money comes into play, it is different. All of the sailors aboard the Pequod had their hearts out for money, and they would do anything for it, which proves that man values profit over their fellow sailors’ lives.

Stubb’s commentary after Pip had fallen overboard shows what Melville believes to be true amongst the sailors. They were consumed/addicted to this industry and what they could receive from it, rather than valuing someone else’s life. Capitalism controlled them while aboard the Pequod, which shows their true nature and values. Money came first in their line of sight, then their comrades’ lives as they traversed the deadly oceans in search of these whales.

Essay 2 – I’d Rather Feel Your Spine

Posted on November 14, 2025 by Rayne Lambert

In Chapter 80 of Moby Dick, Ishmael mocks the 19th-century pseudo-scientific practice of phrenology through a faux-scientific analysis of the whale’s skull that exposes the absurdity of determining intellectual and moral qualities through physical form. Ishmael’s exaggerated attempts to measure the whale’s intellectual qualities through the size and shape of its skull and preference to feel a man’s spine to categorize him, rather than his skull, critique humanity’s misguided attempts to categorize nature’s creations through flawed and doctored systems of knowledge.

Although Moby Dick was written in the 1850s when science was not at its best and pseudo-science was rampant in a pathetic attempt to expand colonization and white superiority, some of the points that Ishmael proposes can easily be understand or dismissed as being common sense. He begins the chapter by stating, “If the Sperm whale be physiologically a Sphinx, to the phrenologist his brain seems that geometrical circle, which is impossible to square” (381). Comparing the whale to a mythological Sphinx does us no good in producing scientific evidence, but throughout the novel, constant mention of ancient Egypt, the Sphinx, and hieroglyphics has symbolized the difficulty in reading a human’s skin, behavior, or mind. Following this quote, the chapter reads, “But in life – as we have elsewhere seen – this inclined plane [the skull] is angularly filled up, and almost squared by the enormous super incumbent mass of the junk and sperm” (381). Almost immediately, Ishmael dismantles the idea that the whale’s brain cannot be “squared”, according to phrenologists, proposing that the scientific evidence and ideas produced by them can easily be debunked. There is difficulty in reading the human brain and his characteristic through his skull, and the easy debunking of Ishmael’s first claim quickly leads into the dismantling of the use of phrenology.

A whale is massive in size, meaning that its brain is much bigger than a human’s as is all of the material built up inside of it, meaning that it is also difficult for us to read the skull and brain with all the tissue surrounding and protecting it. As the chapter continues, Ishmael states, “Lying in strange folds, courses, and convolutions, to their apprehensions, it seems more in keeping with the idea of his general might to regard that mystic part of his as the seat of his intelligence” (381). Here he is contributing to the views of phrenologists; throughout the entire novel, Ishmael is known for stating something and directly contradicting it, and so on and so forth as it progresses. The bulk of the whale’s head, from an outside perspective, shows no expanse of where the brain might sit, if any, creating the idea of a “false brow to the common world” (382), one that depicts the creature as brainless because its brow cannot be read to formulate the size or existence of its brain. Once more, this novel is set in a time where phrenology depicted the characteristics of humans based off of the shape of their skull, and the lack of brains within, producing false scientific evidence that made Europeans morally and physically superior to their black counterparts. Applying this idea to the whale would indicate that, despite its size, skill, intelligence, and danger, it is but a mindless creature, passive and almost idiotic in sense, because we cannot read his skull from his exterior.

Once more, a contradiction comes into play as Ishmael talks down on the pseudo-scientific practice of phrenology by dismissing the investigations through the skull and proposing the evidence be taken from the spine of the whale, or human. He states, “For I believe that much of a man’s character will be found betokened in the backbone, I would rather feel your spine than your skull, whoever you are. A thin joist of a spine never yet upheld a full and noble soul. I rejoice in my spine, as in the firm audacious staff of a flag which I fling half out to the world” (382). The idea that the backbone upholds more of a man’s character represents the part of our body that carries us; yes, our heads and feet assist in the balance of the human body whilst being upright, but the spine is such a vast expanse of bone that connects the head, torso, and lower body that is is arguably of more importance than the reading of the skull. With no backbone, a man is weak; a “spineless” individual has been depicted as a weak or immoral one for centuries, someone who does not have the nerve to speak up, stand out, and defend. Ishmael compares the human spine to the spinal cord of the whale, its size never wavering in comparison to its skull as it tapers down into the tail. It is directly connected to the skull, a path that feeds mobility and strength. The final sentence of the above quote is also symbolic of the strength of men, or the weakness of them. To compare the spine to a flag is representative of the backbone of the country; in a time where scientific evidence is altered for desired results, making white men more superior than black men, these men are ultimately lacking in a backbone. Their flag does not stand upright, it falters and sags, and cannot be thrown out unwavering to the rest of the country. It is reflective of the country’s lack of morals, despite the phrenological evidence that it has more than the “other”.

Ishmael’s mockery of phrenology and pseud-scientific evidence compares the skull and spine of the whale to man, and proposing the dismissal of scientific practices that create falsified evidence. To depict a man’s character through a part of the body that is shrouded by flesh, muscle, and tissue makes it difficult to understand them, and thus can be twisted into creating misconceptions about them. However, to define a man by the part of his body that holds him upright, that, in Ishmael’s eyes, is connected to the noble soul, you can better define a man by his strength, skill, and prowess. With this, all the “evidence” of pseudo-science can be dismissed, for the false brow of the whale hides the true mass of his brain, and the morality of his soul.

Chapter 113- The Forge

Posted on November 10, 2025 by Francisca Chisholm

In chapter 113, we are able to see how Ahab’s obsession has taken over him. It consumes him so much that he turns away from God and does not wish for his blessing but instead wishes for the blessing of the devil. This becomes more clear with the forging of the specialized harpoon and the covering of the weapon in blood from the three pagan harpooners. Melville writes “‘Ego non baptizo te in nomine patris, see in nomine diaboli!’ deliriously howled Ahab, as the malignant iron scorchingly devoured the baptismal blood” (Melville 532). This part really caught my attention especially since it is in Latin. What Ahab is saying here is he baptizes the weapon not in the name of the father but in the name of the devil. We can also see Ahab performing this “satanic” ritual by using the blood from the three pagans. With the baptizing of Ahab’s weapon we can see how his obsession with the whale has corrupted him. His fixation is so intense it calls forth an alliance with evil. The upgraded harpoon is more than a weapon, it is a symbol of Ahab’s madness—his devotion to vengeance. Ahab wishes for chaos and has Perth forge a weapon of death to use for the Great Whale. Instead of using faith to keep the vengeance away, it is being twisted to keep the vengeance near. Another thing I want to add is the whale has been referred to as a mystical and god-like thing a number of times. So, to see Ahab bring up the devil’s name to bless the harpoon shows just how deep his obsession runs. He has to turn to darkness itself to help destroy this divine being. Melville uses this moment to reveal the destruction obsession causes.