MOBY DICK; OR 
THE WHITE WHALE 
CHAPTER I 
LOOMINGS 
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 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 when- 
ever 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 by 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 on a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from 
Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip, and from thence, by Whitehall, north- 
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