Redburn

My closest friends will be familiar with my love of Herman Melville. Alas, I am among those sentimental landlubbers who—far from shore—delight in the exploits of daring sailors and adventurers. Like the titular Wellingborough Redburn, I too have long dreamed of adventure while resting content in warm libraries and comfortable books. But, unlike the protagonist of this novel, I have never been brave—or foolish—enough to embark. And I never will—I will not pretend.

Aside from his poetry, I had only ever read Moby-Dick, which has nevertheless exerted a lasting influence on my mind and soul. Melville’s magnum opus has long exerted a sort of insane influence over my mind. It was quite the endeavor to read, serving as my own “White Whale,” until I finally managed to conquer it a few years ago. I first acquired a copy and began reading when I was in high school. I would carry the book around with me every day, hoping by that to spur myself into action. I would pick it up, read a few chapters, and then suddenly grow exhausted; this would continue for months, with little progress. I distinctly remember carrying my copy, one day, when I was having a conversation with my school crush. She inquired about my literary aptitude, whereupon I produced the tome. I had not even made it aboard The Pequod—though I had been reading for a month, on and off—and yet by its very invocation I felt myself glowing with intellectuality. As I pulled it from my bag, stroking the pixelated Wordsworth Classics cover, I explained its lasting influence on my psyche. Her face went blank, and she muttered some tepid response. She had never heard of it. Suffice it to say, the crush was one-sided.

I eventually did finish it in a spurt. I was not exactly a literary child, although I spent a great deal of time scribbling words on pages to no end. I was like Ignatius Reilly in A Confederacy of Dunces, although I used OneNote and Microsoft Word instead of ‘Big Chief Tablets’ to exhaust my intrepid imagination and satisfy my valve. I never actually devoted myself to reading until university, when books became an escape from an otherwise exhausting social life. I could retreat into a book for a few hours, hiding away in some grove on campus and peeling away pages. It was at this time that I finally picked up Moby-Dick again, and read it. Ever since then, it is one of few books which constantly call to me—forcing me to return, again and again.

This year, I received the call again. Instead of picking up my old book, I decided that it was time to finally explore the other works of my personal siren Herman. I own a collection of his works published by Library of America, and this was the first book in the volume containing Moby-Dick. I decided to begin there.

Finally the weather was growing nicer, owing to the onset of summer. The days were warm and the sun was shining, such that I might finally sit out and read with full delight and concentration. I read it mostly on my breaks, out on a terrace slumped against the back of a concrete wall in the shade that fell across it at that time of day.

Young Redburn disembarked the shores of New York with such high hopes of adventure—and yet was met by simple boredom, enmity, scorn, and fraud. Characteristically, the story is filled with a colorful cast of characters and experiences born from the author’s own vibrant life. Upon its completion, I resolved to continue through Melville’s other books before once again attempting to spear my white whale Moby-Dick.