I need to stop buying books till I finishing the one I am on. I've been slowly enveloping myself in the whale of a book that is Moby Dick. It is a good read, but reading it is like eating rich chocolate truffles. Hundreds of them. You can only take so much richness before you have to stop. You take his typical three page chapter, where one sentence lasts a page and a half, beginning with the anatomy of a whale's eyeball and ending with a treatise on the nature of humanity, and after a few of those you're done for the day.

It takes a while to get into this book, but now that I'm in chapter 107, I'm fully inthralled in this ocean chase. I know more about whales than I ever would have thought even possible. The thing is, it is simply not possible to rush to the end of the book. You simply can't push through one or two more chapters before you go to bed. No! Melville will have none of that! Just when you think that there is nothing more that he can ramble off on, he finds one more thing. And it is always that one thing that you have briefly thought about but decided it really wasn't that important. It's like in Ghostbusters, where you are not supposed to think any thoughts, or they will come to life. I find myself thinking about a whale's bone structure, and lo and behold, he writes two chapters on it, with double the treatise-fun. I'm trying not to think about anything to do with the book so that they can finally get around to the whole "there she blows, the white whale" bit.

I think the big joke is that the book itself is actually Moby Dick, and by the end of it, you really want to kill that white terror, because otherwise it will kill you with it's vicious jaws of intellectualism. I must kill it, so that I can lower my brows back down.