Moby Dick by Herman Melville
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EnglishVoice Age
Young Adult (18-35)Accents
North American (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
Will Be **** by Herman Melville, Chapter one Loom Ings 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 in voluntarily pausing before coffin warehouses and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet, and especially whenever my hypos gets 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 see a soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol in ball. With a philosophical flourish, Kato throws himself upon his sword. I quietly take to the ship. There's 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 Manhattan. Does belted round by wars is Indian isles by coral reefs. Commerce surrounds it with her surf right and left the streets take you water word. It's extreme. Downtown is the battery where that noble more is washed by waves and cooled by breezes, which is a few hours previous were out of sight of land. Look at the crowds of water geysers there Circum nam bya late the city of a dreamy Sabbath Afternoon go from core leers, hook to quarantines slip and from thence by Whitehall northward. What do you see? Posted like silent sentinels all around the town, stand thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean referees, some leaning against the spy files, some seated upon the pier heads, some looking over the bulwarks of the ships from China, some high aloft in the rigging, as if striving to get a still better seaward peep. But these air all Landesman of weekdays pent up and layer than lather tied to counters nailed to benches clinched to desks. How then is this are the green fields gone. What do they here? But look, here come more crowds pacing straight for the water and seemingly bound for a dive Strange.