Moby-Dick. Chapter 1. First USA version

      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 involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and

bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever

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

downtown 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 of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from

Corlears Hook to Coenties 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 reveries.

 

        Moby-Dick. Chapter 1. First England version

      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 involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the

rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever 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 downtown

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 of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from

Corlears Hook to Coenties 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 reveries.