I knew he wouldn’t, being a down-to-the-sea-in-ships type in striped jersey and rubber boots, salt in his hair. At sea too long, a metaphor. Ranted on about his peg-legged captain and his captain’s great white fish, all through dinner.
I’m not about to read the book. Deadly pages on flensing, blubber, and ambergris, I believe, and has the nerve to state right off ". . . nothing particular to interest me on shore." Then set up housekeeping—"no more my splintered heart and maddened hand were turned against the wolfish world." I admit I read a few pages; and wept but am now recovered, thank you. "Queequeg," indeed.
He dreamt I know, and drank, and dreamt to drink again then waxed poetic, called the chief mate "Mr. Starbucks," as though they’d a decent mug.
Says he claimed a coffin—he’d always a taste for coffins—from the wreckage of the mad captain’s ship, and rode it till rescued by a passing schooner. Placed hand on heart and declared himself an orphan. Enough pathetic.
Then wrote his book . . . don’t believe a word. He spent that year at his brother-in-law’s country place and a good part right here in town with me.
Potentially, might be ...