That Inscrutable Thing

When I was an undergraduate English major, my fiancé was scandalized that I had never read Moby-Dick. But it was American, I explained, and I was devoting myself to British authors. He responded, sensibly, that that was beside the point, so I produced another reason, which became a family joke: “Besides, I don’t read animal stories.” (Honesty compels me to confess that at age seven, I did very much like Eric Knight’s Lassie Come‑Home.)

I continued avoiding Moby-Dick for half a century, until I was invited to read a book I felt guilty about shunning. I hadn’t been aware that guilt was involved, but I immediately saw in my mind’s eye the words “MOBY-DICK” in huge letters. It was time to make my long-delayed acquaintance with Herman Melville’s great white whale.

Now that the task is done, I can see I was hedging my bets: rather than buy the novel, I borrowed it from the library. When I announced my plan to friends, two men...