Chapter 1. Loomings

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

......
全部内容，请购买此书。