I am now reading the final four chapters of Melville’s mad satanic epic “Moby Dick.” For the first and last time, likely. Every sentence is insane. It makes no sense when read on its own. Every sentence should is an epic poem unto itself and may be deeply plumbed. Strung together in this endless braiding of almost Old Testament language and syntax with an absolutely modern subject - then, the apex of Oil Industry and its impact of America and the world - combined with the book psychic historic place between the idea of the whale as a symbol, the whale as a subject of the Old Testament, and sublime terrors, and myths, and legends, and the whale as inexhaustible mercantile object to be exploited by man, and the intuition that the whale was being murdered into oblivion: These things combined with a crazy completionest Encyclopedic obsession to write everything that can be written on the Whale; with much of that almost unreadable - all this makes Moby Dick stand alone. I am loving it b...