But I would invert Melville’s concept. I don’t think you hate the whale. I think you love it. The whale is your unwritten book, your unsung song, your calling as an artist. You die grappling with this thing, lashed to it, battling it even as it takes you under. But your death is not a mortal death. You die instead the artist’s death, which leads to resurrection in a higher, nobler form and recruits you to the next hunt, the next chase, the pursuit of the next Thing You Love. Is there a White Whale out there for you? There is or you wouldn’t be reading this book.
