If I finish Moby Dick by tomorrow at 11am, I am going to take myself out to dinner or something. Seriously. This book is so long, and I feel like I’m wading through a thigh-high flood of whale blubber, with a little plot mixed in for thickness.
It’s ridiculous. Truly.
I really have enjoyed most of this book [though my teacher doesn’t believe me]. I’ve had some good times reading [though only certain chapters]. I’ve found some really good, meaningful passages [but some really useless ones, too]. All in all, this book is a great example of writing [or how not to write a book in order to keep your audience awake].
But in all seriousness, I have enjoyed the majoring of The Great Whale Book.
But it’s long.
Which means it’s really hard to finish on time.
Which means that I seriously need to get cracking, or else I might drown in this load of blubber. I will get hopelessly tangled in the tackles and ropes of the ship I’m clinging desperately to. I will be mauled by the very Whale that I’m trying to slay, the very prey that I am hunting so desperately.
This raft I’m clinging to? It’s sinking fast, and the only thing I can do is pray hard and read hard and hope that the ship doesn’t go down with me still in it.
All those metaphors to say; I have to go finish my book.