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CHAPTER 1 Loomings. Call me Ishmael. Some
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shore, I thought I would sail about a little
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me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking

to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish

There is nothing surprising in this. If they

in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean

round by wharves as Indian isles by coral reefs--commerce

you waterward. Its extreme downtown is the battery, where that noble mole is washed by waves, and cooled by

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breezes, which a few
hours previous were out of sight of

land. Look at the crowds of water-gazers there. Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Corlears Hook to Coenties

and from thence, by Whitehall, northward.

all around the town, stand thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries. Some leaning against the

spiles; some seated upon the pier-heads; some looking

aloft in the rigging, as if striving to get a still better seaward peep. But these are all landsmen; of week days

lee of yonder warehouses
will not suffice. No.

They must get just as nigh the water as they possibly can without falling in. And there they stand--miles of them--leagues.

Once more.


College Footballyou are in the country; in some high land of lakes. Take almost any path you please, and ten to

you down in

a dale, and

Arts & Leisureleaves you there by a pool in the

stream. There is

Classic Thomas L. Friedman
be in all that region. Should
you ever be athirst in the great American
desert, try this experiment, if your caravan happen
to be supplied with a metaphysical professor.
Yes, as every one knows, meditation and water
are wedded for ever. But here is
an artist. He desires to paint you the dreamiest, shadiest, quietest,
most enchanting bit

of romantic landscape in
What is the chief element he employs? There stand his trees,

each with a hollow trunk, as if a hermit and a crucifix were within; and here sleeps his meadow,

hill-side blue. But though the picture lies

thus tranced, and though this pine-tree shakes down its sighs like leaves upon this

fixed upon the magic stream before him. Go visit the Prairies in June, when for scores on scores of miles you wade knee-deep

is not a drop of
water there! Were Niagara
but a cataract
of sand, would you travel
poor poet of Tennessee, upon
suddenly receiving two handfuls
of silver, deliberate
or invest his money in a
almost every robust

healthy boy with a robust healthy soul in him, at some time or other crazy

story of Narcissus, who because he could not grasp the tormenting, mild image he


in the

fountain, plunged into


it and


was drowned.


Look at Me, Look at Me. <em>Please</em> Look at Me.
that same image, we ourselves see in all rivers and oceans.
Turning Away: Rich Responds to Readers
It is the image of
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the ungraspable phantom of life; and this
Banksy, an Artist Without a Face
is the key to it all.
Riding Their Own Two Feet
Now, when I say


the delusion that it was a choice resulting from my own unbiased freewill and