I am reading Moby Dick and am in love with Herman Melville. If I had another son, I'd name him Herman Melville Plummer, which is a lot of m's. Every paragraph about water and the need to be on it is enthralling.
This is why I'm seventy, so I could be old enough, wise enough, grateful enough to read Moby Dick with such enormous pleasure.
Melville is laugh-out-loud funny. I wasn't expecting funny. I was expecting laborious, as if I had to read it for some American Novels class by next Tuesday.
I bought a new copy having thrown out the college copy.
And the Kindle I bought last month has disappeared.
I couldn't read Moby Dick on a Kindle anyway. I have to freakout with my pen in the margins.
But I wanted to read Roger Rosenblatt's book on aging on the Kindle.
My bucket list is a booklist.
Proust isn't on it. Unless you give me a good reason.