Jennifer Queen

Business Analyst

It was a Satur­day night, and such a Sab­bath as fol­lo­wed! Ex offi­cio pro­fes­sors of Sab­bath brea­king are all wha­le­men. The ivo­ry Pequod was tur­ned into what see­med a shamble; eve­ry sai­lor a but­cher. You would have thought we were offe­ring up ten thou­sand red oxen.

It can­not well be doub­ted, that the one visible qua­li­ty in the aspect of the dead which most appals the gazer, is the marble pal­lor lin­ge­ring there; as if indeed that pal­lor were as much like the badge of conster­na­tion in the other world, as of mor­tal tre­pi­da­tion here.

For the strain constant­ly kept up by the wind­lass conti­nual­ly keeps the whale rol­ling over and over in the water, and as the blub­ber in one strip uni­form­ly peels off along the line cal­led the “scarf,” simul­ta­neous­ly cut by the spades of Star­buck and Stubb, the mates; and just as fast as it is thus pee­led off, and indeed by that very act itself.

The men at the wind­lass then cease hea­ving, and for a moment or two the pro­di­gious blood-drip­ping mass sways to and fro as if let down from the sky, and eve­ry one present must take good heed to dodge it when it swings, else it may box his ears and pitch him again.

Jennifer Queen | Lorens lecertua