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Call Me Ishmael

Oh, sometimes I am so funny that I make myself laugh out loud.  Not lol, but laugh out loud.

Humour, being at the expense of others (uh-oh, I see U in humour… what does that make me?!), in this case makes me sad too. How many people (okay, English speaking people) would know what this means? The Ishmael part, not Call me, maybe.

It is so easily possible to learn so much in these times (look at all of us clever people, figuring out how to use the Internet), just Google and go… but go where? To download Moby Dick? To the library to borrow a copy for three weeks, that will turn into 12 weeks because Herman Melville didn’t have tv and hand nothing to do for weeks on end in the winter and just kept writing and writing and writing? Or will we just go on with out lives, some tucking that new scrap of info into a mental folder with so many others, a folder labelled “I am smart because I know who Ishmael was”?

I was 2/3rds through the ridiculously giant copy I brought with me to China when I gave the book away to a new Chinese friend who admired it. He had tears in his eyes when I gave it to him. (I realize now those tears were probably because he felt burdened with this giant monster of a book that would be near impossible for him to read … at that time, anyway.)  So how did the book end?

Maybe Post-a-Day should consider the *last* line of a book, not the first one.

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