Мобі Дік

The Chapel

           ButFaith,likeajackal,feedsamongthetombs,andevenfromthesedeaddoubtsshegathershermostvitalhope.

           Itneedsscarcelytobetold,withwhatfeelings,ontheeveofaNantucketvoyage,Iregardedthosemarbletablets,andbythemurkylightofthatdarkened,dolefuldayreadthefateofthewhalemenwhohadgonebeforeme.Yes,Ishmael,thesamefatemaybethine.ButsomehowIgrewmerryagain.Delightfulinducementstoembark,finechanceforpromotion,itseems—aye,astoveboatwillmakemeanimmortalbybrevet.Yes,thereisdeathinthisbusinessofwhaling—aspeechlesslyquickchaoticbundlingofamanintoEternity.Butwhatthen?MethinkswehavehugelymistakenthismatterofLifeandDeath.Methinksthatwhattheycallmyshadowhereonearthismytruesubstance.Methinksthatinlookingatthingsspiritual,wearetoomuchlikeoystersobservingthesunthroughthewater,andthinkingthatthickwaterthethinnestofair.Methinksmybodyisbuttheleesofmybetterbeing.Infacttakemybodywhowill,takeitIsay,itisnotme.AndthereforethreecheersforNantucket;andcomeastoveboatandstovebodywhentheywill,forstavemysoul,Jovehimselfcannot.

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