During WW2 the Japanese broke the Geneva Convention in their treatment of Allied prisoners, inflicting terrible torture on their captives. But i'll say one thing for the Japs: they never stumbled on the idea of reading Moby Dick to the helpless soldiers, or they did but realised that this would be appalling, even by their standards.

This novel is, frankly, the most boring and enraging piece of literature i have ever read. And i've read On The Road by Jack Kerouac, but i'll save that for another time.
One-hundred and thirty-five chapters long, and the crew of the ship doesn't even encounter the eponymous beast until chapter 133, by which time the brave reader has waded through an exhaustive (and i use that word in every sense) account of whales in ever aspect of their being. BLOODY HELL. Why on Earth do i need to know about the anatomy of whales, their skeletal structure, behavioural habits, representation throughout history and art and THE TYPE OF FUCKING ROPE USED ON WHALING SHIPS? Yes, i understand that it's an alagory but for fuck's sake, why do i need to know all that shit??
I know what you're thinking - why did you read until the end if it was so boring that you wanted to scoop your eyeballs out with spoons? Well i have principles. Principles which say that i can't pass judgement on a work of art until i have experience it in full. And principles which say that, since i paid NZ$12 for it in Auckland, i'm bloody well going to finish the bastard. I apologise for not being more descriptive of the novel itself; i fear that if i recount the book too much it will continue boring the arse off me from beyond the read-books grave.

During WW2 the Japanese broke the Geneva Convention in their treatment of Allied prisoners, inflicting terrible torture on their captives. But i'll say one thing for the Japs: they never stumbled on the idea of reading Moby Dick to the helpless soldiers, or they did but realised that this would be appalling, even by their standards.

This novel is, frankly, the most boring and enraging piece of literature i have ever read. And i've read On The Road by Jack Kerouac, but i'll save that for another time.
One-hundred and thirty-five chapters long, and the crew of the ship doesn't even encounter the eponymous beast until chapter 133, by which time the brave reader has waded through an exhaustive (and i use that word in every sense) account of whales in ever aspect of their being. BLOODY HELL. Why on Earth do i need to know about the anatomy of whales, their skeletal structure, behavioural habits, representation throughout history and art and THE TYPE OF FUCKING ROPE USED ON WHALING SHIPS? Yes, i understand that it's an alagory but for fuck's sake, why do i need to know all that shit??
I know what you're thinking - why did you read until the end if it was so boring that you wanted to scoop your eyeballs out with spoons? Well i have principles. Principles which say that i can't pass judgement on a work of art until i have experience it in full. And principles which say that, since i paid NZ$12 for it in Auckland, i'm bloody well going to finish the bastard. I apologise for not being more descriptive of the novel itself; i fear that if i recount the book too much it will continue boring the arse off me from beyond the read-books grave.