I've decided to celebrate this milestone Independence Day by re-reading Moby Dick, almost 50 years after it was assigned to me in college. (Honestly, though, the "re-" is doing a lot of work in that sentence; I only remembered about four words: "Ishmael," "Ahab," "Pequod," and "Whale").

I have the 150th Anniversary Penguin edition, for which the forward was penned by Nathaniel Philbrick, whose bestseller, In The Heart of the Sea: The Tragedy of the Whale Ship Essex won the 2000 National Book Award. The fate of the Essex was Melville's clay for the ending of his immortal tale.

Many consider Moby Dick to be the great American novel, and so far, I'm not arguing. Published in 1851, it feels like it could have been written last week. The language is wondrous, strikingly modern, and Melville's descriptive powers are endlessly astonishing. I am an enormous fan of Patrick O'Brian's Aubrey/Maturin series as well, so life on board the Pequod has a wonderful familiarity to it, and Ishmael is the best and most companionable of shipmates, although I'm beginning to get the feeling that trouble may lie ahead.