Call me Ishmael.
It is written. I shall be unto you as the desert to water, as Ahab to natural things in their rightful places---and all these insults and more, as I am a wanderer in the deserts of Genesis 16:12: "And he will be a wild man; his hand will be against every man, and every man's hand against him; and he shall dwell in the presence of all his brothers."
Yes, this is, after all, the Hebrew Bible, yet its rather deserving place at the heart of classical and early modern literature--owing at the very least to its Baconian poetry--cannot be denied. Hence, it is no source of wonder to observe that this paradigm has colored our collective mindset in the West such that from at least Nostradamus to Cormac McCarthy this particular bathetic wave of antagonistic antimatter has ever-jockeyed the dromedary and otherwise personified regression antithetical to modernity.
Surely those scholars among this agglomeration of arid tribes who do bother to come up for air from their automatonic chantings from those 'wholly' insufficient books of theirs are aware of this and, yet, do keep an at least fearful (of their own tribesmen--the women covered like some parakeet's cage) relative silence rather than confront what has become a self-fulfilling prophecy, albeit hardly from any Hebrew prophet.
And, so, the Western apologists continue their tepid, even cowardly ratiocination that this Ishmaelite system of narrow belief is 'peaceful'.
This when all one not taken in by this bathetic charade need do is peruse any reputable media source to discover the conspicuous absence of such self-regulation by these 'peaceful' fellows with their servile parakeets dwelling in vertical shrouds.
As reported more or less regularly and factually by those media sources, the very tribalism which the most familiar actors in the Hebrew Bible, the Hebrews, no longer revel in their twelve tribes save at the occasional 'look at me' Sabbath function.
Rather, these Ishmaelites can't or won't reconcile to the otherwise wise notion of civilized dwelling in a culturally vibrant setting called a nation, an innovation whose origin roughly coincides with their static 'good old days' of a Tribe of tribes run by some dude (never a chick) calling himself Caliph.
And it's not like you can even crack a harmless joke with this mucky-muck, nooo; you're one of these tribal dudes, 'hooray for big C', one day, he pisses you off; so, you happen to mutter 'Who died and made you Caliph?'--whoosh, it's the last wise crack your slit of a mouth's gonna utter, seeing as how there's a much bigger slit where your sassy head's mouth met your neck.
Nostradamus was mentioned earlier--believe him or not he predicted this 'Mohammedan' chaos posing as order, beginning with the Chechins and spreading like the virus it is--yes, a virus, which destroys its hosts (most notably France lately) in order to survive. Indeed, it is a supervirus, inasmuch as it is able to reproduce---what else is there to do with one's parakeet when all about one is the rubble one has 'created'.
And Melville, yes, our very own American outcast who, through the device of an appropriately veiled narrator, brings us Ishmael, that tribesman whose best pal is another tribesman with whom he beds down, yes, Ishmael, adrift on the sea as desert, observing Ahab--with the Hebrew kingly name--contend with a freakish albino monster that more than notably leaves Ishmael as sole survivor. Ahem.
You are, then, left with this serving of nutritional food for further thought: Ahab's been viciously attacked for doing what 'civilization' then demanded--whale oil for its lamps; Ishmael, unable to tolerate 'landsmen', wanders owing to that cold November in his soul, cooly criticizing all 'others' save another tribal type.
By the way, 'landsman' is Yiddish for 'familiar Jew'. Just saying. Hey, I don't blame Herman, he was merely the chronicler, one who knew his Hebrew Bible.