I have long given up trying to nail down what should be called the great American novel. In my opinion, a great story is one that lasts through generations, a story that reveals a struggle within society and forces us to rethink our values. And there are many that fit that bill: To Kill a Mockingbird, Slaughterhouse V, Fahrenheit 451, just to name a few. Other American novels worthy of being called ‘great’ circle back into readership depending on the national conversation. Stephen King’s The Stand witnessed a spike in sales during the pandemic. Philip Dick’s Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep found new life amid the rise of Artificial Intelligence.

But one novel has fallen off the list of greats, and I feel—if for no other reason than my profound love of New England—that we should place it back on our bookshelf of favorites. That book is Herman Melville’s Moby Dick. The premise of the story is already well embedded into our collective psyche—Captain Ahab enlists a crew to help him take revenge on the whale that bit off his leg. Some people even know the opening line— “Call me Ishmael” —or tidbits of knowledge, like where the company Starbucks got its name.

Yet, when I think of Moby Dick, there comes to mind one chapter that is lost in these tangential references. About two-thirds into the plot, the crew of the Pequod kills and decapitates a small sperm whale. To harvest the oil, they must hand-squeeze the emulsified spermaceti from the whale’s head back into a liquid. While doing so, the narrator, Ishmael, inadvertently squeezes a crewman’s hand. It is something so simple, so casual, and inevitable really. We are all guilty of bumping into someone else at work, especially when operating in such tight spaces.

But Ishmael dotes on the encounter, describing it as “such an abounding, affectionate, friendly, loving feeling.” In that moment, while he is elbow-deep in the waxy oil, he conjures a blissful reverie while grasping his crewmate’s hand. He imagines, briefly, that he is not on some dangerous voyage, but far away, living in some “musky meadow” where he forgets “all about [the] horrible oath.”

Yes, the oath, the very premise of the narrative everyone recalls so clearly. That horrible, death-wish of an oath forced upon him and the rest of the crew by Captain Ahab – that arrogant, self-destructive, bitter old man, so volatile and hell-bent on revenge, he once uttered, “I’d strike the sun if it insulted me.”

When I think of Moby Dick, I can’t help but dwell on that brief chapter dubbed “A Squeeze of the Hand” and the nonchalant, blind obedience of the crew, who did so little to steer Ahab away from his course of destruction. There was no mutiny, no vote of no confidence. When there were grumblings of disapproval, those words were disconnected from action. The men aboard the ship—Ishmael included—should have been contributing to their industry, should have been building their economy, not toiling about with one old man’s personal vendetta. But they swore an oath. And that madman’s thirst for retribution became their primary objective, their oath, which remained at the forefront of their minds, even in the quietest of moments.

The story of Moby Dick reveals to the reader how carelessly some people pledge their allegiance to a leader who is incompetent and counterintuitive; a leader whose motives are petty and self-aggrandizing; a leader who lacks empathy, foresight, diplomacy, and reason; a leader who makes his followers swear an oath of loyalty so binding that even as their ship sails into certain and total destruction, those aboard are mute, complacent and caught up in holding hands and daydreaming of some eutopia far away.

For these reasons, Moby Dick rightfully deserves its place on our bookshelves, next to so many other great American works of fiction.