Call me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long —having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.
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Call me Ishmael. Some years ago — never mind exactly how long — with little or no money and nothing much to interest me on shore, I decided to sail a little and see the watery part of the world. It's how I drive off gloom and get the blood moving. Whenever I get grim; whenever it's a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I catch myself stopping outside coffin shops and trailing every funeral; and especially when my low moods get such a grip that only a strong moral effort stops me from knocking people's hats off in the street — then I reckon it's time to get to sea.