This modern translation is available on Kindle, iBooks, and B&N Press, and a DRM-free epub file be purchased direct through the button above through PayPal for $3.

This project was born out of a curiosity if AI could make ‘Moby Dick’ readable to a modern audience, without losing the impact.  While there will be disagreements, and I hope there are because then people are reading this, it cannot be ignored that ‘Moby Dick’ is inaccessible to readers not versed in the vernacular of the times.  

This is the first paragraph as Melville wrote it: 

Call me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—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 watery 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. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.

This is how ChatGPT brought it to life without losing the meaning or the wit:

Call me Ishmael.  A few years ago, I didn't have much money and nothing interesting to do on land, so I thought I would travel and see the watery part of the world. It helps me feel better and get my circulation going. Whenever I start feeling depressed or unhappy, or whenever it feels like a gloomy November in my soul, or whenever I find myself stopping in front of coffin warehouses or following funerals, or especially whenever I feel like I want to go out and knock people's hats off, I think it's time for me to go to sea. It's my way of coping without a gun. With a philosophical flourish, Cato killed himself with his sword, but I just quietly go on a trip. It's not surprising that many other people feel the same way about the ocean as I do.

In December 2019, I experience the A.R.T. production of ‘Moby Dick’ the musical at the Loeb theatre in Cambridge, Massachusetts.  The sparse set looked like the inside hull of a ship, with a white bust of the author on center stage.  Like the book, this musical is a mash-up of genres, starting as a flashback, inviting audience members on stage to take part in Stubb’s hunt, to Fedallah revealing himself as a politically charged black man, calling out the woeness of the casting and racism of the text in a stand-up monolog.  Ethereal puppets swam across the stage and the dissection of the whale was portrayed as a cooking show.  

I tried and failed to read the book soon after, before the terrible year of 2020.  Guiding ChatGPT through this translation finally allowed me to experience the power of Melville’s words and I hope sharing this allows you to feel the same way.