Console Fill

“But the amount of utter trash in the volume is almost infinite — trash of conception­, execution, dialogue and sentiment. Whoever buys the book on the strength of Melville’s reputation­, will be cheating himself of his money, and we believe we shall never see the man who has endured the reading of the whole of it…. Comment upon the [plot] is needless. But even this string of nonsense is equalled by the nonsense that is strung upon it, in the way of crazy sentiment and exaggerate­d passion. What the book means, we know not. To save it from almost utter worthlessn­ess, it must be called a prose poem, and even then, it might be supposed to emanate from a lunatic hospital rather than from the quiet retreats of Berkshire. We say it with grief — it is too bad for Mr. Melville to abuse his really fine talents as he does. A hundred times better if he kept them in a napkin all his natural life.”

“But the amount of utter trash in the volume is almost infinite — trash of conception­, execution, dialogue and sentiment. Whoever buys the book on the strength of Melville’s reputation­, will be cheating himself of his money, and we believe we shall never see the man who has endured the reading of the whole of it…. Comment upon the [plot] is needless. But even this string of nonsense is equalled by the nonsense that is strung upon it, in the way of crazy sentiment and exaggerate­d passion. What the book means, we know not. To save it from almost utter worthlessn­ess, it must be called a prose poem, and even then, it might be supposed to emanate from a lunatic hospital rather than from the quiet retreats of Berkshire. We say it with grief — it is too bad for Mr. Melville to abuse his really fine talents as he does. A hundred times better if he kept them in a napkin all his natural life.”