- description
- # CHAPTER 37. Sunset.
## Overview
"CHAPTER 37. Sunset." is a section of text extracted from the novel *Moby Dick* by Herman Melville. This section, spanning lines 6900-6948 of the source file, is titled "CHAPTER 37. Sunset." and describes a scene with Captain Ahab.
## Context
This section is part of [BOOK III. (_Duodecimo_), CHAPTER III. (_Mealy-mouthed Porpoise_)](arke:01KG8AK83BA227D6NY5BT040FM) within the larger work *Moby Dick*. It was extracted from the digital text file [moby_dick.txt](arke:01KG89J198KE6FY8WPVJQQRCZ6), which is held in the [Melville Complete Works](arke:01KG89HMDZKNY753EZE1CJ8HZW) collection. It follows the section [CHAPTER 36. The Quarter-Deck.](arke:01KG8AM6RFYHFJY2G9HNFMZJMM) and precedes [CHAPTER 38. Dusk.](arke:01KG8AM6RT5XGQV9SZ622H48RM).
## Contents
The section depicts Captain Ahab alone in his cabin, gazing out of the stern windows as the sun sets. His soliloquy reveals his tormented state, reflecting on his past, his current suffering, and his unyielding resolve. He describes his "turbid wake" and the "envious billows," contrasting the beauty of the sunset with his inner anguish. Ahab speaks of the "Iron Crown of Lombardy" as a metaphor for his heavy burden and his maddened determination. He acknowledges that others, like Starbuck, perceive him as mad, but asserts his "demoniac" nature and his fixed purpose to dismember his "dismemberer," the white whale. The text emphasizes his unwavering path, laid with "iron rails," towards his goal.
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- 2026-01-30T20:51:00.189Z
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- description_title
- CHAPTER 37. Sunset.
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- 6948
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- 2026-01-30T20:48:29.272Z
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- 6900
- text
- CHAPTER 37. Sunset.
_The cabin; by the stern windows; Ahab sitting alone, and gazing out_.
I leave a white and turbid wake; pale waters, paler cheeks, where’er I
sail. The envious billows sidelong swell to whelm my track; let them;
but first I pass.
Yonder, by ever-brimming goblet’s rim, the warm waves blush like wine.
The gold brow plumbs the blue. The diver sun—slow dived from noon—goes
down; my soul mounts up! she wearies with her endless hill. Is, then,
the crown too heavy that I wear? this Iron Crown of Lombardy. Yet is it
bright with many a gem; I the wearer, see not its far flashings; but
darkly feel that I wear that, that dazzlingly confounds. ’Tis iron—that
I know—not gold. ’Tis split, too—that I feel; the jagged edge galls me
so, my brain seems to beat against the solid metal; aye, steel skull,
mine; the sort that needs no helmet in the most brain-battering fight!
Dry heat upon my brow? Oh! time was, when as the sunrise nobly spurred
me, so the sunset soothed. No more. This lovely light, it lights not
me; all loveliness is anguish to me, since I can ne’er enjoy. Gifted
with the high perception, I lack the low, enjoying power; damned, most
subtly and most malignantly! damned in the midst of Paradise! Good
night—good night! (_waving his hand, he moves from the window_.)
’Twas not so hard a task. I thought to find one stubborn, at the least;
but my one cogged circle fits into all their various wheels, and they
revolve. Or, if you will, like so many ant-hills of powder, they all
stand before me; and I their match. Oh, hard! that to fire others, the
match itself must needs be wasting! What I’ve dared, I’ve willed; and
what I’ve willed, I’ll do! They think me mad—Starbuck does; but I’m
demoniac, I am madness maddened! That wild madness that’s only calm to
comprehend itself! The prophecy was that I should be dismembered;
and—Aye! I lost this leg. I now prophesy that I will dismember my
dismemberer. Now, then, be the prophet and the fulfiller one. That’s
more than ye, ye great gods, ever were. I laugh and hoot at ye, ye
cricket-players, ye pugilists, ye deaf Burkes and blinded Bendigoes! I
will not say as schoolboys do to bullies—Take some one of your own
size; don’t pommel _me!_ No, ye’ve knocked me down, and I am up again;
but _ye_ have run and hidden. Come forth from behind your cotton bags!
I have no long gun to reach ye. Come, Ahab’s compliments to ye; come
and see if ye can swerve me. Swerve me? ye cannot swerve me, else ye
swerve yourselves! man has ye there. Swerve me? The path to my fixed
purpose is laid with iron rails, whereon my soul is grooved to run.
Over unsounded gorges, through the rifled hearts of mountains, under
torrents’ beds, unerringly I rush! Naught’s an obstacle, naught’s an
angle to the iron way!
- title
- CHAPTER 37. Sunset.