"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."
"Yes, the month of November is so depressing that our protagonist turns it into a metaphor for the lowest point of his life, the time when he finds himself yearning for either the sweet release of death, or a years-long voyage cramped on a New Bedford whaler. That's how much November sucks."
"Did Ishmael hate November because there was no more baseball? Because he could no longer take the ferry over to Hoboken and catch a few innings between the Knickerbockers and the Gotham Club? He doesn't say so outright, but the subtext is undeniable. An existence without baseball is a dark one."
Ishmael describes recurring, soul-deep melancholy as a 'damp, drizzly November' that triggers morbid thoughts and ritualized behaviors like lingering at funerals and contemplating mischief or self-harm. He adopts seafaring as a deliberate remedy, choosing a voyage as a self-preserving alternative to suicide. A contrast emerges between theatrical suicide and quiet escape to the ship. November's gloom is portrayed as intensified by an absence of leisure like baseball, and the long offseason and 143-day wait until the next Red Sox game underscore a seasonal void that deepens the yearning for the sea.
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