Primeiros Críticos

White Whale is a verse novel that works on two levels. There is the fantastical proposition of a whale beached and dying in the middle of a desert, accompanied by its frantic nemesis - the mariner - urging it to live while puttering around it in a small motorised boat. At a deeper level, the story is one of personal realisation and, ultimately of spiritual redemption, enabling a glorious transformation at the conclusion.

Here are a couple of extracts from the book:

. . .

the whale

is tired

weary of the coarse-grains

weary of the coarse-grains

of spiracle-fouling irritation

that hamper

breathing

of the constant crusting

of ever-weeping 

lachrymals

and 

of this dry air

filled with powdered dust

and the sound

of that wretched man

beseeching

as though

it is not 

enough

to have been marooned

so unexpectedly

or to be overtaken

by this

un-fathomable

new 

not-water . . .

From: so many seas (such vast deaths)

. . .

what

is the difference

between the blood

of a whale

and that of a man?

is mammalia

in common

enough

to establish a kinship

bond?

could the one

be poured

into another?

perhaps blood

is the wrong

reference point

maybe

the kinship factor

is shown

in the physical

the flesh

and the bones

skin

and eyes

and fingers and limbs

mother-milk

and warm pulsation

of the heart . . .

From: blood changes (forever)