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Chapter 69. The funeral. Hall in the chains, let the carcass go a stern. The vast tackles

have now done their duty. The peeled white body of the beheaded whale flashes like a marble

s uplicker. Though changed in hue, it has not perceptibly lost anything in bulk. It

is still colossal. Slowly it floats more and more away, the water rounded torn and slashed

by the insatiate sharks, and the air above vexed with flights of screaming fowls, whose

beaks are like so many insulating poignards in the whale. The vast white headless phantom

floats further and further from the ship, and every rod that it so floats, what seems

square roots of sharks and cubic roots of fowls augment the murderous din. For hours and

hours from the almost stationary ship, that hideous sight is seen. Beneath the unclouded

and mild, desour sky, upon the fair face of the pleasant sea, wafted by the joys breezes,

that great mass of death floats on and on, till lost in infinite perspectives.

The sea is most doleful and most mocking funeral. The sea vultures, all in pious mourning,

the air sharks all punctiliously in black or speckled. In life, but few of them would

have helped the whale, I wean, if per adventure he had needed it. But upon the banquet of his

funeral, they most piously do pounds. A horrible vulturism of earth, from which not the

mightiest whale is free. Nor is this the end. Descrated as the body is, a vengeful ghost

...