If there is such a thing as “The Great American Novel,” I would identify it as Herman Melville’s Moby-Dick; or, The Whale (1851). There are numerous other candidates, but Melville’s is the only one I bothered to read three times. And I am still interested in reading it again (and again).

One would think that if the man wrote the greatest American novel his other works would be right up there in terms of their literary quality. Yet the man who wrote Moby-Dick also gave us such clinkers as Mardi; and a Voyage Thither (1849) with its vapid philosophizing and The Confidence-Man (1857) with its bland conning of the reader.

Mind you, Melville wrote some other real gems, among which I include his novelettes “Bartleby the Scrivener” (1853), “The Encantadas” (1854), “Benito Cereno” (1855), and “Billy Budd, Sailor” (published posthumously).

I am by no means finished reading Melville. I hope to tackle Pierre, or the Ambiguities; Redburn, His First Voyage; and Israel Potter. I may also dip into his long poem “Clarel,” but have no high hopes.