Why Would You Call Him Ishmael?

Speaking of Moby Dick, the bad reasoning in the most recent Richard Cohen column is outpaced by the bad morals, and the bad morals are outpaced by the bad writing:

Call him Ishmael.

Call him a terrorist or a suicide bomber or anything else you want, but understand that he is willing — no, anxious — to give his life for his cause. Call him also a captive, and know that he works with others as part of a team, like the Sept. 11 hijackers, all of whom died, willingly. Ishmael is someone I invented, but he is not a far-fetched creation. You and I know he exists, has existed and will exist again. He is the enemy.

Cohen thinks we should torture him. Or, I guess, we shouldn’t torture him but if he just so happens to be tortured then we should applaud the torturer. Or something. But why on earth are we beginning this column with “call me Ishmael”? Because it’s a famous line from a book, I guess? Richard Cohen wants us to know that he’s familiar with very famous books. Or something. Maybe the idea is that the Biblical Ishmael is the ancestor of the Arab people, so he served well as a stand-in for a generic would-be mass murderer? Either way, it’s a reminder that we don’t have merit pay for major newspaper columnists?

For the record, Melville’s wonderful opening paragraph:

Call me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. 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. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.

Read the whole thing!