Enclosed you will find Moby Dick, The Whale by the American writer, Herman Melville. It is an epic tail of a potentially-homosexual upper-class dilettante slumming it on a whaling vessel, exploiting foreign men for sexual encounters while also racially denigrating them at the same time. In other words, a laugh-riot workplace comedy. Oh yeah, there’s also a crazy fucker with a peg leg and a giant goddamn rabid whale roaming the Pacific Ocean.
In other words, there are a bunch of dicks slapping against each other in a great big wet metaphorical vagina. It’s different from Gravity’s Rainbow in that GR takes place on land.
But don’t worry, that’s not all in the book. By not mentioning the part where Mulder and Scully go to the Moon to recover Ayn Rand’s body from the space communists, I’ve spared you the ultimate spoiler.
This is the greatest novel to ever rise out of the foamy sea on this side of the Atlantic—much better than all the pornographic shit that came out in the mid- to late-20th Century. Including the crap by Norman Mailer, William S. Burroughs, and Phillip Roth. Fuck those guys especially.