Battle of the Classics: Moby Dick vs. Ragged Dick
It’s probably not fair to classic literature that word meanings change over time. Nobody laughed when Moby Dick by Herman Melville or Ragged Dick by Horatio Alger, Jr. came out. I mean, I wasn’t around back then, but I’m pretty sure people didn’t laugh.
It’s not that people were more sophisticated in the 1800s. It’s just that Dick was only a name back then. I’m also pretty sure if “dick” had meant back then what it means right now, people would have laughed. Nowadays, if you want your book to be taken seriously, you don’t put “Dick” in the title.
I’m not the kind of guy who compares Dicks very often, but I’ll do it for the sake of literature. Moby Dick was published in 1851 and was supposedly a commercial failure when it came out. Ragged Dick was published in 1868 and was a bestseller. Moby Dick is a whale, so he’s a lot bigger than Ragged, who was just a kid. Moby is injured at the end of his book (It’s not a SPOILER if the book has been around for over 150 years). Ragged Dick thrives at the end of his book and is a success story. Because of his good deeds in the book, Ragged Dick attracts a lot of attention. Because he’s so big in the book, Moby Dick attracts a lot of attention.
As far as literary reputation goes, Moby Dick wins. Everybody knows who/what Moby Dick is. Even people who don’t read know about Moby Dick. Nowadays, hardly anybody knows about Ragged Dick, and that’s too bad because Ragged is an American success story, and the world can always use more American success stories.
Most people today have never even heard of Ragged Dick. I have no real evidence of that except my own experiences. Maybe I’m the only person in the United States who has friends and acquaintances who have never heard of Ragged Dick. Whenever I mention Ragged Dick, my friends and acquaintances think I’m making it up. For a few days, I even walked around with a copy of Ragged Dick just to prove to everybody that I wasn’t making it up. I don’t know why people thought I was lying. I’m not the kind of person who makes up fake book titles with the name Dick in them.
Maybe it’s immature to laugh at “dick,” but it’s that immaturity which still makes Moby Dick relevant. The only reason everybody knows the title Moby Dick is because of the name Dick. If Moby Dick had been titled Moby Bruce or Moby James or Moby Bob, the average person wouldn’t know about it. Sure, the intellectuals and scholars would still read Moby Dick and talk about the deep themes and rich symbolism, but it would be the equivalent of Anna Karenina to the average non-book reader.
Ragged Dick’s advantage over Moby Dick is that Ragged Dick has six books in his series. If you’re going to write a series about a guy named Dick, six is the right number. Six is average. Any more than six, and the author is probably exaggerating. Moby Dick is only one book. Maybe Moby Dick can brag that it’s so great that it needs only one book.
Ragged Dick was even turned into a musical, but most people don’t know about that either. Unfortunately, the musical was called Shine, completely ignoring the most noteworthy part of the book. If screenwriters truly wanted this project to succeed, they would have kept Dick in the title. Even if nobody wanted to see Ragged Dick: the Musical, they would at least talk about the title. Whenever Moby Dick is turned into a musical, it’s always called Moby Dick.
More Americans should know about Ragged Dick. It’s a travesty that Ragged Dick has been forgotten by the masses. After all, the character Ragged Dick WAS one of the masses and pulled himself up (with lots of help). He should be an inspiration. Everybody should aspire to be a Ragged Dick. If not, we can at least laugh at the title.
What do you think? Does Ragged Dick get the attention it deserves? Is Moby Dick overrated? What other old book titles get mocked today?
Maybe I should have called my latest story Nice Dick, but instead, it’s titled Nice Things.
Just in case you haven’t checked it out yet, here’s an excerpt from Nice Things, now available on the Amazon kindle:
I met my wife in a bookstore in 1995. It was a Saturday night, I was in my late 20s, and I had no social life, so I was hanging out at the book store. I noticed this cute dark-haired girl in the magazine section by the entrance. We made brief eye contact, and I tried to smile because she had busted me checking her out, but she looked down, so I hightailed it out of the store. I felt embarrassed. I always hated getting caught checking out women. It’s a natural thing for a guy to do, but I always felt creepy whenever I got caught.
Figuring the cute dark-haired girl would leave the book store soon, I hung out at a nearby music shop (this was back when people still bought CDs in stores). I browsed through recent releases and found myself in the reggae/ska section, hoping that something new would be there. Once when I looked up, I saw the dark-haired girl gazing straight at me, and then she turned and walked to the opposite side of the store to the R&B section before I could look away first. If I had known ahead of time that she was looking at me, I would have been prepared to look away first. That was the second time in a row she had looked away first.
Since I had already spotted her in the music shop, I decided it was safe to return to the book store. Once there, I picked out the new Tom Clancy book and soon found myself standing in line next to the dark-haired girl, holding a Toni Morrison novel. Since I knew what book she was buying, I glanced at how she looked in her jeans, and of course that’s when she noticed me.
I made sure to maintain eye contact. “I promise I’m not stalking you,” I said.
“You don’t look like the type who listens to ska,” she said.
I was wearing a plain brown sweater and nondescript jeans. “I used to dress like I listened to ska, back in college.” Then I said, “You like ska?”
“No,” she said. “I was just making an observation.”
“I would say that you looked like the type of person who reads Toni Morrison books,” I said. “But I’m not sure what that would mean.”
The dark-haired girl hit me on the shoulder with the book. I wasn’t sure what that meant either, but she smiled when she did it, and she didn’t lecture me, so I took it as a good sign.
“You know what goes good with a book?” she finally said, pointing in the direction of the parlor at the end of the plaza. “Ice cream.”
“In this weather?” I said, then mentally kicked myself. “I mean, I feel like ice cream too. Maybe I’ll see you there.”
I wondered if she’d actually go to the ice cream parlor. As I watched her pay for her book, I thought she’d just drive off while I was still at the register. This was her chance to make her getaway. I even took my time paying, just to give her a chance to leave without me having any chance of accidentally catching up with her. I fumbled with my wallet, made lame small talk with the cashier, and counted out exact change slowly. I’m sure I pissed off the people behind me. The only thing I didn’t do was pull out a check book.
I was mildly surprised when the dark-haired girl was sitting in a booth at the ice cream place. Meeting a stranger at a predetermined location was almost as bad as getting a stranger’s phone number. Most phone numbers I got from strangers (usually women) were for pizza places. If the pizza place was close to where I lived, I would order a supreme instead of hanging up. After all, why should I punish a pizza place by hanging up just because a woman used it for her fake phone number?
“What a coincidence,” I said, standing in front of the dark-haired girl at the booth.
What happens next? Find out by reading Nice Things.