In their defense, Moby Dick is a terrible waste of your reading time. I drug mine back out last year for the first time in decades and, good lord, did it eat my brain. It's before we'd figured out how novels work, so is a weird comination travelogue and encyclopedia that, oh yeah, has something happen near the end. Nice sermons, and to a modern reader, Ishmael and Queequeg cuddling in bed together is FAR less innocent than I remembered, but, Noble Savage Template and all that.
Then again, I followed it up with Utopia, after which I longer for the pulse-pounding action of Moby.
(Going through the classics, as it's been decades, I find all kinds of things I missed before. Heck, I'd totally forgotten that there are several chapters in Robinson Curosoe after he leaves the island. And a set-up for a sequel!)