Call me Megan. Some very vague time ago, having little to no time left to finish my degree, and nothing particular to interest me in any other class, I thought I would enroll in a class that required me to embark on the nautical quest that is Moby Dick. It is a way I have of driving off the temptations to read terrible teen fiction, and regulating my thirst to read literature that actually matters. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the readings; whenever Moby Dick causes a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily falling asleep in between pages, and bringing up the rear of every chapter with a confused expression upon my face; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately flushing each and every page of the book down the toilet, and methodically knocking my classmates hats off –then, I account it high time to Google chapter summaries before I re-read it again. This is my substitute for not hating everyone who understands each paragraph at first read-through. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly surf the Internet for chapter summaries. There is nothing surprising in this. If my classmates but knew it, almost all of them have probably done it at some time or other; cherish very nearly the same feelings towards Googling chapter summaries as me.