Reading Moby Dick is like a sea voyage: there are times of action, mayhem, and madness--and there are times of stoic silence, brooding dark thoughts, and mystic contemplation. There are times when the book reads more like a science textbook than an action adventure--and for those of you who are only in life for the adventure, you best put the book down; otherwise, it will drain you of your energy that you need for your misplaced pursuits.
In short: if you can't deal with these chapters of descriptions of whales, reflections on artists who draw whales, or the eating habits of Right Whales, then you will certainly leave this booked exhausted, drained, and bewildered...
If you actually man up and give a damn you will discover that part and parcel of the greatness of this novel is in the level of detail, the painstaking attention to precise vocabulary amidst wordy, drawn-out sentences--all of which act like the gears in an old Swiss watch wherein the perfection lies in the complexity--the reality that every gear is dependent on another, and that the perfection of the watch lies in its complexity.
And so to extend the metaphor a bit further: Moby Dick will give you a perfect time--if you accept and embrace the complexity.