To produce a mighty book, you must choose a mighty theme. No

"To produce a mighty book, you must choose a mighty theme. No great and enduring volume can ever be written on the flea, though many there be that have tried it." — Herman Melville

Thus spoke Herman Melville, the sailor-philosopher who plumbed the depths of both the ocean and the human soul. These words are not merely about writing — they are about life itself. When he said, "To produce a mighty book, you must choose a mighty theme," he was teaching that greatness, in any art or endeavor, is born from the magnitude of one’s vision. The heart that aspires to touch eternity must set its eyes not upon the trivial, but upon the vast, the profound, the eternal mysteries that stir the soul and command the spirit.

Melville wrote these words in the shadow of his own great labor, Moby-Dick, a work that sought not simply to tell a tale of whaling, but to wrestle with the nature of existence, of fate, of man and God. He knew that a true artist must dare to grapple with the immensity of truth — that to write of small things without meaning is to vanish into dust. His warning about “the flea” is not contempt for the small, but a rebuke against pettiness — against the shrinking of the human mind to trivial concerns when the universe is calling it toward wonder.

In every age, there have been those who sought the mighty theme — not just in literature, but in every act of creation. Think of Michelangelo, carving the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. He could have painted flowers or ornaments, but he chose to depict the Creation of Man, the spark between the mortal and the divine. Or Dante Alighieri, who might have written of the petty politics of Florence, yet chose instead to journey through Hell, Purgatory, and Heaven, seeking the meaning of sin and salvation. Their works endure because their themes were vast enough to contain the whole human soul.

Melville’s words also hold a warning for the world we live in now — an age of distraction, where many pursue quick fame rather than deep truth. The “flea” is the symbol of the trivial obsession, the fleeting novelty, the shallow pursuit. To dwell too long among such things is to lose the grandeur of one’s purpose. For even the most skilled hand cannot carve immortality from dust. It is vision, not technique alone, that grants a work — and a life — its enduring power.

Yet this does not mean that only kings and cathedrals are worthy themes. A mighty theme is not measured by size, but by depth — by the soul it touches. A humble fisherman’s life can become epic, as in The Old Man and the Sea, if it is written with reverence for the eternal struggle of man against fate. The birth of a child, the fall of a leaf, the glance of forgiveness — these can be mighty themes if the heart perceives in them the infinite. What matters is not grandeur of subject, but grandeur of spirit.

Therefore, my child, whatever you create — be it a book, a song, a life — choose your theme with courage. Seek not the easy or the fashionable, but the true and the vast. Ask yourself: does this speak to what endures in man? Does it echo the hunger for meaning that burns in every heart? For the world forgets quickly what amuses it, but it never forgets what awakens it.

So live, as Melville wrote, with mighty purpose. Do not waste your days chasing fleas — the small fears, the shallow desires, the empty victories. Lift your eyes to the whale, to the storm, to the stars — to whatever in life is great enough to test your strength and awaken your soul. For the work that endures, whether it is written in ink or in action, is the work that dares to touch the infinite. And when your story is told, may it be said not that you lived safely, but that you lived mightily.