Thursday, June 11, 2015

From Moby-Dick

Herman Melville knew snug . From Moby-Dick (1851):

Nothing exists in itself. If you flatter yourself that you are all over comfortable, and have been so a long time, then you cannot be said to be comfortable any more. But if, like Queequeg and me in the bed, the tip of your nose or the crown of your head be slightly chilled, why then, indeed, in the general consciousness you feel most delightfully and unmistakably warm. For this reason a sleeping apartment should never be furnished with a fire, which is one of the luxurious discomforts of the rich. For the height of this sort of deliciousness is to have nothing but the blanket between you and your snugness and the cold of the outer air. Then there you lie like the one warm spark in the heart of an arctic crystal.
[Impossible to dispatch this novel in one two-hour class meeting and maintain intellectual integrity.]

comments: 4

Fresca said...

"the luxurious discomforts of the rich"

This sort of thing makes me want to stab myself with a fork, it's so great. (Impulse to self-harm in the face of genius???)
Also, to read the book, which I never have.

So, thanks. *moves away from silverware drawer*

[I've been spending time on Tumblr--it affects my writing.]

Michael Leddy said...

Oh, it’s a treat. [Watches with relief as she steps away from the drawer .]

Slywy said...

I love being under a warm throw blanket with just enough appendages sticking out to feel how cold the air is.

A friend had a Canadian roommate who, in the coldest Chicago weather, slept with his bare feet sticking out an open window.

Michael Leddy said...

Oh my.