close together, and our two noses bending over them, as if
our knee-pans were warming-pans. We felt very nice and snug,
the more so since it was so chilly out of doors; indeed out
of bed-clothes too, seeing that there was no fire in the room.
The more so, I say, because truly to enjoy bodily warmth,
some small part of you must be cold, for there is no quality
in this world that is not what it is merely by contrast.
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 blankets 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.

We had been sitting in this crouching manner for some time,
when all at once I thought I would open my eyes; for when
between sheets, whether by day or by night, and whether
asleep or awake, I have a way of always keeping my eyes shut,
in order the more to concentrate the snugness of being in bed.
Because no man can ever feel his own identity aright except his
eyes be closed; as if, darkness were indeed the proper element
of our essences, though light be more congenial to our clayey part.
Upon opening my eyes then, and coming out of my own pleasant
and self-created darkness into the imposed and coarse outer gloom