The Honor and Glory of Being Cold

(Rockwell Kent's print of The Spouter Inn, scene of much coziness.)

“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 your much 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 the 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.”

—Chapter 11: The Nightgown, Moby-Dick, by Herman Melville—

(obviously, but this sub-sub librarian does love to cite a source)

Despite an unfortunate run-in or two with frostbite, I love winter and the cold. To feel, with every breath, the sharp contrast between the cold air and the warmth of being alive is to become more aware of life. Some people go to yoga classes and meditation retreats to learn mindfulness. I go outside in winter.

Staring at winter stars while my eyeballs freeze is no small source of joy. There is the tremendous enormity against my fragile humanity, there is the whiplash of cold against the knowledge that I’ll be warm again soon. Variety, as they say, is the spice of life. And beyond the “luxurious discomforts of the rich,” there is the luxurious comfort of being rich enough to choose to encounter a little cold, with the safety net that warmth is possible.

In Denmark, there is a cultural term “hygge,” that roughly translates to the idea of being cozy from the inside out. To be beside a fire, drinking hot beverages with a loved one, while the Danish winter darkens outside would be hygge. To run into an old friend in a surprising place would be hygge. I like to think of it as any time the “warm spark in the heart” is kindled, particularly in contrast with conditions—personal or external—that could be considered “an arctic crystal.”

The simplicity of the comfort at the Spouter Inn—just a couple of dudes cozying up for the night, swapping stories, with thin blankets and body heat and friendship their defense against the ice on the inside of the windows—seems even more delicious in contrast with where they go next.

Most of the time I have spent on boats has been in summer, and even then a geographically appropriate dampness pervaded everything. Whaling—even aside from the whale slaughter operations themselves—sounds incredibly uncomfortable. Sleeping on a ship, for three years at a stretch, sharing these close quarter with the same crew of increasingly odiferous gentlemen (I’ve heard that after a winter in a logging camp, the men had to cut their long underwear off because it had become glued to their bodies with a paste of sweat and dead skin and can’t imagine that whalers were much different than loggers in regards to personal hygiene) and all the while pitching and rolling on a creaking vessel through any and all possible weather, none of this is as rosy a picture as that of Ishmael and Queequeg being hygge in bed.

The pleasure, as Melville says, is in the contrast. A short blaze of comfort amid the discomfort or a reminder of discomfort in the midst of comfort staves of stagnation and boredom. In being aware of the contradictions and contrasts of every moment of life, I think we are closest to perfect happiness simply because of the imperfections. 

And, when the cold of New England winters starts to grate on my nerves, I think about this passage and begin, again to kindle my spark for all things against the arctic days.