Comfy passages in books. I'll start with this one from Moby Dick
"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 the tip of your nose or the crown of your head be slightly chilled, why then, indeed, in the general consciousness you feel 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 crystall
I want to read Moby DICK!
>>7484211
i'm 100 pages in and this book has been pure comfy and humor
i'm in love
>>7484249
you're in for a rude awakening
>>7484211
comfiest passage is Chapter 75 (A SQUEEZE OF THE HAND) where he talks about squeezing that lumpy spermy
>>7484211
Sure remarkable, i remember also this passage or few about seagull or other sea bird, it was great do you have it???
>>7484299
the gull that took ahab's hat and dropped it into the ocean? that one gave me chills
Not a comfy passage, but maybe the greatest sentence I have ever read.
>There was an infinity of firmest fortitude, a determinate unsurrenderable wilfulness, in the fixed and fearless, forward dedication of that glance.
From Chapter 47, The Mat-Maker:
It was a cloudy, sultry afternoon; the seamen were lazily lounging about the decks, or vacantly gazing over into the lead-coloured waters. Queequeg and I were mildly employed weaving what is called a sword-mat, for an additional lashing to our boat. So still and subdued and yet somehow preluding was all the scene, and such an incantation of reverie lurked in the air, that each silent sailor seemed resolved into his own invisible self.
I was the attendant or page of Queequeg, while busy at the mat. As I kept passing and repassing the filling or woof of marline between the long yarns of the warp, using my own hand for the shuttle, and as Queequeg, standing sideways, ever and anon slid his heavy oaken sword between the threads, and idly looking off upon the water, carelessly and unthinkingly drove home every yarn: I say so strange a dreaminess did there then reign all over the ship and all over the sea, only broken by the intermitting dull sound of the sword, that it seemed as if this were the Loom of Time, and I myself were a shuttle mechanically weaving and weaving away at the Fates. There lay the fixed threads of the warp subject to but one single, ever returning, unchanging vibration, and that vibration merely enough to admit of the crosswise interblending of other threads with its own. This warp seemed necessity; and here, thought I, with my own hand I ply my own shuttle and weave my own destiny into these unalterable threads. Meantime, Queequeg's impulsive, indifferent sword, sometimes hitting the woof slantingly, or crookedly, or strongly, or weakly, as the case might be; and by this difference in the concluding blow producing a corresponding contrast in the final aspect of the completed fabric; this savage's sword, thought I, which thus finally shapes and fashions both warp and woof; this easy, indifferent sword must be chance—aye, chance, free will, and necessity—nowise incompatible—all interweavingly working together. The straight warp of necessity, not to be swerved from its ultimate course—its every alternating vibration, indeed, only tending to that; free will still free to ply her shuttle between given threads; and chance, though restrained in its play within the right lines of necessity, and sideways in its motions directed by free will, though thus prescribed to by both, chance by turns rules either, and has the last featuring blow at events.
From All the Pretty Horses
>tfw you will never adventure down south to a land of adventure and savagery with your bestest bro
The room they slept in was at the back of the house and it smelled of hay or
straw. It was small and there was no window to it and on the floor were two pallets of straw and sacking with scrapes over them. They took the lamp the host handed them and thanked him and he bowed out the low doorway and bid them goodnight. He didnt ask about Blevins.
John Grady set the lamp on the floor and they sat in the straw ticks and took off their boots.
I'm give out, said Rawlins.
I hear you.
What all did the old man say about work in this part of the country?
He says there's some big ranches yon side of the Sierra del Carmen. About
three hundred kilometers.
How far's that?
Hundred and sixty, hundred and seventy miles.
You reckon he thinks we're desperados?
I dont know. Pretty nice about it if he does.
I'd say so.
He made that country sound like the Big Rock Candy Mountains. Said there
was lakes and runnin water and grass to the stirrups. I cant picture country like that down here from what I've seen so far, can you?
He's probably just tryin to get us to move on.
Could be, said John Grady. He took off his hat and lay back and pulled the scrape over him.
What the hell's he goin to do, said Rawlins. Sleep out in the yard? I reckon.
Maybe he'll be gone in the mornin.
Maybe.
He closed his eyes. Dont let that lamp burn out, he said. It'll black the whole house.
I'll blow it out here in a minute.
He lay listening. There was no sound anywhere. What are you doin? he said. Nothin.
He opened his eyes. He looked over at Rawlins. Rawlins had his billfold spread
out across the blanket.
What are you doin?
I want you to look at my goddamned drivers license.
You wont need em down here.
There's my poolhall card. Got it too.
Go to sleep.
Look at this shit. He shot Betty Ward right between the eyes.
What was she doin in there? I didnt know you liked her.
She give me that picture. That was her schooldays picture.
In the morning they ate a huge breakfast of eggs and beans and tortillas at the
same table. No one went out to get Blevins and no one asked about him. The woman packed them a lunch in a cloth and they thanked her and shook hands with the man and walked out in the cool morning. Blevins' horse was not in the corral.
From the first chapter of Mason & Dixon
Snow lies upon all Philadelphia, from River to River, whose further shores have so vanish'd behind curtains of ice-fog that the City today might be an Isle upon an Ocean. Ponds and Creeks are frozen over, and the Trees a-glare to the last slightest Twig,-- Nerve-Lines of concentrated Light. Hammers and Saws have fallen still, bricks lie in snow-cover'd Heaps, City-Sparrows, in speckl'd Outbursts, hop in and out of what Shelter there may be,-- the nightward Sky, Clouds blown to Chalksmears, stretches above the Northern Liberties, Spring Garden and Germantown, its early moon pale as the Snow-Drifts,-- smoke ascends from Chimney-Pots, Sledging-Parties adjourn indoors, Taverns bustle,-- freshly infus'd Coffee flows ev'ryplace, borne about thro' Rooms front and back, whilst Madeira, which has ever fuel'd Association in these Parts, is deploy'd nowadays like an ancient Elixir upon the seething Pot of Politics,-- for the Times are as impossible to calculate, this Advent, as the Distance to a Star.
