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.

 

Herman Melville,
Moby Dick, Chapter 11