I see nothing here, but a round thing made of gold, and whoever raises a certain whale, this round thing belongs to him. So, what’s all this staring been about? It is worth sixteen dollars, that’s true; and at two cents the cigar, that’s nine hundred and sixty cigars. I won’t smoke dirty pipes like Stubb, but I like cigars, and here’s nine hundred and sixty of them.
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The consciousness of being deemed dead, is next to the presumable unpleasantness of being so in reality. One feels like his own ghost unlawfully tenanting a defunct carcass.
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All ye mast-headers have before now heard me give orders about a white whale. Look ye! d’ye see this Spanish ounce of gold? It is a sixteen dollar piece, men. D’ye see it? Mr. Starbuck, hand me yon top-maul.
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In our own hearts, we mold the whole world's hereafters; and in our own hearts we fashion our own gods.
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When I think of this life I have led; the desolation of solitude it has been; the masoned, walled-town of a Captain's exclusiveness, which admits but small entrance to any sympathy from the green country without -- oh, weariness! heaviness! Guinea-coast slavery of solitary command!
