The chief mate of the Pequod was Starbuck, a native of Nantucket, and a Quaker by descent. He was a long, earnest man, and though born on an icy coast, seemed well adapted to endure hot latitudes, his flesh being hard as twice-baked biscuit. Transported to the Indies, his live blood would not spoil like bottled ale. He must have been born in some time of general drought and famine, or upon one of those fast days for which his state is famous. Only some thirty arid summers had he seen; those summers had dried up all his physical superfluousness. But this, his thinness, so to speak, seemed no more the token of wasting anxieties and cares, than it seemed the indication of any bodily blight. It was merely the condensation of the man. He was by no means ill-looking; quite the contrary. His pure tight skin was an excellent fit; and closely wrapped up in it, and embalmed with inner health and strength, like a revivified Egyptian, this Starbuck seemed prepared to endure for long ages to come, and to endure always, as now; for be it Polar snow or torrid sun, like a patent chronometer, his interior vitality was warranted to do well in all climates. Looking into his eyes, you seemed to see there the yet lingering images of those thousand-fold perils he had calmly confronted through life. A staid, steadfast man, whose life for the most part was a telling pantomime of action, and not a tame chapter of sounds. Yet, for all his hardy sobriety and fortitude, there were certain qualities in him which at times affected, and in some cases seemed well nigh to overbalance all the rest. Uncommonly conscientious for a seaman, and endued with a deep natural reverence, the wild watery loneliness of his life did therefore strongly incline him to superstition; but to that sort of superstition, which in some organizations seems rather to spring, somehow, from intelligence than from ignorance. Outward portents and inward presentiments were his.
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The way you overcome shyness is to become so wrapped up in something that you forget to be afraid.
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A person wrapped up in himself makes a small package.
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What is hardest to accept about the passage of time is that the people who once mattered the most to us are wrapped up in parentheses.
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When I was in prison I was wrapped up in all those deep books. That Tolstoy crap. People shouldn't read that stuff. When we read these books what purpose does it serve in this day and time?
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Once upon a time there was an old country, wrapped up in habit and caution. ... We have to transform our old France into a new country and marry it to its time.
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When a man is wrapped up in himself, he makes a pretty small package.
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He who is wrapped up in himself makes a mighty small package.
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A man wrapped up in himself makes a very small bundle.
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I teach US History, but it's wrapped up in social studies. He's getting to apply what he's learned here in school and take that out into the real world.
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Acts 5:6:
Then some young men came forward, wrapped up his body, and carried him out and buried him.
(NIV)
And the young men arose and wrapped up [the body] and carried it out and buried it.
(AMP)
And the young men arose, wound him up, and carried him out, and buried him.
(KJV)
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Remember, worth and value are not wrapped up in what you do. You are not a human doing. You are a human being.
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