but ’tis enough. he tasks me; he heaps me; i see in him outrageous strength, with an inscrutable malice sinewing it. that inscrutable thing is chiefly what i hate; and be the white whale agent, or be the white whale principal, i will wreak that hate upon him. talk not to me of blasphemy, man; i’d strike the sun if it insulted me. for could the sun do that, then could i do the other; since there is ever a sort of fair play herein, jealousy presiding over all creations. but not my master, man, is even that fair play. who’s over me? truth hath no confines. take off thine eye! more intolerable than fiends’ glarings is a doltish stare! so, so; thou reddenest and palest; my heat has melted thee to anger-glow. but look ye, starbuck, what is said in heat, that thing unsays itself. there are men from whom warm words are small indignity. i meant not to incense thee. let it go. look! see yonder turkish cheeks of spotted tawn—living, breathing pictures painted by the sun. the pagan leopards—the unrecking and unworshipping things, that live; and seek, and give no reasons for the torrid life they feel!