'Often, in November, December and January, after dinner, Sebastien would put on two pullovers, a parka, an oilskin overcoat, a pair of wool gloves and another of leather, a hoodshaped hat and, armed against the cold, without notifying the others, as the Firebird's master, he would go up to the forecastle to see, to 'fore' see, to dream, to dream just a little. At 20 degrees below zero the cold, in order to take hold, sets about it warmly. You do not believe it but it invades you, filters in and flows quickly into the veins, ice like fire, if you do not move. Sebastien would feel the night sparkling from every part, on each side and in the depths of the fjord, the snow night suspended on the fir summits, the night of white ink...'
from Cronus' Children by Yves Navarre (Chapter 2)
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