Herman Melville, “The Whiteness of the Whale,” excerpted in Color (MIT, 2008), 37-38.
“Though in many natural objects, whiteness refining enhances beauty, as if imparting some special virtue of its own, as in marbles, japonicas and pearls; and though various nations have in some way recognized a certain royal preeminence in this hue; even the barbaric, grand old kings of Pegu placing the title [...] above all their other magniloquent ascriptions of dominion [...] and though this pre-eminence in it applies to the human race itself, giving the white man ideal mastership over every dusky tribe [...] yet for all these accumulated associations, with whatever is sweet, and honourable, and sublime, there yet lurks an elusive something in the innermost idea of this hue, which strikes more of panic to the soul than the redness which affrights in blood” (37-38).
“It is that by its indefiniteness it shadows forth the heartless voids and immensities of the universe, and thus stabs us from behind with the thought of annihilation, when beholding the white depths of the milky way? Or is it that as in essence whiteness is not so much a colour as the visible absence of colour, and at the same time the concrete of all colours; it is for these reasons that there is such a dumb blankness, full of meaning in a wide landscape of snows – a colourless, all-color of atheism from which we shrink?