What with the wickedness of the polar vortex last week and the groans that January and February temperatures call for, you may run out of ways to describe exactly how flippin' cold it is. After all, one can cry of her need for a tauntaun only so often. If you're so cold you're speechless, first make sure you don't actually have laryngitis, and then curl on up with a novel and read how fictional characters deal with winter.
Hal Incandenza inhales.
And we all crave subterranean covert drama.
Emma Bovary snuggles up.
Day began to break. She looked long at the windows of the chateau, trying to guess which were the rooms of all those she had noticed the evening before. She would fain have known their lives, have penetrated, blended with them. But she was shivering with cold. She undressed, and cowered down between the sheets against Charles, who was asleep. —Madame Bovary, Gustave Flaubert
Why she undresses is beyond me.
Jane Eyre dons a mantle and muff.
This sounds like inspiration for a J.Peterman catalog.
Orlando gets gloomy.
Orlando! Get up from there. Go have a hot buttered rum somewhere.
Alice imagines the snow a tender kisser.
Don't get your hopes up that your boss will call you with such tenderness tomorrow.