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You stand on dead men's legs. You've never had any of your own. You couldn't walk alone between two sunrises and hustle the meat for your belly

Jack London

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Jack London
Age: 40 †
Born: 1876
Born: January 12
Died: 1916
Died: November 22
Author
Autobiographer
Diarist
Essayist
Journalist
Novelist
Poet
Prosaist
Science Fiction Writer
Screenwriter
San Francisco County
California
John Griffith Chaney
John Griffith Jack London
John Griffith Chaney London
John Griffith Jack London Chaney
Two
Meat
Never
Legs
Men
Couldn
Walk
Dead
Sunrises
Walks
Hustle
Stand
Sunrise
Alone
Belly

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There is such a thing as anaesthesia of pain, engendered by pain too exquisite to be borne.
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He was mastered by the sheer surging of life, the tidal wave of being, the perfect joy of each separate muscle, joint, and sinew in that it was everything that was not death, that it was aglow and rampant, expressing itself in movement, flying exultantly under the stars.
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Ever bike? Now that's something that makes life worth living!
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The greatest of the arts is the conquering of men.
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I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet.
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The most beautiful stories always start with wreckage.
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Love is the sum of all the arts, as it is the reason for their existence.
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As one grows weaker one is less susceptible to suffering. There is less hurt because there is less to hurt.
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If a company is distributing images and video then obviously they need bandwidth solutions. But if they are looking to the mass market then they must develop WAP sites.
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He was not immoral, but merely unmoral.
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Make good the good in you...and you will slowly steal into the Hawaiian heart, which is all of softness, and gentleness, and sweetness.
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I do not live for what the world thinks of me, but for what I think of myself.
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The fortunate man is the one who cannot take more than a couple of drinks without becoming intoxicated. The unfortunate wight is the one who can take many glasses without betraying a sign who must take numerous glasses in order to get the ‘kick’.
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The Wild still lingered in him and the wolf in him merely slept.
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Darn the wheel of the world! Why must it continually turn over? Where is the reverse gear?
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The Stone the Builders Rejected.
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On the sled, in the box, lay a third man whose toil was over, - a man whom the Wild had conquered and beaten down until he would never move nor struggle again. It is not the way of the Wild to like movement. Life is an offense to it, for life is movement and the Wild aims always to destroy movement.
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Buck did not read the newspapers, or he would have known that trouble was brewing, not alone for himself, but for every tide-water dog, strong of muscle and with warm, long hair, from Puget Sound to San Diego.
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Everything is good . . . as long as it is unpossessed. Satiety and possession are Death's horses they run in span.
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Then one can't make a living out of poetry? Certainly not. What fool expects to? Out of rhyming, yes.
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