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For the pride of trace and trail was his, and sick unto death, he could not bear that another dog should do his work.

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
Work
Unto
Bear
Dog
Bears
Sick
Pride
Trail
Death
Trails
Another
Trace

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Denied the outlet, through play, of his energies, he recoiled upon himself and developed his mental processes. He became cunning he had idle time in which to devote himself to thoughts of trickery.
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Love, genuine passionate love, was his for the first time.
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The most beautiful stories always start with wreckage.
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The greatest of the arts is the conquering of men.
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He was always striving to attain it. The life that was so swiftly expanding within him, urged him continually toward the wall of light. The life that was within him knew that it was the one way out, the way he was predestined to tread.
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But, – and there it is, – we want to live and move, though we have no reason to, because it happens that it is the nature of life to live and move, to want to live and move. If it were not for this, life would be dead. It is because of this life that is in you that you dream of your immortality.
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I did not begin when I was born, nor when I was conceived. I have been growing, developing, through incalculable myriads of millenniums... All my previous selves have their voices, echoes, promptings in me... Oh, incalculable times again shall I be born.
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But especially he loved to run in the dim twilight of the summer midnights, listening to the subdued and sleepy murmurs of the forest, reading signs and sounds as a man may read a book, and seeking for the mysterious something that called -- called, waking or sleeping, at all times, for him to come.
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There's only one way to make a beginning, and that is to begin and begin with hard work, and patience, prepared for all the disappoint­ment s.
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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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Everything is good . . . as long as it is unpossessed. Satiety and possession are Death's horses they run in span.
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Life is not a matter of holding good cards, but sometimes, playing a poor hand well.
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I write for no other purpose than to add to the beauty that now belongs to me. I write a book for no other reason than to add three or four hundred acres to my magnificent estate.
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My life shall be free and broad and great, and I will not be the slave to the sense delights which chained my ancient ancestry. I reject the heritage. I break the entail. And who are you to say I am unwise?
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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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. . . and God knows we are sensitive to the suffering that has sometimes broken loose to come billowing forth from your appendages like the pungent vapors of whales - often it appears that in this life of experience and accommodation we pay just as dearly for our triumphs as we do for our defeats. But Sissy . . . hold on!
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It was the masterful and incommunicable wisdom of eternity laughing at the futility of life and the effort of life. It was the Wild, the savage, frozen-hearted Northland Wild. (Ch.1)
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Don't loaf and invite inspiration light out after it with a club, and if you don't get it you will nonetheless get something that looks remarkably like it.
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A bone to the dog is not charity. Charity is the bone shared with the dog, when you are just as hungry as the dog.
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She was thrilling to a desire that urged her to go forward, to be in closer to that fire, to be squabbling with the dogs, and to be avoiding and dodging the stumbling feet of men.
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