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The Wild still lingered in him and the wolf in him merely slept.
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
Lingered
Lurking
Slept
Wolf
Wild
Merely
Stills
Still
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In a saturated population life is always cheap.
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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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He was justifying his existence, than which life can do no greater for life achieves its summit when it does to the uttermost that which it was equipped to do.
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No I did not hate him. The word is too weak. There is no word in the language strong enough to describe my feelings. I can say only that I knew the gnawing of a desire for vengeance on him that was a pain in itself and that exceeded all the bounds of language.
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Too much is written by the men who can't write about the men who do write.
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The most beautiful stories always start with wreckage.
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...men, groping in the Arctic darkness, had found a yellow metal, and because steamship and transportation companies were booming the find, thousands of men were rushing into the Northland. These men wanted dogs, and the dogs they wanted were heavy dogs, with strong muscles by which to toil, and furry coats to protect them from the frost.
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Love, genuine passionate love, was his for the first time.
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Ever bike? Now that's something that makes life worth living!
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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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Alcohol tells truth, but its truth is not normal.
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My mistake was in ever opening the books.
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If cash comes with fame, come fame if cash comes without fame, come cash.
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And not only did he learn by experience, but instincts long dead became alive again. The domesticated generations fell from him. In vague ways he remembered back to the youth of the breed, to the time the wild dogs ranged in packs through the primeval forest and killed their meat as they ran it down.
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The greatest of the arts is the conquering of men.
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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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His bondage had softened him. Irresponsibility had weakened him. He had forgotten how to shift for himself. The night yawned about him.
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A good joke will sell quicker than a good poem, and, measured in sweat and blood, will bring better remuneration.
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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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The great task demanded of man is reproduction. He is urged by passion to perform this task. Passion, working through the imagination, produces love. Passion is the impelling factor, imagination the disturbing factor and the disturbance of passion by imagination produces love.
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