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There is such a thing as anaesthesia of pain, engendered by pain too exquisite to be borne.

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
Engendered
Anesthesia
Borne
Exquisite
Pain
Thing
Anaesthesia

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The ghostly winter silence had given way to the great spring murmur of awakening life.
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He was not immoral, but merely unmoral.
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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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I love the flesh. I'm a pagan. Who are they who speak evil of the clay? The very stars are made of clay like mine!
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If cash comes with fame, come fame if cash comes without fame, come cash.
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I write for no other purpose than to add to the beauty that now belongs to me.
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Man is a flux of states of consciousness, a flow of passing thoughts, each thought of self another self, a myriad thoughts, a myriad selves, a continual becoming but never being, a will-of-the-wisp flitting of ghosts in ghostland.
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I'd rather sing one wild song and burst my heart with it, than live a thousand years watching my digestion and being afraid of the wet.
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Love cannot in its very nature be peaceful or content. It is a restlessness, an unsatisfaction. I can grant a lasting love just as I can grant a lasting unsatisfaction but the lasting love cannot be coupled with possession, for love is pain and desire and possession is easement and fulfilment.
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Pray do not interrupt me, he wrote. I am smiling.
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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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Everything is good . . . as long as it is unpossessed. Satiety and possession are Death's horses they run in span.
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It is so much easier to live placidly and complacently. Of course, to live placidly and complacently is not to live at all.
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I would rather be ashes than dust.
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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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Ever bike? Now that's something that makes life worth living!
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...in his gambling, he had one besetting weakness -- faith in a system and this made his damnation certain.
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Life is so short. I would rather sing one song than interpret the thousand.
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