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The man, with his brain, can pierce the intoxicating mirage of things and contemplate a frozen universe in the most perfect indifference to him and his dreams.

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
Indifference
Dreams
Mirage
Brain
Intoxicating
Perfect
Mirages
Universe
Pierce
Dream
Contemplate
Things
Contemplating
Men
Frozen

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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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He felt strangely numb. As though from a great distance, he was aware that he was being beaten. The last sensations of pain left him. He no longer felt anything, though very faintly he could hear the impact of the club upon his body. But it was no longer his body, it seemed so far away.
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If cash comes with fame, come fame if cash comes without fame, come cash.
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Show me a man with a tattoo and I'll show you a man with an interesting past.
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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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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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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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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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I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze than it should be stifled by dry-rot.
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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.
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They were not half living, or quarter living. They were simply so many bags of bones in which sparks of life fluttered faintly.
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The Wild still lingered in him and the wolf in him merely slept.
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I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet.
Jack London
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Man is man because he chanced to develop intelligence instead of instinct otherwise he would to this day have remained among the anthropoid apes. He has turned away from nature, become unnatural, as it were, disliked the earth upon which he found himself, and changed the face of it somewhat to his liking.
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The loneliness of the man is slowly being borne in upon me. There is not a man aboard but hates or fears him, nor is there a man whom he does not despise.
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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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Don't write too much. Concentrate your sweat on one story, rather than dissipate it over a dozen.
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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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So that was the way. No fair play. Once down, that was the end of you.
Jack London