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Then one can't make a living out of poetry? Certainly not. What fool expects to? Out of rhyming, yes.

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
Rhyming
Expects
Certainly
Fool
Poetry
Living
Make

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Age is never so old as youth would measure it.
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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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Love is the sum of all the arts, as it is the reason for their existence.
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Of her own experience she had no memory of the thing happening but in her instinct, which was the experience of all mothers of wolves, there lurked a memory of fathers that had eaten their new-born and helpless progeny.
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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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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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If cash comes with fame, come fame if cash comes without fame, come cash.
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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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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
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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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His conclusion was that things were not always what they appeared to be. The cub's fear of the unknown was an inherited distrust, and it had now been strengthened by experience. Thenceforth, in the nature of things, he would possess an abiding distrust of appearances.
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Love, genuine passionate love, was his for the first time.
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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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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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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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I write for no other purpose than to add to the beauty that now belongs to me.
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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 Wild still lingered in him and the wolf in him merely slept.
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Out of this pack-persecution he learned two important things: how to take care of himself in a mass-fight against him and how, on a single dog, to inflict the greatest amount of damage in the briefest space of time.
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This expression of abandon and surrender, of absolute trust, he reserved for the master alone.
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