Quote

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.

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
Self
Passing
Wisps
Never
Flow
Myriad
Men
Thoughts
Flux
Becoming
Continual
Consciousness
Ghosts
Another
Selves
Thought
Passings
Flitting
States
Ghost
Wisp

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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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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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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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This expression of abandon and surrender, of absolute trust, he reserved for the master alone.
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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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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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The ghostly winter silence had given way to the great spring murmur of awakening life.
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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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You can't wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club.
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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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But under it all they were men, penetrating the land of desolation and mockery and silence, puny adventurers bent on colossal adventure, pitting themselves against the might of a world as remote and alien and pulseless as the abysses of space.
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The fortunate man is the one who cannot take more than a couple of drinks without becoming intoxicated. The unfortunate wight is the one who can take many glasses without betraying a sign who must take numerous glasses in order to get the ‘kick’.
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The greatest of the arts is the conquering of men.
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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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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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There is an ecstasy that marks the summit of life, and beyond which life cannot rise. And such is the paradox of living, this ecstasy comes when one is most alive, and it comes as a complete forgetfulness that one is alive.
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He was a killer, a thing that preyed, living on the things that lived, unaided, alone, by virtue of his own strength and prowess, surviving triumphantly in a hostile environment where only the strong survive.
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Alcohol tells truth, but its truth is not normal.
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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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The Stone the Builders Rejected.
Jack London