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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.

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
Hate
Aboard
Doe
Borne
Men
Hates
Despise
Slowly
Fears
Loneliness
Upon

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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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The ghostly winter silence had given way to the great spring murmur of awakening life.
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I would rather be ashes than dust.
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I am first of all a white man, and only then a socialist.
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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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I do not live for what the world thinks of me, but for what I think of myself.
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He was not immoral, but merely unmoral.
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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 is the sum of all the arts, as it is the reason for their existence.
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The Wild still lingered in him and the wolf in him merely slept.
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If a company is distributing images and video then obviously they need bandwidth solutions. But if they are looking to the mass market then they must develop WAP sites.
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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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My life shall be free and broad and great, and I will not be the slave to the sense delights which chained my ancient ancestry. I reject the heritage. I break the entail. And who are you to say I am unwise?
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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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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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A bone to the dog is not charity. Charity is the bone shared with the dog, when you are just as hungry as the dog.
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He had come to know quite thoroughly the world in which he lived. His outlook was bleak and materialistic. The world as he saw it was a fierce and brutal world, a world without warmth, a world in which caresses and affection and the bright sweetness of spirit did not exist.
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Ever bike? Now that's something that makes life worth living!
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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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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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