Quotes from Jack London

John Stuart Mill, in his essay, ON LIBERTY, wrote: Wherever there is an ascendant class, a large portion of the morality emanates from its class interests and its class feelings of superiority.

this finger is not I.  Cut it off.  I live.  The body is mutilated.  I am not mutilated.  The spirit that is I is whole.

And so with that girl. You noticed that her eyes were what I might call hard. She has never been sheltered. She has had to take care of herself, and a young girl can't take care of herself and keep her eyes soft and gentle like - like yours, for example.

And when, on the still cold nights, he pointed his nose at a star and howled long and wolflike, it was his ancestors, dead and dust, pointing nose at star and howling down through the centuries and through him. And his cadences were their cadences, the cadences which voiced their woe and what to them was the meaning of the stillness, and the cold, and dark.

He looked at her and saw her eyes luminous with pity. And then he remembered that he loved her and was lost in amazement at his fortune that permitted him to love her and to take her on his arm to a lecture.

You cannot wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club.

Martin knew of the enormous gulf between him and this man - the gulf the books had made; but he found no difficulty in crossing back over that gulf. He had lived all his life in the working- class world, and the CAMARADERIE of labor was second nature with him.

Such was the lesson that was quickly borne in upon him. It came hard, going as it did, counter to much that was strong and dominant in his own nature; and, while he disliked it in the learning of it, unknown to himself he was learning to like it. It was a placing of his destiny in another's hands, a shifting of the responsibilities of existence. This in itself was compensation, for it is always easier to lean upon another than to stand alone.

PLEASE DO NOT ENTER WITHOUT KNOCKING. PLEASE DO NOT KNOCK.

Under all his cowardice there was a courage of cowardice [...] that would impel him to do the very thing his whole nature protested against doing and was afraid of doing.

He saw no beauty in the sunshine sifting down through the green leaves, nor did the azure vault of the sky whisper as of old and hint of cosmic vastness and secrets trembling to disclosure. Life was intolerably dull and stupid, and its taste was bad in his mouth.

Had the cub thought in man-fashion, he might have epitomized life as a voracious appetite and the world as a place wherein ranged a multitude of appetites, pursuing and being pursued, hunting and being hunted, eating and being eaten, all in blindness and confusion, with violence and disorder, a chaos of gluttony and slaughter, ruled over by chance, merciless, planless, endless.

He is a better man than you are. […] His 'human fictions,' as you choose to call them, make for nobility and manhood. You have no fictions, no dreams, no ideals. You are a pauper.

Esiste una forza più grande della ricchezza, ed è più grande perché non può esserci sottratta, La nostra forza, la forza dei proletari, sta nei nostri muscoli, sta nelle nostre mani che possono deporre le schede nelle urne, sta nelle nostre dita che possono premere un grilletto. Non possono strapparci questa forza. È la forza primitiva, la forza sorella della vita, è la forza più potente della ricchezza, che la ricchezza non può sottrarci.

Or maybe that was a dream, too, and the awakening would be the changing of the watches, when he would drop down out of his bunk in the lurching forecastle and go up on deck, under the tropic stars, and take the wheel and feel the cool tradewind blowing through his flesh.

He rained upon it curses from God and High Heaven, and withered it with a heat of invective that savoured of a medieval excommunication of the Catholic Church. He ran the gamut of denunciation, rising to heights of wrath that were sublime and almost Godlike.

Hay un éxtasis que marca el punto culminante de la vida, y más allá del cuál la vida no puede elevarse.

C'è un proverbio che afferma che la verità viene sempre a galla. Sono arrivata a dubitare di tale proverbio. Sono trascorsi diciannove anni e nonostante tutti i nostri incessanti sforzi, non siamo riusciti a trovare l'uomo che realmente lanciò la bomba.

An' when you're dead, you'll rot the same as me, an' what's it matter how you live? - eh? Tell me that what's it matter in the long run?

Sizin diÅŸleriniz sökülmüÅŸtür baylar, t?rnaklar?n?z köreltilmiÅŸtir! DiÅŸsiz ve t?rnaks?z ayaklanaca??n?z gün bir koyun sürüsü kadar zarars?z ve yumuÅŸak bir durumda olacaks?n?z!

a laugh that was as rough and harsh and frank as the sea itself; that arose out of coarse feelings and blunted sensibilities, from natures that knew neither courtesy nor gentleness.

Christ told the rich young man to sell all he had," Ernest said bitterly. "The Bishop obeyed Christ's injunction and got locked up in a madhouse. Times have changed since Christ's day. A rich man to-day who gives all he has to the poor is crazy. There is no discussion. Society has spoken.

Rise from the mud, let the sunshine clense your eyes, and thrust your shoulders into the stars!

Dat one dam bully dog! Eh? How moch?