Question of the Month, Jack London

Happy 240th Birthday to the 

United States of America! 

I've joined this monthly bloghop because answering the questions is one way to expand one's mind and to let my Random Followers get to know me a little better. Hosted by Michael D'Agostino at A Life Examined ,  the question this month is: 

What was the first book (or book series) you really fell in love with?
This question has such deep meaning for me that my post today will be devoted to it.  It's all about Jack London.




I was first introduced to Jack London through a Classics Illustrated of Call of the Wild. I was probably 8 or 9 years old. For the first time I cried at the end of a story. I believe it was then I discovered the power of the written word. 

Studying at Heinold's 
First and Last Chance,
Oakland, California, 1886

Jack London was one of the first authors whose books I actually looked for in the library and stores. I loved the adventure and the far away places he took me. As a teen I read collections of his short stories, The Sea Wolf, Burning Daylight, Smoke Bellew, Martin Eden, and The Cruise of the Snark, to name a few.


He was accused of plagiarism, drunkenness, and womanizing. But he was none of these things. Who he was was someone who lived the stories he wrote.

 As a teen he pirated oysters, sailed the Pacific and hoboed around the U. S. At 19, after a short stint in jail, he returned home to finish high school because he realized an education was important. He went to college but couldn’t finish because he didn’t have enough money. At 21 he went up to the Yukon during the gold rush. He got sick with scurvy, lost his front teeth, and the disease left scars on his face. But it was these northern adventures that made him the author he became.

Writing on a rock in the woods.

He was a Socialist, an advocate of women’s suffrage (he created some of the strongest, most independent, and well-educated female characters in American fiction) and was against cruelty to animals.

With is wife Charmain, in Hawaii. 

One of my favorite quotes of his is, “You can’t wait for inspiration you have to go after it with a club.” I think it says something about him as a writer. Perhaps writing or ideas didn’t come easily for him  or maybe he “knew” he didn’t have long to live and that he had to attack his stories, capture and subdue them, and get them down on paper as soon as possible.

With his daughters.

Jack London died of renal failure at the age of 40 on November 22, 1916. Stop and think, isn't it amazing that he wrote and published over 50 volumes of novels, short stories, political essays and even a few plays, in just eleven years?

Below are the last two paragraphs of Call of the Wild.
Buck mourns the loss of his human friend, and yet is gloriously free and happy. The music of the words still sings in my ears and still makes me cry.

“In the summers there is one visitor, however, to that valley, of which the Yeehats do not know. It is a great, gloriously coated wolf, like, and yet unlike, all other wolves. He crosses alone from the smiling timber land and comes down into an open space among the trees. Here a yellow stream flows from rotted moose-hide sacks and sinks into the ground, with long grasses growing through it and vegetable mold overrunning it and hiding its yellow from the sun; and here he muses for a time, howling once, long and mournfully, ere he departs.


“But he is not always alone. When the long winter nights come on and the wolves follow their meat into the lower valleys, he may be seen running at the head of the pack through the pale moonlight or glimmering borealis, leaping gigantic above his fellows, his great throat a-bellow as he sings a song of the younger world, which is the song of the pack.”

 

His writing space.

Can you remember the first book that strongly touched your emotions? Are you familiar with Jack London? Read any of his books? If you have, which is your favorite?

L is for London

For this, my third year doing the challenge, I am going literary. For every letter of the alphabet I will talk about a book, an author or a character from fiction or myth that made an impression, was inspirational, or caused me to think.





Jack, that is. Jack London. It's not like I haven't written about him before. I have. I mean, I've already mentioned The Call of the Wild under D for Dogs.


I give Jack London credit for showing me the power of words. It was his words, at the end of The Call of the Wild, that made me cry for the first time. I was about ten. They still make me cry.

As an illegitimate child born in 1876, he really was a rather remarkable person. Before the age of 19, when he returned home to Oakland to go high school, he had pirated oysters, helped to capture fish poachers, gone sealing in the Pacific, and been a hobo traveling around the country. A thirty-day stint in prison was the catalyst that turned him towards education and a career in writing. He lived the stories he wrote, which is probably why when I first read them I felt like I was right there in the middle of a snow storm, or on a ship in the middle the ocean.

There have been rumors he was a womanizer, a drunk, a plagiarizer. He was none of those things. He was, like every human being, complicated and contradictory. When he died of kidney failure in 1916 at the tender age of 40, he was already one of the most widely read authors in the world. One wonders what else he might have written. Considering the short time he had, he was quite prolific.


This is his cabin in Dawson City, Yukon, Canada, built in 1898.
Because the cabin was of historical interest both to Canada and California, an identical cabin was built in Oakland using half of the logs from the original cabin.






Do you have a favorite Jack London story or character?


L is London  Other L influences: Lost Horizon by John Hilton the first massed produced paperback book, The Last Unicorn by Peter S. Beagle, Lao Tsu


Happy Birthday, Stan! My sweetie.

The Rotten Kid and Banned Book Week

Remember, this is Banned Book Week. Read a banned book.  I look over the ALA list of banned books every year and discover something new each time. This year I was surprised to learn that  The Call of the Wild by Jack London was banned in Italy and Yugoslavia in 1929 and burned in Nazi bonfires in1933. This book holds a special place in my heart as it is the first book that made me cry and taught me how powerful words can be. I wrote about it here.


(We now return to our regularly scheduled program.)

***

My mother affectionately called me The Rotten Kid. Of course I blamed her for setting a good example. You can read about a couple of her childhood exploits here.

When I was 17 or 18 a family came to stay at our guest house at Lillie Maho on St. John. There were five kids. Two girls and three boys. The girls slept with their parents in one of the units, while the boys slept in one of two "overflow" rooms we called the Bunk Rooms. I slept in the Bunk Room right next to the boys and could heard them talk.

One of two cabins at Lillie Maho. Each cabin had two independent units with bath and kitchenette.

Now these boys were not little kids. The oldest was at least my age, the youngest maybe 11 or 12. You'd think three boys together would be a recipe for adventure. But these guys were total wusses. They were afraid of sleeping by themselves. They were afraid of the night noises. They were afraid of the bugs. Despite having mosquito nets they were afraid they would get eaten alive and/or catch some terrible tropical disease.

I listened to them for several nights as they complained. They hated St. John and being at the guest house. No hot water, no TV, no phones, no radio. Nothing to do. Too much sand. Too much salt water. And all the bugs! Flying and creeping things all over the place.

Then one night one of them said something about "that girl" in the other room that ticked me off.  Something had to be done.

At one time there had been a door between the rooms that was boarded over with a sheet of plywood. There was a space of about six inches between the floor and the bottom of the plywood.

I decided to give those boys something to be really frightened of.

When the lights went out in both rooms I stuck my hand through the space at the bottom of the door. I felt around, knowing that one of the beds was up against the wall which divided our rooms. I knew the foot of the bed was close to the door. I felt around until I got a hold of a corner of a sheet and slowly...very slowly, I began to pull.

There was an uproar when the boy in that bed started to feel his covers being pulled off. 

"Something's pulling my sheet!"

Lights went on. Explorations were made around the bed. I had long since removed my hand and was sitting with my back to the wall trying to keep from laughing out loud.

Eventually the lights were turned off. They convinced each other it had only been the one kid's imagination. 

But they didn't know, I was The Rotten Kid. I waited. After they were all settle down and dosing back off to sleep, I did it again. I pulled on the sheet.

"It's happening again! Something's pulling on my sheet!"

There were sounds of near hysteria. There was a scramble for the light switch. there were more useless explorations and a discussion about what was pulling the sheet. A rat was the most logical explanation. Horrors! A rat!

Satisfied that I had thoroughly demoralized those three scaredy-cat teen-aged boys I went back to bed quite satisfied with myself.

I'm sure they slept an unquiet sleep...with the light on.

The next day extra cots were moved into the unit so the boys could sleep with their parents and sisters. I no longer had to hear their whiny complaints.

Score one (or maybe three) for The Rotten Kid.


Ever pulled any stunts, played any harmless tricks?

Random Thought Thursday

Okay folks, I'm going to try something new. GASP.

I am, among other things, a collector of quotes. The other day I wondered, what am I collecting them for? The answer came back, obviously to share with my blogging buddies.

So, every Thursday from now until I don't feel like doing it any more, I'm going to post a quote and maybe comment on it or ask a question or something original like that. These quotes will mostly be inspirational. They will be about writing, hope, life, love etc. And knowing me, there will be humor in there too.

To get the ball rolling I'm going to start off with one of my all time favorite quotes attributed to one of my all time favorite authors, Jack London. Good looking devil, don't you think?
He said:
You can't wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club.

Just like a caveman; go hunt your muse, then when you find her, club her over the head, drag her to your man-cave by the hair and demand a personal performance.

I have been know to wait inside my muse-blind. I have been known to scatter chocolates outside to tempt her inside with the promise of a slice of death-by-chocolate. But you know...most of the time waiting inside my muse-blind, waiting for her to find the chocolates I've left, just doesn't work. I have to go out there, sneak up on her and maybe throw a rope around her so she can't escape. And I'd say, 95% of the time, when I make the effort to play the game of catch and keep, Miss Muse will hang out with me.

So, in a way, old Jack was right.

How do you find inspiration? Or stay inspired? Do you go after your muse with a club or do you tempt her into your muse-blind with chocolate?

Random Thoughts Friday

Each Friday I will leave you with some quotes from favorite authors or people I admire.

Jack London. Rather a handsome devil.

The last two paragraphs of CALL OF THE WILD brought tears to my eyes the first time I read them in a Classics Illustrated comic book. I was probably 8 or 9 years old. I was so moved I memorized them. Reading the Classics Illustrated led me to reading the book which led me to reading other books about wolf dogs, other books by Jack London, then other books about the far north, then other adventure novels, then true life survival stories. There were many authors I was influenced by in my childhood, but I always seem to come back to Jack London as being the first where, I guess, I became conscious of the power of words when they are strung together in certain ways. So I give Jack London the credit for inspiring me not only to read more, but to write.

"In the summers there is one visitor, however, to that valley, of which the Yeehats do not know. It is a great, gloriously coated wolf, like, and yet unlike, all other wolves. He crosses alone from the smiling timber land and comes down into an open space among the trees. Here a yellow stream flows from rotted moose-hide sacks and sinks into the ground, with long grasses growing through it and vegetable mould overrunning it and hiding its yellow from the sun; and here he muses for a time, howling once, long and mournfully, ere he departs.

"But he is not always alone. When the long winter nights come on and the wolves follow their meat into the lower valleys, he may be seen running at the head of the pack through the pale moonlight or glimmering borealis, leaping gigantic above his fellows, his great throat a-bellow as he sings a song of the younger world, which is the song of the pack."

“You can't wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club.”

“The proper function of man is to live, not to exist. I shall not waste my days in trying to prolong them. I shall use my time.”

“Darn the wheel of the world! Why must it continually turn over? Where is the reverse gear?”

“Life is not a matter of holding good cards, but sometimes, playing a poor hand well.”

“One cannot violate the promptings of one's nature without having that nature recoil upon itself.”

“I wrote a thousand words every day”

Classics Illustrated

I was over at Peta's Journal reading her post of a few days ago, about graphic novels and comics that illustrate fairy tales and fables, etc.



Which got me to remembering all the wonderful Classics Illustrated I read as a kid. (Not to mentions "regular" comics. I'm thankful my parents "let" my sister and me read comics. Reading is reading after all.) Anyway, I wish I still had those Classics Illustrated.


They were a great introduction to classic literature. Early on I mentioned reading Jack London's Call of the Wild, and the influence that had on me.


Here is a list of some of the others I remember reading. I went on to read most of the books these "comics" introduced me to. In some cases I can still see the illustrations in my mind's eye. It was a wonderful thing.

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, The Last of the Mohicans, A Tale of Two Cities, Robinson Crusoe, The Three Musketeers, Hamlet, Huckleberry Finn, Jane Eyre, Man in the Iron Mask, Rip Van Winkle, The Count of Monte Cristo, The Food of the Gods, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, The Prince and Pauper, The Song of Hiawatha, The Time Machine, Treasure Island, Kidnapped, White Fang


There were many "Classics Illustrated Juniors" too, that illustrated fairy tales, legends and myths, like Rumplestiltskin, The Golden Fleece, Beauty and the Beast, and The Pied Piper, to name a few. And there was a series called "The World Around Us," which introduced me to Vikings, Indians and the Crusades.

Recently, at our little local library, I saw a graphic novel of The Wizard of Oz. Dorothy is illustrated as a girl wearing jeans, living in a modern Kansas city. But (and?) I was pleased to see that the illustrators/authors were true to the original novel. If this is an indication of what is being done today, I say, "Way to go and keep up the good work."

Reading is reading. It's the heart and essence of the story that matters. If you can get a kid to read a classic that's been treated well in this manner, maybe, like me, that kid will go on to one day read the full text. If not, at least they've had a taste and certainly a taste is better than no taste at all.

Jack London

“To me, the greatest pleasure of writing is not what it’s about, but the music of the words.” Truman Capote

This quote, which I came across the other day, got me to thinking about favorite authors.

I was first introduced to Jack London through a Classics Illustrated of Call of the Wild. I was probably 8 or 9 years old. After reading it I wanted to read more dog stories. My mother got me books like Kazan the Wolf Dog and Baree, Son of Kazan by James Oliver Curwood, and the Silver Chief (dog of the north) series by Jack O’Brien. She also got me White Fang and Call of the Wild.

I think Jack London was one of the first authors whose books I actually looked for. I loved the adventure and the far away places he took me. As a teen I read, collections of his short stories, The Sea Wolf, Burning Daylight, Smoke Bellew, Martin Eden, and The Cruise of the Snark, to name a few.

Somewhere in one of his books I read the word “bucolic” for the first time. It’s a word that doesn’t sound at all like what it means. It sounds like it has something to do with being colicky, being sick. It didn’t make sense to me, how it was used in the sentence. Of course the word sent me to the dictionary. I was amazed to discover its true meaning. I love that it relates to a peaceful, pastoral scene.

One of my favorite quotes of his is, “You can’t wait for inspiration you have to go after it with a club.” I think it says something about him as a writer. Perhaps writing or ideas didn’t come easily for him (he was accused of plagiarism) or maybe he “knew” he didn’t have long to live and that he had to attack his stories, capture and subdue them, and get them down on paper as soon as possible.

He packed a lot of living and adventure into his short life. As a teen he pirated oysters, sailed the Pacific and hoboed around the U. S. At 19 he returned home from his travels to finish high school. He went to college but couldn’t finish because he didn’t have enough money. At 21 he went up to the Yukon during the gold rush. He got sick with scurvy. He lost his front teeth and the disease left scars of his face. But it was his northern adventures that made him the author he became.

He was a Socialist, an advocate of women’s suffrage (he created some of the strongest, most independent, and well-educated female characters in American fiction,) and was against cruelty to animals.

When you think about it, when I think about it, it’s amazing that he wrote and published over 50 volumes of novels, short stories, political essays and even a few plays, in just eleven years.

Jack London died of renal failure at the age of 40 on November 22, 1916.

Below are the last two paragraphs of Call of the Wild. I remember crying the first time I read them. I was probably 12 or 13. I was so moved I memorized them. Buck mourns the loss of his human friend, and yet is gloriously free and happy. They still make me cry. The “music of the words” sings in my ears.

“In the summers there is one visitor, however, to that valley, of which the Yeehats do not know. It is a great, gloriously coated wolf, like, and yet unlike, all other wolves. He crosses alone from the smiling timber land and comes down into an open space among the trees. Here a yellow stream flows from rotted moose-hide sacks and sinks into the ground, with long grasses growing through it and vegetable mold overrunning it and hiding its yellow from the sun; and here he muses for a time, howling once, long and mournfully, ere he departs.
“But he is not always alone. When the long winter nights come on and the wolves follow their meat into the lower valleys, he may be seen running at the head of the pack through the pale moonlight or glimmering borealis, leaping gigantic above his fellows, his great throat a-bellow as he sings a song of the younger world, which is the song of the pack.”