What Life Means to MeJack London
I was born in the working-class. Early I discovered enthusiasm, ambition, and ideals; and to satisfy these became the problem of my child-life. My environment was crude and rough and raw. I had no outlook, but an uplook rather. My place in society was at the bottom. Here life offered nothing but sordidness and wretchedness, both of the flesh and the spirit; for here flesh and spirit were alike starved and tormented.
Above me towered the colossal edifice of society, and to my mind the only way out was up. Into this edifice I early resolved to climb. Up above, men wore black clothes and boiled shirts, and women dressed in beautiful gowns. Also, there were good things to eat, and there was plenty to eat. This much for the flesh. Then there were the things of the spirit. Up above me, I knew, were unselfishnesses of the spirit, clean and noble thinking, keen intellectual living. I knew all this because I read “Seaside Library” novels, in which, with the exception of the villains and adventuresses, all men and women thought beautiful thoughts, spoke a beautiful tongue, and performed glorious deeds. In short, as I accepted the rising of the sun, I accepted that up above me was all that was fine and noble and gracious, all that gave decency and dignity to life, all that made life worth living and that remunerated one for his travail and misery.
But it is not particularly easy for one to climb up out of the working-class — especially if he is handicapped by the possession of ideals and illusions. I lived on a ranch in California, and I was hard put to find the ladder whereby to climb. I early inquired the rate of interest on invested money, and worried my child’s brain into an understanding of the virtues and excellencies of that remarkable invention of man, compound interest. Further, I ascertained the current rates of wages for workers of all ages, and the cost of living. From all this data I concluded that if I began immediately and worked and saved until I was fifty years of age, I could then stop working and enter into participation in a fair portion of the delights and goodnesses that would then be open to me higher up in society. Of course, I resolutely determined not to marry, while I quite forgot to consider at all that great rock of disaster in the working-class world — sickness.
But the life that was in me demanded more than a meagre existence of scraping and scrimping. Also, at ten years of age, I became a newsboy on the streets of a city, and found myself with a changed uplook. All about me were still the same sordidness and wretchedness, and up above me was still the same paradise waiting to be gained; but the ladder whereby to climb was a different one. It was now the ladder of business. Why save my earnings and invest in government bonds, when, by buying two newspapers for five cents, with a turn of the wrist I could sell them for ten cents and double my capital? The business ladder was the ladder for me, and I had a vision of myself becoming a baldheaded and successful merchant prince.
Alas for visions! When I was sixteen I had already earned the title of “prince.” But this title was given me by a gang of cut-throats and thieves, by whom I was called “The Prince of the Oyster Pirates.” And at that time I had climbed the first rung of the business ladder. I was a capitalist. I owned a boat and a complete oyster-pirating outfit. I had begun to exploit my fellow-creatures. I had a crew of one man. As captain and owner I took two-thirds of the spoils, and gave the crew one-third, though the crew worked just as hard as I did and risked just as much his life and liberty.
This one rung was the height I climbed up the business ladder. One night I went on a raid amongst the Chinese fishermen. Ropes and nets were worth dollars and cents. It was robbery, I grant, but it was precisely the spirit of capitalism. The capitalist takes away the possessions of his fellow-creatures by means of a rebate, or of a betrayal of trust, or by the purchase of senators and supreme-court judges. I was merely crude. That was the only difference. I used a gun.
But my crew that night was one of those inefficients against whom the capitalist is wont to fulminate, because, forsooth, such inefficients increase expenses and reduce dividends. My crew did both. What of his carelessness he set fire to the big mainsail and totally destroyed it. There weren’t any dividends that night, and the Chinese fishermen were richer by the nets and ropes we did’ not get. I was bankrupt, unable just then to pay sixty-five dollars for a new mainsail. I left my boat at anchor and went off on a bay-pirate boat on a raid up the Sacramento River. While away on this trip, another gang of bay pirates raided my boat. They stole everything, even the anchors; and later on, when I recovered the drifting hulk, I sold it for twenty dollars. I had slipped back the one rung I had climbed, and never again did I attempt the business ladder.
From then on I was mercilessly exploited by other capitalists. I had the muscle, and they made money out of it while I made but a very indifferent living out of it. I was a sailor before the mast, a longshoreman, a roustabout; I worked in canneries, and factories, and laundries; I mowed lawns, and cleaned carpets, and washed windows. And I never got the full product of my toil. I looked at the daughter of the cannery owner, in her carriage, and knew that it was my muscle, in part, that helped drag along that carriage on its rubber tires. I looked at the son of the factory owner, going to college, and knew that it was my muscle that helped, in part, to pay for the wine and good fellowship he enjoyed.
But I did not resent this. It was all in the game. They were the strong. Very well, I was strong. I would carve my way to a place amongst them and make money out of the muscles of other men. I was not afraid of work. I loved hard- work. I would pitch in and work harder than ever and eventually become a pillar of society.
And just then, as luck would have it, I found an employer that was of the same mind. I was willing to work, and he was more than willing that I should work. I thought I was learning a trade. In reality, I had displaced two men. I thought he was making an electrician out of me; as a matter of fact, he was making fifty dollars per month out of me. The two men I had displaced had received forty dollars each per month; I was doing the work of both for thirty dollars per month.
This employer worked me nearly to death. A man may love oysters, but too many oysters will disincline him toward that particular diet. And so with me. Too much work sickened me. I did not wish ever to see work again. I fled from work. I became a tramp, begging my way from door to door, wandering over the United States and sweating bloody sweats in slums and prisons.
I had been born in the working-class, and I was now, at the age of eighteen, beneath the point at which I had started. I was down in the cellar of society, down in the subterranean depths of misery about which it is neither nice nor proper to speak. I was in the pit, the abyss, the human cesspool, the shambles and the charnel-house of our civilization. This is the part of the edifice of society that society chooses to ignore. Lack of space compels me here to ignore it, and I shall say only that the things I there saw gave me a terrible scare.
I was scared into thinking. I saw the naked simplicities of the complicated civilization in which I lived. Life was a matter of food and shelter. In order to get food and shelter men sold things. The merchant sold shoes, the politician sold his manhood, and the representative of the people, with exceptions, of course, sold his trust; while nearly all sold their honor. Women, too, whether on the street or in the holy bond of wedlock, were prone to sell their flesh. All things were commodities, all people bought and sold. The one commodity that labor had to sell was muscle. The honor of labor had no price in the market-place. Labor had muscle, and muscle alone, to sell.
But there was a difference, a vital difference. Shoes and trust and honor had a way of renewing themselves. They were imperishable stocks. Muscle, on the other hand, did not renew. As the shoe merchant sold shoes, he continued to replenish his stock. But there was no way of replenishing the laborer’s stock of muscle. The more he sold of his muscle, the less of it remained to him. It was his one commodity, and each day his stock of it diminished. In the end, if he did not die before, he sold out and put up his shutters. He was a muscle bankrupt, and nothing remained to him but to go down into the cellar of society and perish miserably.
I learned, further, that brain was likewise a commodity. It, too, was different from muscle. A brain seller was only at his prime when he was fifty or sixty years old, and his wares were fetching higher prices than ever. But a laborer was worked out or broken down at forty-five or fifty. I had been in the cellar of society, and I did not like the place as a habitation. The pipes and drains were unsanitary, and the air was bad to breathe. If I could not live on the parlor floor of society, I could, at any rate, have a try at the attic. It was true, the diet there was slim, but the air at least was pure. So I resolved to sell no more muscle, and to become a vender of brains.
Then began a frantic pursuit of knowledge. I returned to California and opened the books. While thus equipping, myself to become a brain merchant, it was inevitable that I should delve into sociology. There I found, in a certain class of books, scientifically formulated, the simple sociological concepts I had already worked out for myself. Other and greater minds, before I was born, had worked out all that I had thought and a vast deal more. I discovered that I was a socialist.
The socialists were revolutionists, inasmuch as they struggled to overthrow the society of the present, and out of the material to build the society of the future. I, too, was a socialist and a revolutionist. I joined the groups of working-class and intellectual revolutionists, and for the first time came into intellectual living. Here I found keen-flashing intellects and brilliant wits; for here I met strong and alert-brained, withal horny-handed, members of the working-class; unfrocked preachers too wide in their Christianity for any congregation of Mammon-worshippers; professors broken on the wheel of university subservience to the ruling class and flung out because they were quick with knowledge which they strove to apply to the affairs of mankind.
Here I found, also, warm faith in the human, glowing idealism, sweetnesses of unselfishness, renunciation, and martyrdom — all the splendid, stinging things of the spirit. Here life was clean, noble, and alive. Here life rehabilitated itself, became wonderful and glorious; and I was glad to be alive. I was in touch with great souls who exalted flesh and spirit over dollars and cents, and to whom the thin wail of the starved slum child meant more than all the pomp and circumstance of commercial expansion and world empire. All about me were nobleness of purpose and heroism of effort, and my days and nights were sunshine and starshine, all fire and dew, with before my eyes, ever burning and blazing, the Holy Grail, Christ’s own Grail, the warm human, long-suffering and maltreated, but to be rescued and saved at the last.
And I, poor foolish I, deemed all this to be a mere foretaste of the delights of living I should find higher above me in society. I had lost many illusions since the day I read “Seaside Library” novels on the California ranch. I was destined to lose many of the illusions I still retained.
As a brain merchant I was a success. Society opened its portals to me. I entered right in on the parlor floor, and my disillusionment proceeded rapidly. I sat down to dinner with the masters of society, and with the wives and daughters of the masters of society. The women were gowned beautifully, I admit; but to my naive surprise I discovered that they were of the same clay as all the rest of the women I had known down below in the cellar. “The colonel’s lady and Judy O’Grady were sisters under their skins” — and gowns.
It was not this, however, so much as their materialism, that shocked me. It is true, these beautifully gowned, beautiful women prattled sweet little ideals and dear little moralities; but in spite of their prattle the dominant key of the life they lived was materialistic. And they were so sentimentally selfish! They assisted in all kinds of sweet little charities, and informed one of the fact, while all the time the food they ate and the beautiful clothes they wore were bought out of dividends stained with the blood of child labor, and sweated labor, and of prostitution itself. When I mentioned such facts, expecting in my innocence that these sisters of Judy O’Grady would at once strip off their blood-dyed silks and jewels, they became excited and angry, and read me preachments about the lack of thrift, the drink, and the innate depravity that caused all the misery in society’s cellar. When I mentioned that I couldn’t quite see that it was the lack of thrift, the intemperance, and the depravity of a half-starved child of six that made it work twelve hours every night in a Southern cotton mill, these sisters of Judy O’Grady attacked my private life and called me an “agitator” — as though that, forsooth, settled the argument.
Nor did I fare better with the masters themselves. I had expected to find men who were clean, noble, and alive, whose ideals were clean, noble, and alive. I went about amongst the men who sat in the high places — the preachers, the politicians, the business men, the professors, and the editors. I ate meat with them, drank wine with them, automobiled with them, and studied them. It is true, I found many that were clean and noble; but with rare exceptions, they were not alive. I do verily believe I could count the exceptions on the fingers of my two hands. Where they were not alive with rottenness, quick with unclean life, they were merely the unburied dead — clean and noble, like well-preserved mummies, but not alive. In this connection I may especially mention the professors I met, the men who live up to that decadent university ideal, “the passionless pursuit of passionless intelligence.”
I met men who invoked the name of the Prince of Peace in their diatribes against war, and who put rifles in the hands of Pinkertons with which to shoot down strikers in their own factories. I met men incoherent with indignation at the brutality of prize-fighting, and who, at the same time, were parties to the adulteration of food that killed each year more babies than even red-handed Herod had killed.
I talked in hotels and clubs and homes and Pullmans and steamer-chairs with captains of industry, and marvelled at how little travelled they were in the realm of intellect. On the other hand, I discovered that their intellect, in the business sense, was abnormally developed. Also, I discovered that their morality, where business was concerned, was nil.
This delicate, aristocratic-featured gentleman, was a dummy director and a tool of corporations that secretly robbed widows and orphans. This gentleman, who collected fine editions and was an especial patron of literature, paid blackmail to a heavy-jowled, black-browed boss of a municipal machine. This editor, who published patent medicine advertisements and did not dare print the truth in his paper about said patent medicines for fear of losing the advertising, called me a scoundrelly demagogue because I told him that his political economy was antiquated and that his biology was contemporaneous with Pliny.
This senator was the tool and the slave, the little puppet of a gross, uneducated machine boss; so was this governor and this supreme court judge; and all three rode on railroad passes. This man, talking soberly and earnestly about the beauties of idealism and the goodness of God, had just betrayed his comrades in a business deal. This man, a pillar of the church and heavy contributor to foreign missions, worked his shop girls ten hours a day on a starvation wage and thereby directly encouraged prostitution. This man, who endowed chairs in universities, perjured himself in courts of law over a matter of dollars and cents. And this railroad magnate broke his word as a gentleman and a Christian when he granted a secret rebate to one of two captains of industry locked together in a struggle to the death.
It was the same everywhere, crime and betrayal, betrayal and crime — men who were alive, but who were neither clean nor noble, men who were clean and noble but who were not alive. Then there was a great, hopeless mass, neither noble nor alive, but merely clean. It did not sin positively nor deliberately; but it did sin passively and ignorantly by acquiescing in the current immorality and profiting by it. Had it been noble and alive it would not have been ignorant, and it would have refused to share in the profits of betrayal and crime.
I discovered that I did not like to live on the parlor floor of society. Intellectually I was bored. Morally and spiritually I was sickened. I remembered my intellectuals and idealists, my unfrocked preachers, broken professors, and clean-minded, class-conscious workingmen. I remembered my days and nights of sunshine and starshine, where life was all a wild sweet wonder, a spiritual paradise of unselfish adventure and ethical romance. And I saw before me, ever blazing and burning, the Holy Grail.
So I went back to the working-class, in which I had been born and where I belonged. I care no longer to climb. The imposing edifice of society above my head holds no delights for me. It is the foundation of the edifice that interests me. There I am content to labor, crowbar in hand, shoulder to shoulder with intellectuals, idealists, and class-conscious workingmen, getting a solid pry now and again and setting the whole edifice rocking. Some day, when we get a few more hands and crowbars to work, we’ll topple it over, along with all its rotten life and unburied dead, its monstrous selfishness and sodden materialism. Then we’ll cleanse the cellar and build a new habitation for mankind, in which there will be no parlor floor, in which all the rooms will be bright and airy, and where the air that is breathed will be clean, noble, and alive.
Such is my outlook. I look forward to a time when man shall progress upon something worthier and higher than his stomach, when there will be a finer incentive to impel men to action than the incentive of to-day, which is the incentive of the stomach. I retain my belief in the nobility and excellence of the human. I believe that spiritual sweetness and unselfishness will conquer the gross gluttony of to-day. And last of all, my faith is in the working-class. As some Frenchman has said, “The stairway of time is ever echoing with the wooden shoe going up, the polished boot descending.”
NEWTON, IOWA, November, 1905
Source: Revolution and Other Essays (New York: Macmillan, 1910), online: http://www.jacklondons.net/writings/Revolution/life.html
George Floyd and the “Color” of Revolution
The Man of the Twentieth Century: Remembering Ernst Jünger (March 29, 1895–February 17, 1998)
Counter-Currents Radio Podcast No. 525 On Capitalism, Socialism, & the Ethnostate
Twelve Months Later: Anthony Burgess’ 1985
The Populist Moment, Chapter 9, Part 2: “Conservatives of the Left” & the Critique of Value
The Populist Moment, Chapter 8:
Ernesto Laclau & Left-Wing Populism
The Populist Moment, Chapter 7:
Money & the Right
Remembering P. R. Stephensen (November 20, 1901-May 28, 1965)
we did’ not get [= we did not get]
I loved hard- work [= hard work].
London was mistaken, too. Live long enough, and you will see that out of all of them, it is William Gayley Simpson who was right.
Jack London fulfills the Counter-Currents image of heroic male – dissolute, short-lived–“transcendent”. Acknowledging that I truly loved Call of the Wild and White Fang as a voracious young reader, and that three years ago two of the Christmas gifts I gave to family members were copies of To Build a Fire and Other Stories, as a female and as a racialist, I see the other side of what comprised his short life.
London wrote Call of the Wild, The Sea-Wolf, and the first version of To Light a Fire between 1900-1904, the years during which he was married to Bessie Maddern, who gave birth to his only offspring, Joan and Becky. He is said to have applied to Bessie a quotation to the effect that “her narrow feet were planted in the ground.”
In 1905 he abandoned his wife and daughters to marry Charmian, about whom Wikipedia states, “Every biographer alludes to Charmian’s uninhibited sexuality.” And, indeed, she engaged in many sexual liaisons both before her marriage and after London’s death, the latter including Harry Houdini, who she called, affectionately, “Magic Man.”
In addition to artistic endeavors of decreasing importance, his years with Charmian, 1905-1916, were filled with travels to exotic places, presumably satiating sex, and beyond presumption–alcoholism, illness, and early death.
I see London’s actual racialism and racial altruism here:
http://www.jack-london.de/joan-london/08-intro.htm An Introduction to the Jack London family.
and here: http://london.sonoma.edu/Documents/will.html Jack London’s Final Will
In her novel, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, Betty Smith creates a deeply moving portrait of a young family engaged in the actual struggle between dreaming and living that we all must reconcile. Here are episodes 7 and 12 of the 1945 film, with inspired performances by all the stars, but most especially by the gifted young Peggy Ann Garner.
Your claim that I am upholding dissolute and self-destructive behaviors as heroic or ideal is crap. You owe me a proof or an apology.
I already posted a comment to that effect regarding Mr. Watts, and I only did that after having several times before questioned, silently, the value of the male models you place before the readers. I’ve remained silent because I know that website owners have the right to decide the content of their own website.
As you’ll recall, I posted a highly favorable comment at Majority Rights about Counter-Currents, to the effect that, at that time, it was the only White nationalist website that knew what it was doing and had the talent to carry it out.
Shortly thereafter, I filled my cart up to $150 in your store and allowed it to sit for two days, when my new Visa month would begin (I pay the balance every month). In that two-day interval, you posted another Ludovici critique of women. Thinking, what’s the use, I emptied the cart. $150 isn’t so important, but I think the provocation is.
I see you’ve chosen a pornographic photo to accompany Michael Bell’s article on secondary school teachers. An arbitrary choice, nastily hostile toward women.
My own 10 years of experience as a teacher in grades 4, 5, and 6 revealed to me the glaring fact that the blame for the (intentional) weakening of standards came directly from male administrators, under penalty of raises withheld or actual firing — also the fact that the best teachers were traditional old-school females.
Your website is fundamentally hostile to women, directly, in the form of denigrating critique, and indirectly, in the form of holding up for admiration men who have not engaged in mutually constructive relationships with women. It”s your right to do that.
I see a conflict between that position and the equally fundamental rallying cry for protecting the future of our race. It’s my right to do that.
If you considered my Comment to be so offensive as to warrant an apology, then perhaps you shouldn’t have posted it. I can assure you, I’ve been equally offended by some of the things you’ve chosen to post about women, among whose numbers I count myself; I suspect no apology awaits my discovery.
I hope you appreciated the rest of my Comment. I named my daughter Peggy Anne.
Far be it from me to tell a lady how to argue, but you would sound more plausible, and less like you have a chip on your shoulder or an axe to grind, if you would not say silly things like characterizing a picture of pinheads (microcephalics) as pornography. Moreover, it was the practice to dress all pinheads, male or female, in the same style.
I’m going to continue to post articles about people we New Rightists admire, or should admire. You have a free hand to scold, boycott, and post Moral Credit Reports in the comments. Personally, I’d let God sort it out.
No apology required.
It is more than obvious that most of the few women who come to these sites consider themselves allies of ALL white women, even the Lindsey Lohan types. This is obvious because they do not care about any distinction. For example, an article or post condemning behavior such as Lohan engages in is immediately attacked by women as being hostile to women in general.
This is a sad state of affairs when most white women are now allies of homosexuals, drug addicts, non whites, Jews, and all varieties of sluts, paid or otherwise. Though a few must now prefer to be in strictly white company and are coming to WN”s sites and organizations, that is all. An all white Lindsey Lohan club is just fine for them, and would be acceptable as an end game scenario.
I am coming late to this post, but I feel London’s telling of his observations of Capitalism and Socialism is worth comment. The capitalist Captains of Industry he describes, were probably 95% of White European heritage. But also, so were their workers, and the Socialists he associated with later, though there were significant numbers of Mexicans and Chinese here as well. But, today, I consider Socialists as mostly of minority background, certainly here in California, and all are opposed tooth and nail to White Nationalism. So. where ought we to stand in this historical economics battle?
My mother worked in the garment industry factories in Hollywood and Los Angeles, since a smashed knee at age 7 left her partly disabled. After a divorce when I was eight, she raised me as a ‘single mom’, and continually admonished me to ‘get my head out of the clouds’ and learn office skills, typing, etc., so I could get a job in an office where I ‘wouldn’t have to get my hands dirty’, and after reading London’s experiences (though he’s a male), I can see her point. I worked in offices all my life, though I later got two college degrees in my heart’s delight — Art History and World History. And, in the evenings, I also learned Capitalist Finance in ‘get rich’ books about investing, but unlike London, I stuck with low interest rates on savings for years, which now allows me to live in comfort in old age. I am a capitalist, through and through, though I do see its limitations and nasty, manipulative side. I also do admit that most Americans and Europeans today are mired in ‘sodden materialism’, as they were in London’s time. That’s human nature, I fear, and occurs in every race, even ours.
I do admire London’s writing and this essay is a marvelous insight into the idealism and reality of ‘class warfare’, which will ever plague us, I fear.
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