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- Джек Лондон
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Morrell
said
he
would
take
it
up
some
time
,
but
that
he
disliked
to
such
an
extent
the
process
of
leaving
his
body
that
he
would
not
make
the
attempt
until
such
time
that
his
suffering
in
the
jacket
became
too
extreme
to
be
borne
.
"
That
is
the
way
with
all
of
them
--
wo
n't
come
across
with
the
goods
,
"
was
Oppenheimer
's
criticism
.
"
My
mother
believed
in
spirits
.
When
I
was
a
kid
she
was
always
seeing
them
and
talking
with
them
and
getting
advice
from
them
.
But
she
never
come
across
with
any
goods
from
them
.
The
spirits
could
n't
tell
her
where
the
old
man
could
nail
a
job
or
find
a
gold-mine
or
mark
an
eight-spot
in
Chinese
lottery
.
Not
on
your
life
.
The
bunk
they
told
her
was
that
the
old
man
's
uncle
had
had
a
goitre
,
or
that
the
old
man
's
grandfather
had
died
of
galloping
consumption
,
or
that
we
were
going
to
move
house
inside
four
months
,
which
last
was
dead
easy
,
seeing
as
we
moved
on
an
average
of
six
times
a
year
.
"
I
think
,
had
Oppenheimer
had
the
opportunity
for
thorough
education
,
he
would
have
made
a
Marinetti
or
a
Haeckel
.
He
was
an
earth-man
in
his
devotion
to
the
irrefragable
fact
,
and
his
logic
was
admirable
though
frosty
.
"
You
've
got
to
show
me
,
"
was
the
ground
rule
by
which
he
considered
all
things
.
He
lacked
the
slightest
iota
of
faith
.
This
was
what
Morrell
had
pointed
out
.
Lack
of
faith
had
prevented
Oppenheimer
from
succeeding
in
achieving
the
little
death
in
the
jacket
.
You
will
see
,
my
reader
,
that
it
was
not
all
hopelessly
bad
in
solitary
.
Given
three
minds
such
as
ours
,
there
was
much
with
which
to
while
away
the
time
.
It
might
well
be
that
we
kept
one
another
from
insanity
,
although
I
must
admit
that
Oppenheimer
rotted
five
years
in
solitary
entirely
by
himself
,
ere
Morrell
joined
him
,
and
yet
had
remained
sane
.
On
the
other
hand
,
do
not
make
the
mistake
of
thinking
that
life
in
solitary
was
one
wild
orgy
of
blithe
communion
and
exhilarating
psychological
research
.
We
had
much
and
terrible
pain
.
Our
guards
were
brutes
--
your
hang-dogs
,
citizen
.
Our
surroundings
were
vile
.
Our
food
was
filthy
,
monotonous
,
innutritious
.
Only
men
,
by
force
of
will
,
could
live
on
so
unbalanced
a
ration
.
I
know
that
our
prize
cattle
,
pigs
,
and
sheep
on
the
University
Demonstration
Farm
at
Davis
would
have
faded
away
and
died
had
they
received
no
more
scientifically
balanced
a
ration
than
what
we
received
.
We
had
no
books
to
read
.
Our
very
knuckle-talk
was
a
violation
of
the
rules
.
The
world
,
so
far
as
we
were
concerned
,
practically
did
not
exist
.
It
was
more
a
ghost-world
.
Oppenheimer
,
for
instance
,
had
never
seen
an
automobile
or
a
motor-cycle
.
News
did
occasionally
filter
in
--
but
such
dim
,
long-after-the-event
,
unreal
news
.
Oppenheimer
told
me
he
had
not
learned
of
the
Russo-Japanese
war
until
two
years
after
it
was
over
.
We
were
the
buried
alive
,
the
living
dead
.
Solitary
was
our
tomb
,
in
which
,
on
occasion
,
we
talked
with
our
knuckles
like
spirits
rapping
at
a
séance
.
News
?
Such
little
things
were
news
to
us
.
A
change
of
bakers
--
we
could
tell
it
by
our
bread
.
What
made
Pie-face
Jones
lay
off
a
week
?
Was
it
vacation
or
sickness
?
Why
was
Wilson
,
on
the
night
shift
for
only
ten
days
,
transferred
elsewhere
?
Where
did
Smith
get
that
black
eye
?
We
would
speculate
for
a
week
over
so
trivial
a
thing
as
the
last
.
Some
convict
given
a
month
in
solitary
was
an
event
.
And
yet
we
could
learn
nothing
from
such
transient
and
ofttimes
stupid
Dantes
who
would
remain
in
our
inferno
too
short
a
time
to
learn
knuckle-talk
ere
they
went
forth
again
into
the
bright
wide
world
of
the
living
.
