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- Джек Лондон
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- Стр. 171/210
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Of
course
we
had
our
little
struggle
;
but
after
several
attempts
Doctor
Jackson
gave
it
up
.
Thereafter
the
space
occupied
in
Darrell
Standing
's
life
by
a
jacket-bout
was
scarcely
more
than
a
few
ticks
of
the
clock
.
Immediately
I
was
laced
I
devoted
myself
to
inducing
the
little
death
.
From
practice
it
became
simple
and
easy
.
I
suspended
animation
and
consciousness
so
quickly
that
I
escaped
the
really
terrible
suffering
consequent
upon
suspending
circulation
.
Most
quickly
came
the
dark
.
And
the
next
I
,
Darrell
Standing
,
knew
was
the
light
again
,
the
faces
bending
over
me
as
I
was
unlaced
,
and
the
knowledge
that
ten
days
had
passed
in
the
twinkling
of
an
eye
.
But
oh
,
the
wonder
and
the
glory
of
those
ten
days
spent
by
me
elsewhere
!
The
journeys
through
the
long
chain
of
existences
!
The
long
darks
,
the
growings
of
nebulous
lights
,
and
the
fluttering
apparitional
selves
that
dawned
through
the
growing
light
!
Much
have
I
pondered
upon
the
relation
of
these
other
selves
to
me
,
and
of
the
relation
of
the
total
experience
to
the
modern
doctrine
of
evolution
.
I
can
truly
say
that
my
experience
is
in
complete
accord
with
our
conclusions
of
evolution
.
I
,
like
any
man
,
am
a
growth
.
I
did
not
begin
when
I
was
born
nor
when
I
was
conceived
.
I
have
been
growing
,
developing
,
through
incalculable
myriads
of
millenniums
.
All
these
experiences
of
all
these
lives
,
and
of
countless
other
lives
,
have
gone
to
the
making
of
the
soul-stuff
or
the
spirit-stuff
that
is
I.
Do
n't
you
see
?
They
are
the
stuff
of
me
.
Matter
does
not
remember
,
for
spirit
is
memory
.
I
am
this
spirit
compounded
of
the
memories
of
my
endless
incarnations
.
Whence
came
in
me
,
Darrell
Standing
,
the
red
pulse
of
wrath
that
has
wrecked
my
life
and
put
me
in
the
condemned
cells
?
Surely
it
did
not
come
into
being
,
was
not
created
,
when
the
babe
that
was
to
be
Darrell
Standing
was
conceived
.
That
old
red
wrath
is
far
older
than
my
mother
,
far
older
than
the
oldest
and
first
mother
of
men
.
My
mother
,
at
my
inception
,
did
not
create
that
passionate
lack
of
fear
that
is
mine
.
Not
all
the
mothers
of
the
whole
evolution
of
men
manufactured
fear
or
fearlessness
in
men
.
Far
back
beyond
the
first
men
were
fear
and
fearlessness
,
love
,
hatred
,
anger
,
all
the
emotions
,
growing
,
developing
,
becoming
the
stuff
that
was
to
become
men
.
I
am
all
of
my
past
,
as
every
protagonist
of
the
Mendelian
law
must
agree
.
All
my
previous
selves
have
their
voices
,
echoes
,
promptings
in
me
.
My
every
mode
of
action
,
heat
of
passion
,
flicker
of
thought
is
shaded
,
toned
,
infinitesimally
shaded
and
toned
,
by
that
vast
array
of
other
selves
that
preceded
me
and
went
into
the
making
of
me
.
The
stuff
of
life
is
plastic
.
At
the
same
time
this
stuff
never
forgets
.
Mould
it
as
you
will
,
the
old
memories
persist
.
All
manner
of
horses
,
from
ton
Shires
to
dwarf
Shetlands
,
have
been
bred
up
and
down
from
those
first
wild
ponies
domesticated
by
primitive
man
.
Yet
to
this
day
man
has
not
bred
out
the
kick
of
the
horse
.
And
I
,
who
am
composed
of
those
first
horse-tamers
,
have
not
had
their
red
anger
bred
out
of
me
.
I
am
man
born
of
woman
.
My
days
are
few
,
but
the
stuff
of
me
is
indestructible
.
I
have
been
woman
born
of
woman
.
I
have
been
a
woman
and
borne
my
children
.
And
I
shall
be
born
again
.
Oh
,
incalculable
times
again
shall
I
be
born
;
and
yet
the
stupid
dolts
about
me
think
that
by
stretching
my
neck
with
a
rope
they
will
make
me
cease
.
Yes
,
I
shall
be
hanged
...
soon
.
This
is
the
end
of
June
.
