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- Джек Лондон
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- Стр. 191/210
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Jake
Oppenheimer
was
responsible
for
a
good
one
on
the
Warden
which
I
must
relate
:
"
I
say
,
Warden
,
it
must
be
straight
hell
for
you
to
have
to
wake
up
every
morning
with
yourself
on
your
pillow
.
"
And
Ed
Morrell
to
the
Warden
:
"
Your
mother
must
have
been
damn
fond
of
children
to
have
raised
you
.
"
It
was
really
an
offence
to
me
when
the
jacketing
ceased
.
I
sadly
missed
that
dream
world
of
mine
.
But
not
for
long
.
I
found
that
I
could
suspend
animation
by
the
exercise
of
my
will
,
aided
mechanically
by
constricting
my
chest
and
abdomen
with
the
blanket
.
Thus
I
induced
physiological
and
psychological
states
similar
to
those
caused
by
the
jacket
.
So
,
at
will
,
and
without
the
old
torment
,
I
was
free
to
roam
through
time
.
Ed
Morrell
believed
all
my
adventures
,
but
Jake
Oppenheimer
remained
sceptical
to
the
last
.
It
was
during
my
third
year
in
solitary
that
I
paid
Oppenheimer
a
visit
.
I
was
never
able
to
do
it
but
that
once
,
and
that
one
time
was
wholly
unplanned
and
unexpected
.
It
was
merely
after
unconsciousness
had
come
to
me
that
I
found
myself
in
his
cell
.
My
body
,
I
knew
,
lay
in
the
jacket
back
in
my
own
cell
.
Although
never
before
had
I
seen
him
,
I
knew
that
this
man
was
Jake
Oppenheimer
.
It
was
summer
weather
,
and
he
lay
without
clothes
on
top
his
blanket
.
I
was
shocked
by
his
cadaverous
face
and
skeleton-like
body
.
He
was
not
even
the
shell
of
a
man
.
He
was
merely
the
structure
of
a
man
,
the
bones
of
a
man
,
still
cohering
,
stripped
practically
of
all
flesh
and
covered
with
a
parchment-like
skin
.
Not
until
back
in
my
own
cell
and
consciousness
was
I
able
to
mull
the
thing
over
and
realize
that
just
as
was
Jake
Oppenheimer
,
so
was
Ed
Morrell
,
so
was
I.
And
I
could
not
but
thrill
as
I
glimpsed
the
vastitude
of
spirit
that
inhabited
these
frail
,
perishing
carcasses
of
us
--
the
three
incorrigibles
of
solitary
.
Flesh
is
a
cheap
,
vain
thing
.
Grass
is
flesh
,
and
flesh
becomes
grass
;
but
the
spirit
is
the
thing
that
abides
and
survives
.
I
have
no
patience
with
these
flesh-worshippers
.
A
taste
of
solitary
in
San
Quentin
would
swiftly
convert
them
to
a
due
appreciation
and
worship
of
the
spirit
.
But
to
return
to
my
experience
in
Oppenheimer
's
cell
.
His
body
was
that
of
a
man
long
dead
and
shrivelled
by
desert
heat
.
The
skin
that
covered
it
was
of
the
colour
of
dry
mud
.
His
sharp
,
yellow-gray
eyes
seemed
the
only
part
of
him
that
was
alive
.
They
were
never
at
rest
.
He
lay
on
his
back
,
and
the
eyes
darted
hither
and
thither
,
following
the
flight
of
the
several
flies
that
disported
in
the
gloomy
air
above
him
.
I
noted
,
too
,
a
scar
,
just
above
his
right
elbow
,
and
another
scar
on
his
right
ankle
.
