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- Джек Лондон
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Ah
,
what
royal
memories
are
mine
,
as
I
flutter
through
the
æons
of
the
long
ago
.
In
single
jacket
trances
I
have
lived
the
many
lives
involved
in
the
thousand-years-long
Odysseys
of
the
early
drifts
of
men
.
Heavens
,
before
I
was
of
the
flaxen-haired
Aesir
,
who
dwelt
in
Asgard
,
and
before
I
was
of
the
red-haired
Vanir
,
who
dwelt
in
Vanaheim
,
long
before
those
times
I
have
memories
(
living
memories
)
of
earlier
drifts
,
when
,
like
thistledown
before
the
breeze
,
we
drifted
south
before
the
face
of
the
descending
polar
ice-cap
.
I
have
died
of
frost
and
famine
,
fight
and
flood
.
I
have
picked
berries
on
the
bleak
backbone
of
the
world
,
and
I
have
dug
roots
to
eat
from
the
fat-soiled
fens
and
meadows
.
I
have
scratched
the
reindeer
's
semblance
and
the
semblance
of
the
hairy
mammoth
on
ivory
tusks
gotten
of
the
chase
and
on
the
rock
walls
of
cave
shelters
when
the
winter
storms
moaned
outside
.
I
have
cracked
marrow-bones
on
the
sites
of
kingly
cities
that
had
perished
centuries
before
my
time
or
that
were
destined
to
be
builded
centuries
after
my
passing
.
And
I
have
left
the
bones
of
my
transient
carcasses
in
pond
bottoms
,
and
glacial
gravels
,
and
asphaltum
lakes
.
I
have
lived
through
the
ages
known
to-day
among
the
scientists
as
the
Paleolithic
,
the
Neolithic
,
and
the
Bronze
.
I
remember
when
with
our
domesticated
wolves
we
herded
our
reindeer
to
pasture
on
the
north
shore
of
the
Mediterranean
where
now
are
France
and
Italy
and
Spain
.
This
was
before
the
ice-sheet
melted
backward
toward
the
pole
.
Many
processions
of
the
equinoxes
have
I
lived
through
and
died
in
,
my
reader
...
only
that
I
remember
and
that
you
do
not
.
I
have
been
a
Son
of
the
Plough
,
a
Son
of
the
Fish
,
a
Son
of
the
Tree
.
All
religions
from
the
beginnings
of
man
's
religious
time
abide
in
me
.
And
when
the
Dominie
,
in
the
chapel
,
here
in
Folsom
of
a
Sunday
,
worships
God
in
his
own
good
modern
way
,
I
know
that
in
him
,
the
Dominie
,
still
abide
the
worships
of
the
Plough
,
the
Fish
,
the
Tree
--
ay
,
and
also
all
worships
of
Astarte
and
the
Night
.
I
have
been
an
Aryan
master
in
old
Egypt
,
when
my
soldiers
scrawled
obscenities
on
the
carven
tombs
of
kings
dead
and
gone
and
forgotten
aforetime
.
And
I
,
the
Aryan
master
in
old
Egypt
,
have
myself
builded
my
two
burial
places
--
the
one
a
false
and
mighty
pyramid
to
which
a
generation
of
slaves
could
attest
;
the
other
humble
,
meagre
,
secret
,
rock-hewn
in
a
desert
valley
by
slaves
who
died
immediately
their
work
was
done
...
.
And
I
wonder
me
here
in
Folsom
,
while
democracy
dreams
its
enchantments
o'er
the
twentieth
century
world
,
whether
there
,
in
the
rock-hewn
crypt
of
that
secret
,
desert
valley
,
the
bones
still
abide
that
once
were
mine
and
that
stiffened
my
animated
body
when
I
was
an
Aryan
master
high-stomached
to
command
.
And
on
the
great
drift
,
southward
and
eastward
under
the
burning
sun
that
perished
all
descendants
of
the
houses
of
Asgard
and
Vanaheim
,
I
have
been
a
king
in
Ceylon
,
a
builder
of
Aryan
monuments
under
Aryan
kings
in
old
Java
and
old
Sumatra
.
And
I
have
died
a
hundred
deaths
on
the
great
South
Sea
drift
ere
ever
the
rebirth
of
me
came
to
plant
monuments
,
that
only
Aryans
plant
,
on
volcanic
tropic
islands
that
I
,
Darrell
Standing
,
can
not
name
,
being
too
little
versed
to-day
in
that
far
sea
geography
.
If
only
I
were
articulate
to
paint
in
the
frail
medium
of
words
what
I
see
and
know
and
possess
incorporated
in
my
consciousness
of
the
mighty
driftage
of
the
races
in
the
times
before
our
present
written
history
began
!
Yes
,
we
had
our
history
even
then
.
Our
old
men
,
our
priests
,
our
wise
ones
,
told
our
history
into
tales
and
wrote
those
tales
in
the
stars
so
that
our
seed
after
us
should
not
forget
.
From
the
sky
came
the
life-giving
rain
and
the
sunlight
.
And
we
studied
the
sky
,
learned
from
the
stars
to
calculate
time
and
apportion
the
seasons
;
and
we
named
the
stars
after
our
heroes
and
our
foods
and
our
devices
for
getting
food
;
and
after
our
wanderings
,
and
drifts
,
and
adventures
;
and
after
our
functions
and
our
furies
of
impulse
and
desire
.
And
,
alas
!
we
thought
the
heavens
unchanging
on
which
we
wrote
all
our
humble
yearnings
and
all
the
humble
things
we
did
or
dreamed
of
doing
.
When
I
was
a
Son
of
the
Bull
,
I
remember
me
a
lifetime
I
spent
at
star-gazing
.
And
,
later
and
earlier
,
there
were
other
lives
in
which
I
sang
with
the
priests
and
bards
the
taboo-songs
of
the
stars
wherein
we
believed
was
written
our
imperishable
record
.
And
here
,
at
the
end
of
it
all
,
I
pore
over
books
of
astronomy
from
the
prison
library
,
such
as
they
allow
condemned
men
to
read
,
and
learn
that
even
the
heavens
are
passing
fluxes
,
vexed
with
star-driftage
as
the
earth
is
by
the
drifts
of
men
.
Equipped
with
this
modern
knowledge
,
I
have
,
returning
through
the
little
death
from
my
earlier
lives
,
been
able
to
compare
the
heavens
then
and
now
.
And
the
stars
do
change
.
I
have
seen
pole
stars
and
pole
stars
and
dynasties
of
pole
stars
.
The
pole
star
to-day
is
in
Ursa
Minor
.
Yet
,
in
those
far
days
I
have
seen
the
pole
star
in
Draco
,
in
Hercules
,
in
Vega
,
in
Cygnus
,
and
in
Cepheus
.
No
;
not
even
the
stars
abide
,
and
yet
the
memory
and
the
knowledge
of
them
abides
in
me
,
in
the
spirit
of
me
that
is
memory
and
that
is
eternal
.
Only
spirit
abides
.
All
else
,
being
mere
matter
,
passes
,
and
must
pass
.
