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- Джек Лондон
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- Стр. 196/210
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Oh
,
I
do
see
myself
to-day
that
one
man
who
appeared
in
the
elder
world
,
blonde
,
ferocious
,
a
killer
and
a
lover
,
a
meat-eater
and
a
root-digger
,
a
gypsy
and
a
robber
,
who
,
club
in
hand
,
through
millenniums
of
years
wandered
the
world
around
seeking
meat
to
devour
and
sheltered
nests
for
his
younglings
and
sucklings
.
I
am
that
man
,
the
sum
of
him
,
the
all
of
him
,
the
hairless
biped
who
struggled
upward
from
the
slime
and
created
love
and
law
out
of
the
anarchy
of
fecund
life
that
screamed
and
squalled
in
the
jungle
.
I
am
all
that
that
man
was
and
did
become
.
I
see
myself
,
through
the
painful
generations
,
snaring
and
killing
the
game
and
the
fish
,
clearing
the
first
fields
from
the
forest
,
making
rude
tools
of
stone
and
bone
,
building
houses
of
wood
,
thatching
the
roofs
with
leaves
and
straw
,
domesticating
the
wild
grasses
and
meadow-roots
,
fathering
them
to
become
the
progenitors
of
rice
and
millet
and
wheat
and
barley
and
all
manner
of
succulent
edibles
,
learning
to
scratch
the
soil
,
to
sow
,
to
reap
,
to
store
,
beating
out
the
fibres
of
plants
to
spin
into
thread
and
to
weave
into
cloth
,
devising
systems
of
irrigation
,
working
in
metals
,
making
markets
and
trade-routes
,
building
boats
,
and
founding
navigation
--
ay
,
and
organizing
village
life
,
welding
villages
to
villages
till
they
became
tribes
,
welding
tribes
together
till
they
became
nations
,
ever
seeking
the
laws
of
things
,
ever
making
the
laws
of
humans
so
that
humans
might
live
together
in
amity
and
by
united
effort
beat
down
and
destroy
all
manner
of
creeping
,
crawling
,
squalling
things
that
might
else
destroy
them
.
I
was
that
man
in
all
his
births
and
endeavours
.
I
am
that
man
to-day
,
waiting
my
due
death
by
the
law
that
I
helped
to
devise
many
a
thousand
years
ago
,
and
by
which
I
have
died
many
times
before
this
,
many
times
.
And
as
I
contemplate
this
vast
past
history
of
me
,
I
find
several
great
and
splendid
influences
,
and
,
chiefest
of
these
,
the
love
of
woman
,
man
's
love
for
the
woman
of
his
kind
.
I
see
myself
,
the
one
man
,
the
lover
,
always
the
lover
.
Yes
,
also
was
I
the
great
fighter
,
but
somehow
it
seems
to
me
as
I
sit
here
and
evenly
balance
it
all
,
that
I
was
,
more
than
aught
else
,
the
great
lover
.
It
was
because
I
loved
greatly
that
I
was
the
great
fighter
.
Sometimes
I
think
that
the
story
of
man
is
the
story
of
the
love
of
woman
.
This
memory
of
all
my
past
that
I
write
now
is
the
memory
of
my
love
of
woman
.
Ever
,
in
the
ten
thousand
lives
and
guises
,
I
loved
her
.
I
love
her
now
.
My
sleep
is
fraught
with
her
;
my
waking
fancies
,
no
matter
whence
they
start
,
lead
me
always
to
her
.
There
is
no
escaping
her
,
that
eternal
,
splendid
,
ever-resplendent
figure
of
woman
.
Oh
,
make
no
mistake
.
I
am
no
callow
,
ardent
youth
.
I
am
an
elderly
man
,
broken
in
health
and
body
,
and
soon
to
die
.
I
am
a
scientist
and
a
philosopher
.
I
,
as
all
the
generations
of
philosophers
before
me
,
know
woman
for
what
she
is
--
her
weaknesses
,
and
meannesses
,
and
immodesties
,
and
ignobilities
,
her
earth-bound
feet
,
and
her
eyes
that
have
never
seen
the
stars
.
But
--
and
the
everlasting
,
irrefragable
fact
remains
:
Her
feet
are
beautiful
,
her
eyes
are
beautiful
,
her
arms
and
breasts
are
paradise
,
her
charm
is
potent
beyond
all
charm
that
has
ever
dazzled
men
;
and
,
as
the
pole
willy-nilly
draws
the
needle
,
just
so
,
willy-nilly
,
does
she
draw
men
.
Woman
has
made
me
laugh
at
death
and
distance
,
scorn
fatigue
and
sleep
.
I
have
slain
men
,
many
men
,
for
love
of
woman
,
or
in
warm
blood
have
baptized
our
nuptials
or
washed
away
the
stain
of
her
favour
to
another
.
I
have
gone
down
to
death
and
dishonour
,
my
betrayal
of
my
comrades
and
of
the
stars
black
upon
me
,
for
woman
's
sake
--
for
my
sake
,
rather
,
I
desired
her
so
.
And
I
have
lain
in
the
barley
,
sick
with
yearning
for
her
,
just
to
see
her
pass
and
glut
my
eyes
with
the
swaying
wonder
of
her
and
of
her
hair
,
black
with
the
night
,
or
brown
or
flaxen
,
or
all
golden-dusty
with
the
sun
.
For
woman
is
beautiful
...
to
man
.
She
is
sweet
to
his
tongue
,
and
fragrance
in
his
nostrils
.
She
is
fire
in
his
blood
,
and
a
thunder
of
trumpets
;
her
voice
is
beyond
all
music
in
his
ears
;
and
she
can
shake
his
soul
that
else
stands
steadfast
in
the
draughty
presence
of
the
Titans
of
the
Light
and
of
the
Dark
.
And
beyond
his
star-gazing
,
in
his
far-imagined
heavens
,
Valkyrie
or
houri
,
man
has
fain
made
place
for
her
,
for
he
could
see
no
heaven
without
her
.
And
the
sword
,
in
battle
,
singing
,
sings
not
so
sweet
a
song
as
the
woman
sings
to
man
merely
by
her
laugh
in
the
moonlight
,
or
her
love-sob
in
the
dark
,
or
by
her
swaying
on
her
way
under
the
sun
while
he
lies
dizzy
with
longing
in
the
grass
.
