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- Джек Лондон
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- Мартин Иден
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"
I
’
ll
send
one
of
the
youngsters
for
lemons
,
and
we
’
ll
make
a
toddy
,
"
Martin
offered
.
"
I
wonder
what
a
book
like
that
will
earn
Marlow
?
"
he
went
on
,
holding
up
the
volume
in
question
.
"
Possibly
fifty
dollars
,
"
came
the
answer
.
"
Though
he
’
s
lucky
if
he
pulls
even
on
it
,
or
if
he
can
inveigle
a
publisher
to
risk
bringing
it
out
.
"
"
Then
one
can
’
t
make
a
living
out
of
poetry
?
"
Martin
’
s
tone
and
face
alike
showed
his
dejection
.
"
Certainly
not
.
What
fool
expects
to
?
Out
of
rhyming
,
yes
.
There
’
s
Bruce
,
and
Virginia
Spring
,
and
Sedgwick
.
They
do
very
nicely
.
But
poetry
—
do
you
know
how
Vaughn
Marlow
makes
his
living
?
—
teaching
in
a
boys
’
cramming
-
joint
down
in
Pennsylvania
,
and
of
all
private
little
hells
such
a
billet
is
the
limit
.
I
wouldn
’
t
trade
places
with
him
if
he
had
fifty
years
of
life
before
him
.
And
yet
his
work
stands
out
from
the
ruck
of
the
contemporary
versifiers
as
a
balas
ruby
among
carrots
.
And
the
reviews
he
gets
!
Damn
them
,
all
of
them
,
the
crass
manikins
!
"
"
Too
much
is
written
by
the
men
who
can
’
t
write
about
the
men
who
do
write
,
"
Martin
concurred
.
"
Why
,
I
was
appalled
at
the
quantities
of
rubbish
written
about
Stevenson
and
his
work
.
"
"
Ghouls
and
harpies
!
"
Brissenden
snapped
out
with
clicking
teeth
.
"
Yes
,
I
know
the
spawn
—
complacently
pecking
at
him
for
his
Father
Damien
letter
,
analyzing
him
,
weighing
him
—
"
"
Measuring
him
by
the
yardstick
of
their
own
miserable
egos
,
"
Martin
broke
in
.
"
Yes
,
that
’
s
it
,
a
good
phrase
,
—
mouthing
and
besliming
the
True
,
and
Beautiful
,
and
Good
,
and
finally
patting
him
on
the
back
and
saying
,
‘
Good
dog
,
Fido
.
’
Faugh
!
‘
The
little
chattering
daws
of
men
,
’
Richard
Realf
called
them
the
night
he
died
.
"
