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- Джек Лондон
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- Мартин Иден
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"
Oh
,
"
Martin
said
as
he
turned
and
went
out
.
At
the
corner
he
stepped
into
the
Western
Union
and
sent
a
telegram
to
The
Parthenon
,
advising
them
to
proceed
with
the
publication
of
the
poem
.
He
had
in
his
pocket
but
five
cents
with
which
to
pay
his
carfare
home
,
so
he
sent
the
message
collect
.
Once
in
his
room
,
he
resumed
his
writing
.
The
days
and
nights
came
and
went
,
and
he
sat
at
his
table
and
wrote
on
.
He
went
nowhere
,
save
to
the
pawnbroker
,
took
no
exercise
,
and
ate
methodically
when
he
was
hungry
and
had
something
to
cook
,
and
just
as
methodically
went
without
when
he
had
nothing
to
cook
.
Composed
as
the
story
was
,
in
advance
,
chapter
by
chapter
,
he
nevertheless
saw
and
developed
an
opening
that
increased
the
power
of
it
,
though
it
necessitated
twenty
thousand
additional
words
.
It
was
not
that
there
was
any
vital
need
that
the
thing
should
be
well
done
,
but
that
his
artistic
canons
compelled
him
to
do
it
well
.
He
worked
on
in
the
daze
,
strangely
detached
from
the
world
around
him
,
feeling
like
a
familiar
ghost
among
these
literary
trappings
of
his
former
life
.
He
remembered
that
some
one
had
said
that
a
ghost
was
the
spirit
of
a
man
who
was
dead
and
who
did
not
have
sense
enough
to
know
it
;
and
he
paused
for
the
moment
to
wonder
if
he
were
really
dead
and
unaware
of
it
.
Came
the
day
when
"
Overdue
"
was
finished
.
The
agent
of
the
type
-
writer
firm
had
come
for
the
machine
,
and
he
sat
on
the
bed
while
Martin
,
on
the
one
chair
,
typed
the
last
pages
of
the
final
chapter
.
"
Finis
,
"
he
wrote
,
in
capitals
,
at
the
end
,
and
to
him
it
was
indeed
finis
.
He
watched
the
type
-
writer
carried
out
the
door
with
a
feeling
of
relief
,
then
went
over
and
lay
down
on
the
bed
.
He
was
faint
from
hunger
.
Food
had
not
passed
his
lips
in
thirty
-
six
hours
,
but
he
did
not
think
about
it
.
He
lay
on
his
back
,
with
closed
eyes
,
and
did
not
think
at
all
,
while
the
daze
or
stupor
slowly
welled
up
,
saturating
his
consciousness
.
Half
in
delirium
,
he
began
muttering
aloud
the
lines
of
an
anonymous
poem
Brissenden
had
been
fond
of
quoting
to
him
.
Maria
,
listening
anxiously
outside
his
door
,
was
perturbed
by
his
monotonous
utterance
.
The
words
in
themselves
were
not
significant
to
her
,
but
the
fact
that
he
was
saying
them
was
.
"
I
have
done
,
"
was
the
burden
of
the
poem
.
"
‘
I
have
done
—
Put
by
the
lute
.
Song
and
singing
soon
are
over
As
the
airy
shades
that
hover
In
among
the
purple
clover
.
