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- Джек Лондон
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- Мартин Иден
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The
picture
faded
,
and
before
his
eyes
stretched
the
disorder
of
his
squalid
room
.
He
strove
in
vain
to
see
Tahiti
again
.
He
knew
there
was
singing
among
the
trees
and
that
the
maidens
were
dancing
in
the
moonlight
,
but
he
could
not
see
them
.
He
could
see
only
the
littered
writing
-
table
,
the
empty
space
where
the
type
-
writer
had
stood
,
and
the
unwashed
window
-
pane
.
He
closed
his
eyes
with
a
groan
,
and
slept
.
He
slept
heavily
all
night
,
and
did
not
stir
until
aroused
by
the
postman
on
his
morning
round
.
Martin
felt
tired
and
passive
,
and
went
through
his
letters
aimlessly
.
One
thin
envelope
,
from
a
robber
magazine
,
contained
for
twenty
-
two
dollars
.
He
had
been
dunning
for
it
for
a
year
and
a
half
.
He
noted
its
amount
apathetically
.
The
old
-
time
thrill
at
receiving
a
publisher
’
s
check
was
gone
.
Unlike
his
earlier
checks
,
this
one
was
not
pregnant
with
promise
of
great
things
to
come
.
To
him
it
was
a
check
for
twenty
-
two
dollars
,
that
was
all
,
and
it
would
buy
him
something
to
eat
.
Another
check
was
in
the
same
mail
,
sent
from
a
New
York
weekly
in
payment
for
some
humorous
verse
which
had
been
accepted
months
before
.
It
was
for
ten
dollars
.
An
idea
came
to
him
,
which
he
calmly
considered
.
He
did
not
know
what
he
was
going
to
do
,
and
he
felt
in
no
hurry
to
do
anything
.
In
the
meantime
he
must
live
.
Also
he
owed
numerous
debts
.
Would
it
not
be
a
paying
investment
to
put
stamps
on
the
huge
pile
of
manuscripts
under
the
table
and
start
them
on
their
travels
again
?
One
or
two
of
them
might
be
accepted
.
That
would
help
him
to
live
.
He
decided
on
the
investment
,
and
,
after
he
had
cashed
the
checks
at
the
bank
down
in
Oakland
,
he
bought
ten
dollars
’
worth
of
postage
stamps
.
The
thought
of
going
home
to
cook
breakfast
in
his
stuffy
little
room
was
repulsive
to
him
.
For
the
first
time
he
refused
to
consider
his
debts
.
He
knew
that
in
his
room
he
could
manufacture
a
substantial
breakfast
at
a
cost
of
from
fifteen
to
twenty
cents
.
But
,
instead
,
he
went
into
the
Forum
Café
and
ordered
a
breakfast
that
cost
two
dollars
.
He
tipped
the
waiter
a
quarter
,
and
spent
fifty
cents
for
a
package
of
Egyptian
cigarettes
.
It
was
the
first
time
he
had
smoked
since
Ruth
had
asked
him
to
stop
.
But
he
could
see
now
no
reason
why
he
should
not
,
and
besides
,
he
wanted
to
smoke
.
And
what
did
the
money
matter
?
For
five
cents
he
could
have
bought
a
package
of
Durham
and
brown
papers
and
rolled
forty
cigarettes
—
but
what
of
it
?
Money
had
no
meaning
to
him
now
except
what
it
would
immediately
buy
.
He
was
chartless
and
rudderless
,
and
he
had
no
port
to
make
,
while
drifting
involved
the
least
living
,
and
it
was
living
that
hurt
.
The
days
slipped
along
,
and
he
slept
eight
hours
regularly
every
night
.
Though
now
,
while
waiting
for
more
checks
,
he
ate
in
the
Japanese
restaurants
where
meals
were
served
for
ten
cents
,
his
wasted
body
filled
out
,
as
did
the
hollows
in
his
cheeks
.
He
no
longer
abused
himself
with
short
sleep
,
overwork
,
and
overstudy
.
He
wrote
nothing
,
and
the
books
were
closed
.
He
walked
much
,
out
in
the
hills
,
and
loafed
long
hours
in
the
quiet
parks
.
He
had
no
friends
nor
acquaintances
,
nor
did
he
make
any
.
He
had
no
inclination
.
He
was
waiting
for
some
impulse
,
from
he
knew
not
where
,
to
put
his
stopped
life
into
motion
again
.
In
the
meantime
his
life
remained
run
down
,
planless
,
and
empty
and
idle
.
Once
he
made
a
trip
to
San
Francisco
to
look
up
the
"
real
dirt
.
"
But
at
the
last
moment
,
as
he
stepped
into
the
upstairs
entrance
,
he
recoiled
and
turned
and
fled
through
the
swarming
ghetto
.
He
was
frightened
at
the
thought
of
hearing
philosophy
discussed
,
and
he
fled
furtively
,
for
fear
that
some
one
of
the
"
real
dirt
"
might
chance
along
and
recognize
him
.
Sometimes
he
glanced
over
the
magazines
and
newspapers
to
see
how
"
Ephemera
"
was
being
maltreated
.
It
had
made
a
hit
.
But
what
a
hit
!
Everybody
had
read
it
,
and
everybody
was
discussing
whether
or
not
it
was
really
poetry
.
The
local
papers
had
taken
it
up
,
and
daily
there
appeared
columns
of
learned
criticisms
,
facetious
editorials
,
and
serious
letters
from
subscribers
.
Helen
Della
Delmar
(
proclaimed
with
a
flourish
of
trumpets
and
rolling
of
tomtoms
to
be
the
greatest
woman
poet
in
the
United
States
)
denied
Brissenden
a
seat
beside
her
on
Pegasus
and
wrote
voluminous
letters
to
the
public
,
proving
that
he
was
no
poet
.
The
Parthenon
came
out
in
its
next
number
patting
itself
on
the
back
for
the
stir
it
had
made
,
sneering
at
Sir
John
Value
,
and
exploiting
Brissenden
’
s
death
with
ruthless
commercialism
.
A
newspaper
with
a
sworn
circulation
of
half
a
million
published
an
original
and
spontaneous
poem
by
Helen
Della
Delmar
,
in
which
she
gibed
and
sneered
at
Brissenden
.
Also
,
she
was
guilty
of
a
second
poem
,
in
which
she
parodied
him
.
