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- Джек Лондон
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- Мартин Иден
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"
The
first
dollar
I
ever
made
in
my
life
out
of
my
philosophy
,
"
Kreis
remarked
,
as
he
paused
in
the
doorway
.
"
And
then
the
market
broke
.
"
Mrs
.
Morse
drove
by
Martin
on
the
street
one
day
,
and
smiled
and
nodded
.
He
smiled
back
and
lifted
his
hat
.
The
episode
did
not
affect
him
.
A
month
before
it
might
have
disgusted
him
,
or
made
him
curious
and
set
him
to
speculating
about
her
state
of
consciousness
at
that
moment
.
But
now
it
was
not
provocative
of
a
second
thought
.
He
forgot
about
it
the
next
moment
.
He
forgot
about
it
as
he
would
have
forgotten
the
Central
Bank
Building
or
the
City
Hall
after
having
walked
past
them
.
Yet
his
mind
was
preternaturally
active
.
His
thoughts
went
ever
around
and
around
in
a
circle
.
The
centre
of
that
circle
was
"
work
performed
"
;
it
ate
at
his
brain
like
a
deathless
maggot
.
He
awoke
to
it
in
the
morning
.
It
tormented
his
dreams
at
night
.
Every
affair
of
life
around
him
that
penetrated
through
his
senses
immediately
related
itself
to
"
work
performed
.
"
He
drove
along
the
path
of
relentless
logic
to
the
conclusion
that
he
was
nobody
,
nothing
.
Mart
Eden
,
the
hoodlum
,
and
Mart
Eden
,
the
sailor
,
had
been
real
,
had
been
he
;
but
Martin
Eden
!
the
famous
writer
,
did
not
exist
.
Martin
Eden
,
the
famous
writer
,
was
a
vapor
that
had
arisen
in
the
mob
-
mind
and
by
the
mob
-
mind
had
been
thrust
into
the
corporeal
being
of
Mart
Eden
,
the
hoodlum
and
sailor
.
But
it
couldn
’
t
fool
him
.
He
was
not
that
sun
-
myth
that
the
mob
was
worshipping
and
sacrificing
dinners
to
.
He
knew
better
.
He
read
the
magazines
about
himself
,
and
pored
over
portraits
of
himself
published
therein
until
he
was
unable
to
associate
his
identity
with
those
portraits
.
He
was
the
fellow
who
had
lived
and
thrilled
and
loved
;
who
had
been
easy
-
going
and
tolerant
of
the
frailties
of
life
;
who
had
served
in
the
forecastle
,
wandered
in
strange
lands
,
and
led
his
gang
in
the
old
fighting
days
.
He
was
the
fellow
who
had
been
stunned
at
first
by
the
thousands
of
books
in
the
free
library
,
and
who
had
afterward
learned
his
way
among
them
and
mastered
them
;
he
was
the
fellow
who
had
burned
the
midnight
oil
and
bedded
with
a
spur
and
written
books
himself
.
But
the
one
thing
he
was
not
was
that
colossal
appetite
that
all
the
mob
was
bent
upon
feeding
.
There
were
things
,
however
,
in
the
magazines
that
amused
him
.
All
the
magazines
were
claiming
him
.
Warren
’
s
Monthly
advertised
to
its
subscribers
that
it
was
always
on
the
quest
after
new
writers
,
and
that
,
among
others
,
it
had
introduced
Martin
Eden
to
the
reading
public
.
The
White
Mouse
claimed
him
;
so
did
The
Northern
Review
and
Mackintosh
’
s
Magazine
,
until
silenced
by
The
Globe
,
which
pointed
triumphantly
to
its
files
where
the
mangled
"
Sea
Lyrics
"
lay
buried
.
Youth
and
Age
,
which
had
come
to
life
again
after
having
escaped
paying
its
bills
,
put
in
a
prior
claim
,
which
nobody
but
farmers
’
children
ever
read
.
The
Transcontinental
made
a
dignified
and
convincing
statement
of
how
it
first
discovered
Martin
Eden
,
which
was
warmly
disputed
by
The
Hornet
,
with
the
exhibit
of
"
The
Peri
and
the
Pearl
.
"
The
modest
claim
of
Singletree
,
Darnley
&
Co
.
was
lost
in
the
din
.
Besides
,
that
publishing
firm
did
not
own
a
magazine
wherewith
to
make
its
claim
less
modest
.
The
newspapers
calculated
Martin
’
s
royalties
.
In
some
way
the
magnificent
offers
certain
magazines
had
made
him
leaked
out
,
and
Oakland
ministers
called
upon
him
in
a
friendly
way
,
while
professional
begging
letters
began
to
clutter
his
mail
.
But
worse
than
all
this
were
the
women
.
His
photographs
were
published
broadcast
,
and
special
writers
exploited
his
strong
,
bronzed
face
,
his
scars
,
his
heavy
shoulders
,
his
clear
,
quiet
eyes
,
and
the
slight
hollows
in
his
cheeks
like
an
ascetic
’
s
.
At
this
last
he
remembered
his
wild
youth
and
smiled
.
Often
,
among
the
women
he
met
,
he
would
see
now
one
,
now
another
,
looking
at
him
,
appraising
him
,
selecting
him
.
He
laughed
to
himself
.
He
remembered
Brissenden
’
s
warning
and
laughed
again
.
The
women
would
never
destroy
him
,
that
much
was
certain
.
He
had
gone
past
that
stage
.
Once
,
walking
with
Lizzie
toward
night
school
,
she
caught
a
glance
directed
toward
him
by
a
well
-
gowned
,
handsome
woman
of
the
bourgeoisie
.
The
glance
was
a
trifle
too
long
,
a
shade
too
considerative
.
Lizzie
knew
it
for
what
it
was
,
and
her
body
tensed
angrily
.
Martin
noticed
,
noticed
the
cause
of
it
,
told
her
how
used
he
was
becoming
to
it
and
that
he
did
not
care
anyway
.
"
You
ought
to
care
,
"
she
answered
with
blazing
eyes
.
"
You
’
re
sick
.
That
’
s
what
’
s
the
matter
.
"
"
Never
healthier
in
my
life
.
I
weigh
five
pounds
more
than
I
ever
did
.
"
"
It
ain
’
t
your
body
.
It
’
s
your
head
.
Something
’
s
wrong
with
your
think
-
machine
.
Even
I
can
see
that
,
an
’
I
ain
’
t
nobody
.
"
