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- Джек Лондон
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And
all
the
while
,
interested
in
the
discussion
,
Martin
had
been
aware
of
an
irk
in
it
as
well
.
It
was
about
studies
and
lessons
,
dealing
with
the
rudiments
of
knowledge
,
and
the
schoolboyish
tone
of
it
conflicted
with
the
big
things
that
were
stirring
in
him
—
with
the
grip
upon
life
that
was
even
then
crooking
his
fingers
like
eagle
’
s
talons
,
with
the
cosmic
thrills
that
made
him
ache
,
and
with
the
inchoate
consciousness
of
mastery
of
it
all
.
He
likened
himself
to
a
poet
,
wrecked
on
the
shores
of
a
strange
land
,
filled
with
power
of
beauty
,
stumbling
and
stammering
and
vainly
trying
to
sing
in
the
rough
,
barbaric
tongue
of
his
brethren
in
the
new
land
.
And
so
with
him
.
He
was
alive
,
painfully
alive
,
to
the
great
universal
things
,
and
yet
he
was
compelled
to
potter
and
grope
among
schoolboy
topics
and
debate
whether
or
not
he
should
study
Latin
.
"
What
in
hell
has
Latin
to
do
with
it
?
"
he
demanded
before
his
mirror
that
night
.
"
I
wish
dead
people
would
stay
dead
.
Why
should
I
and
the
beauty
in
me
be
ruled
by
the
dead
?
Beauty
is
alive
and
everlasting
.
Languages
come
and
go
.
They
are
the
dust
of
the
dead
.
"
And
his
next
thought
was
that
he
had
been
phrasing
his
ideas
very
well
,
and
he
went
to
bed
wondering
why
he
could
not
talk
in
similar
fashion
when
he
was
with
Ruth
.
He
was
only
a
schoolboy
,
with
a
schoolboy
’
s
tongue
,
when
he
was
in
her
presence
.
"
Give
me
time
,
"
he
said
aloud
.
"
Only
give
me
time
"
Time
!
Time
!
Time
!
was
his
unending
plaint
.
It
was
not
because
of
Olney
,
but
in
spite
of
Ruth
,
and
his
love
for
Ruth
,
that
he
finally
decided
not
to
take
up
Latin
.
His
money
meant
time
.
There
was
so
much
that
was
more
important
than
Latin
,
so
many
studies
that
clamored
with
imperious
voices
.
And
he
must
write
.
He
must
earn
money
.
He
had
had
no
acceptances
.
Twoscore
of
manuscripts
were
travelling
the
endless
round
of
the
magazines
.
How
did
the
others
do
it
?
He
spent
long
hours
in
the
free
reading
-
room
,
going
over
what
others
had
written
,
studying
their
work
eagerly
and
critically
,
comparing
it
with
his
own
,
and
wondering
,
wondering
,
about
the
secret
trick
they
had
discovered
which
enabled
them
to
sell
their
work
.
He
was
amazed
at
the
immense
amount
of
printed
stuff
that
was
dead
.
No
light
,
no
life
,
no
color
,
was
shot
through
it
.
There
was
no
breath
of
life
in
it
,
and
yet
it
sold
,
at
two
cents
a
word
,
twenty
dollars
a
thousand
—
the
newspaper
clipping
had
said
so
.
He
was
puzzled
by
countless
short
stories
,
written
lightly
and
cleverly
he
confessed
,
but
without
vitality
or
reality
.
Life
was
so
strange
and
wonderful
,
filled
with
an
immensity
of
problems
,
of
dreams
,
and
of
heroic
toils
,
and
yet
these
stories
dealt
only
with
the
commonplaces
of
life
.
He
felt
the
stress
and
strain
of
life
,
its
fevers
and
sweats
and
wild
insurgences
—
surely
this
was
the
stuff
to
write
about
!
He
wanted
to
glorify
the
leaders
of
forlorn
hopes
,
the
mad
lovers
,
the
giants
that
fought
under
stress
and
strain
,
amid
terror
and
tragedy
,
making
life
crackle
with
the
strength
of
their
endeavor
.
And
yet
the
magazine
short
stories
seemed
intent
on
glorifying
the
Mr
.
Butlers
,
the
sordid
dollar
-
chasers
,
and
the
commonplace
little
love
affairs
of
commonplace
little
men
and
women
.
Was
it
because
the
editors
of
the
magazines
were
commonplace
?
he
demanded
.
Or
were
they
afraid
of
life
,
these
writers
and
editors
and
readers
?
But
his
chief
trouble
was
that
he
did
not
know
any
editors
or
writers
.
And
not
merely
did
he
not
know
any
writers
,
but
he
did
not
know
anybody
who
had
ever
attempted
to
write
.
There
was
nobody
to
tell
him
,
to
hint
to
him
,
to
give
him
the
least
word
of
advice
.
He
began
to
doubt
that
editors
were
real
men
.
They
seemed
cogs
in
a
machine
.
That
was
what
it
was
,
a
machine
.
He
poured
his
soul
into
stories
,
articles
,
and
poems
,
and
intrusted
them
to
the
machine
.
He
folded
them
just
so
,
put
the
proper
stamps
inside
the
long
envelope
along
with
the
manuscript
,
sealed
the
envelope
,
put
more
stamps
outside
,
and
dropped
it
into
the
mail
-
box
.
It
travelled
across
the
continent
,
and
after
a
certain
lapse
of
time
the
postman
returned
him
the
manuscript
in
another
long
envelope
,
on
the
outside
of
which
were
the
stamps
he
had
enclosed
.
There
was
no
human
editor
at
the
other
end
,
but
a
mere
cunning
arrangement
of
cogs
that
changed
the
manuscript
from
one
envelope
to
another
and
stuck
on
the
stamps
.
It
was
like
the
slot
machines
wherein
one
dropped
pennies
,
and
,
with
a
metallic
whirl
of
machinery
had
delivered
to
him
a
stick
of
chewing
-
gum
or
a
tablet
of
chocolate
.
It
depended
upon
which
slot
one
dropped
the
penny
in
,
whether
he
got
chocolate
or
gum
.
And
so
with
the
editorial
machine
.
One
slot
brought
checks
and
the
other
brought
rejection
slips
.
So
far
he
had
found
only
the
latter
slot
.
It
was
the
rejection
slips
that
completed
the
horrible
machinelikeness
of
the
process
.
These
slips
were
printed
in
stereotyped
forms
and
he
had
received
hundreds
of
them
—
as
many
as
a
dozen
or
more
on
each
of
his
earlier
manuscripts
.
If
he
had
received
one
line
,
one
personal
line
,
along
with
one
rejection
of
all
his
rejections
,
he
would
have
been
cheered
.
But
not
one
editor
had
given
that
proof
of
existence
.
And
he
could
conclude
only
that
there
were
no
warm
human
men
at
the
other
end
,
only
mere
cogs
,
well
oiled
and
running
beautifully
in
the
machine
.
