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- Джек Лондон
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In
years
and
years
not
one
of
them
has
been
in
contact
with
a
good
woman
,
or
within
the
influence
,
or
redemption
,
which
irresistibly
radiates
from
such
a
creature
.
There
is
no
balance
in
their
lives
.
Their
masculinity
,
which
in
itself
is
of
the
brute
,
has
been
over-developed
.
The
other
and
spiritual
side
of
their
natures
has
been
dwarfed
--
atrophied
,
in
fact
.
They
are
a
company
of
celibates
,
grinding
harshly
against
one
another
and
growing
daily
more
calloused
from
the
grinding
.
It
seems
to
me
impossible
sometimes
that
they
ever
had
mothers
.
It
would
appear
that
they
are
a
half-brute
,
half-human
species
,
a
race
apart
,
wherein
there
is
no
such
thing
as
sex
;
that
they
are
hatched
out
by
the
sun
like
turtle
eggs
,
or
receive
life
in
some
similar
and
sordid
fashion
;
and
that
all
their
days
they
fester
in
brutality
and
viciousness
,
and
in
the
end
die
as
unlovely
as
they
have
lived
.
Rendered
curious
by
this
new
direction
of
ideas
,
I
talked
with
Johansen
last
night
--
the
first
superfluous
words
with
which
he
has
favoured
me
since
the
voyage
began
.
He
left
Sweden
when
he
was
eighteen
,
is
now
thirty-eight
,
and
in
all
the
intervening
time
has
not
been
home
once
.
He
had
met
a
townsman
,
a
couple
of
years
before
,
in
some
sailor
boarding-house
in
Chile
,
so
that
he
knew
his
mother
to
be
still
alive
.
"
She
must
be
a
pretty
old
woman
now
,
"
he
said
,
staring
meditatively
into
the
binnacle
and
then
jerking
a
sharp
glance
at
Harrison
,
who
was
steering
a
point
off
the
course
.
"
When
did
you
last
write
to
her
?
"
He
performed
his
mental
arithmetic
aloud
.
"
Eighty-one
;
no
--
eighty-two
,
eh
?
no
--
eighty-three
?
Yes
,
eighty-three
.
Ten
years
ago
.
From
some
little
port
in
Madagascar
.
I
was
trading
.
"
You
see
,
"
he
went
on
,
as
though
addressing
his
neglected
mother
across
half
the
girth
of
the
earth
,
"
each
year
I
was
going
home
.
So
what
was
the
good
to
write
?
It
was
only
a
year
.
And
each
year
something
happened
,
and
I
did
not
go
.
But
I
am
mate
,
now
,
and
when
I
pay
off
at
'
Frisco
,
maybe
with
five
hundred
dollars
,
I
will
ship
myself
on
a
windjammer
round
the
Horn
to
Liverpool
,
which
will
give
me
more
money
;
and
then
I
will
pay
my
passage
from
there
home
.
Then
she
will
not
do
any
more
work
.
"
"
But
does
she
work
?
now
?
How
old
is
she
?
"
"
About
seventy
,
"
he
answered
.
And
then
,
boastingly
,
"
We
work
from
the
time
we
are
born
until
we
die
,
in
my
country
.
That
's
why
we
live
so
long
.
I
will
live
to
a
hundred
.
"
