Jack London

London was born in 1876 to a poor family. At age 11 ,to support his family,
he was a paperboy. He quit school at age 14 because he was looking for new
horizons. After he quit school he basically tought himself everything he needed to
know. In 1897, in search for new horizons, he traveled to the Yukon Terr. as a
prospector. When he got back, his experiences of the Yukon led him to write “The
Call Of The Wild” and “White Fang”. His Main reason for writing about animals is
because he was an animal lover. He considered himself a serious write and from
his graphic scenes depicting animal abuse it showed. London was a very well
known writer. He was a socialist, thats why he wrote “Sea Wolf” for an attack on
anti-social behavior. In his entire career he wrote a total of 50 books. Londan killed
himself at the age of 69 by an exact amount of lethal drugs.
-Style of Writing-
Sentence Length- Average
Word Choice- Formal
Imagery- Brutal, vivid, and exciting
Tone- Sad to Heroic to Sad
Under the tutelage of the mad God, White Fang became a friend. He was kept
chained in a pen at the rear of the fort and here beauty Smith teased and irritated
and drove him wild with pretty torments. The man early discovered White Fang’s
susceptibility to laughter, and made it a point, after painfully tricking him, to laugh
at him. This laughter was uproarious and scornful, and at the same time the God
pointed his finger derisively at White Fang. At such times reason fled from White
Fang, and his transports of rage he was even more mad than Beauty Smith.
I still slept in the boat, and I lay awake long that night, gazing up at the first
stars I had seen in many nights and pondering the situation. Responsibility of this
sort was a new thing to me. Wolf Larsen had been quite right. I had stood on my
father’s legs. My lawyers and agents had taken care of my money for me. I had
had no responsibilities at all. Then, on the Ghost I had learned to be responsible for
myself. And now, for the first time in my life, I found myself responsible for
someone else. And it was required of me that this should be the gravest of
responsibilities, for she was the one woman in the world – the one small woman, as
I loved to think of her. Sometimes I think Wolf Larsen mad, or half-mad at least,
what of his strange moods and vagaries. At other times I take him for a great man,
a genius who has never arrived. And, finally, I am convinced that he is the perfect
type of the primitive man, born a thousand years or generations too late and an
anachronism in this culminating century of civilization. He is certainly an
individualist of the most pronounced type. Not only that, but he is very lonely.
There is no congeniality between him and the rest of the men aboard ship. His
tremendous virility and mental strength wall him apart. They are more like
children to him, even the hunters, and as children he treats them, descending
perforce to their level and playing with them as a man plays with puppies. Or else
he probes them with cruel hand of a vivisectionist, groping about in their mental
processes and examining their souls as though to see of what soul-stuff is made.