Jack London

The land it­self was a des­ol­a­tion, life­less, without move­ment, so lone and cold that the spirit of it was not even that of sad­ness. There was a hint in it of laughter, but of a laughter more ter­rible than any sad­ness—a laughter that was mirth­less as the smile of the sphinx, a laughter cold as the frost and par­tak­ing of the grim­ness of in­fal­lib­il­ity. It was the mas­ter­ful and in­com­mu­nic­able wis­dom of etern­ity laugh­ing at the fu­til­ity of life and the ef­fort of life. It was the Wild, the sav­age, frozen-hearted North­land Wild.

com­mis­er­at­ingly

wist­ful­ness

It is not the way of the Wild to like move­ment. Life is an of­fence to it, for life is move­ment;

For what reason under the sun do men and women come together if not for the exchange of the best that is in them? And the best that is in them is what they are interested in, the thing by which they make their living, the thing they’ve specialized on and sat up days and nights over, and even dreamed about.

lodged only in his mind

amused glance that the other stole privily at him

not of the eart

in the upper walks of life.

rounded by the unknown, apprehensive of what might happen, ignorant of what he should do, aware that he walked and bore himself awkwardly, fearful that every attribute and power of him was similarly afflicted. He was keenly sensitive, hopelessly self-conscious