I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet.

— Jack London

I write for no other purpose than to add to the beauty that now belongs to me. I write a book for no other reason than to add three or four hundred acres to my magnificent estate.

— Jack London

Life is not a matter of holding good cards, but sometimes, playing a poor hand well.

— Jack London

Life that did not yearn toward life was in fair way toward ceasing.

— Jack London

Miss West is never idle. Below, in the big after-room, she does her own laundering. Nor will she let the steward touch her father's fine linen. In the main cabin she has installed a sewing-machine. All hand-stitching, and embroidering, and fancy work she does in the deck-chair beside me. She avers that she loves the sea and the atmosphere of sea-life, yet, verily, she has brought her home-things and land-things along with her--even to her pretty china for afternoon tea.

— Jack London

Never did he fail to respond savagely to the chatter of the squirrel he had first met on the blasted pine.

— Jack London

Of course, it was beautiful; but there was something more than beauty in it, something more stinging splendid which had made beauty its handmaiden.

— Jack London

One cannot violate the promptings of one's nature without having that nature recoil upon itself.

— Jack London

Perhaps the greatest charm of tramp-life is the absence of monotony. In Hobo Land the face of life is protean—an ever-changing phantasmagoria, where the impossible happens and the unexpected jumps out of the bushes at every turn of the road. The hobo never knows what is going to happen the next moment; hence, he lives only in the present moment. He has learned the futility of relic endeavor, and knows the delight of drifting along with the whimsicality of Chance

— Jack London

Says O'Sullivan to me, "Mr. Fay, I'll have a word did yes?" "Certainly," says I; "what can I do for you?" "Sell me your sea-boots, Mr. Fay," says O'Sullivan, polite as can be. "But what will you be wantin' of them?" says I. "'Twill be a great favor," says O'Sullivan. "But it's my only pair," says I; "and you have a pair of your own," says I. "Mr. Fay, I'll be needin' me own in bad weather," says O'Sullivan. "Besides," says I, "you have no money." "I'll pay for them when we pay off in Seattle," says O'Sullivan. "I'll not do it," says I; "besides, you're not tellin' me what you'll be doin' with them." "But I will tell yes," says O'Sullivan; "I'm wantin' to throw 'em over the side." And with that I turn to walk away, but O'Sullivan says, very polite and seducing'-like, still stropping' the razor, "Mr. Fay," says he, "will you kindly step this way an' have your throat cut?" And with that I knew my life was in danger, and I have come to make report to you, sir, that the man is a violent lunatic.

— Jack London