You can’t wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club.
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Jack London
John Griffith "Jack" London (born John Griffith Chaney, January 12, 1876 – November 22, 1916) was an American novelist, journalist, and social activist. A pioneer in the then-burgeoning world of commercial magazine fiction, he was one of the first fiction writers to obtain worldwide celebrity and a large fortune from his fiction alone, including science fiction. Some of his most famous works include The Call of the Wild and White Fang, both set in the Klondike Gold Rush, as well as the short stories "To Build a Fire", "An Odyssey of the North", and "Love of Life". He also wrote about the South Pacific in stories such as "The Pearls of Parlay" and "The Heathen", and of the San Francisco Bay area in The Sea Wolf. London was part of the radical literary group "The Crowd" in San Francisco and a passionate advocate of unionization, socialism, and the rights of workers. He wrote several powerful works dealing with these topics, such as his dystopian novel The Iron Heel, his non-fiction exposé The People of the Abyss, and The War of the Classes. 2Family Jack London's mother, Flora Wellman, was the fifth and youngest child of Pennsylvania Canal builder Marshall Wellman and his first wife, Eleanor Garrett Jones. Marshall Wellman was descended from Thomas Wellman, an early Puritan settler in the Massachusetts Bay Colony. Flora left Ohio and moved to the Pacific coast when her father remarried after her mother died. In San Francisco, Flora worked as a music teacher and spiritualist, claiming to channel the spirit of a Sauk chief, Black Haw
Sometimes they went hungry, sometimes they feasted riotously, all according to the abundance of game and the fortune of hunting.
He was beaten; but he was not broken
So that was the way. No fair play. Once down, that was the end of you
The ghostly winter silence had given way to the great spring murmur of awakening life
But especially he loved to run in the dim twilight of the summer midnights, listening to the subdued and sleepy murmurs of the forest, reading signs and sounds as a man may read a book, and seeking for the mysterious something that called—called, waking or sleeping, at all times, for him to come.
He was mastered by the sheer surging of life, the tidal wave of being, the perfect joy of each separate muscle, joint, and sinew in that it was everything that was not death, that it was aglow and rampant, expressing itself in movement, flying exultantly under the stars.
[Final tests of truth] Can we make it work? Can we trust our lives to it?
No man makes opportunity. All the great men ever did was know it when it came to them.
The battle is not always to the strong. We have not the strength with which to fight this man; we must dissimulate, and win, if we win we can, by craft.
To crawl is piggish; but to not crawl, to be as the clod and the rock, is loathsome to contemplate.
Man is a natural gambler, and life is the biggest take he can lay.
The world is as full of brutality as the sea is full of motion. And some men are made sick by the one, and some by the other.
Life. Bah! It has no value. Of cheap things it is the cheapest. Everywhere it goes begging.