The Book of Jack London, Vol. 1

Here in his own workroom, at his own work-table, which, like himself, is deep-grained, beautiful, unshamming even to its rugged knots and imperfections, I write of the Jack London whom I knew. That one of us should go before the other is unthmkable he often said. Or, It is beyond my imagining that I should be mthout you. ... By rights we should go out together in some bright hazard, gallant shipwreck in a shouting, white gale, or shoulder to shoulder in some forgotten out-land where the red gods have called us. x Vnd again, If I should go first. Mate Woman, it would be for you to write of me if you dare be honest, always he challenged. But you could hardly do it, he would consider. I fear youd not want to write of my shortcomings, which you know only too well, and your work would be valueless without them. A lso, neither you nor I, unless it should be when I am very old, and when others are gone past wounding, can write without restraint of the very circumstances and characters that helped to make or mar me. A nd, anyway, my dear, was his familiar conclusion, Im going to live a hundred years, because I want to; and Im going to beat you to it some day and write my own book of myself, and call it Mack Liverpool and its going to make everybody sit up! In some such fashion we would speculate, summer afternoons, perhaps riding over the Beauty Ranch, or lying on the slant deck of a ship in the Trades, or tooling our alert four-in-hand across a mountain range.
(Typographical errors above are due to OCR software and don't occur in the book.)

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