Quotes from “Martin Eden” by Jack London

But it don’t mean they must have helped somebody, does it? Seems to me that ‘never helped nobody’ just naturally fails to say whether or not they helped somebody.

Never helped nobody

He couldn’t talk their talk just yet, though in time he would.
Is love so gross a thing that it must feed upon publication and public notice? It would seem so. I have sat and thought upon it till my head went around
glance that the other stole privily
His was deliberate creative genius, and, before he began a story or poem, the thing itself was already alive in his
Martin knew of the enormous gulf between him and this man-the gulf the books had made; but he found no difficulty in crossing back over that gulf.
Martin paused to think. The prospect was alluring. A few months of it, and he would have time to himself for study. He could work hard and study hard.
Because the laundry was making a beast of me. Too much work of that sort drives to drink."
The desire to write was stirring in Martin once more. Stories and poems were springing into spontaneous creation in his brain, and he made notes of them against the future time when he would give them expression. But he did not write. This was his little vacation; he had resolved to devote it to rest and love, and in both matters he prospered
his own small room Martin lived, slept, studied, wrote, and kept house.
third week went by, and Martin loathed himself, and loathed life. He was oppressed by a sense of failure. There was reason for the editors refusing his stuff. He could see that clearly now, and laugh at himself and the dreams he had dreamed.
as he read the poems he caught himself puzzling as to what he had had in mind when he wrote them. His audacities of phrase struck him as grotesque, his felicities of expression were monstrosities, and everything was absurd, unreal, and impossible.
He did not know that he loved Ruth. She did not even exist, for his driven soul had no time to remember her.
It was only when he crawled to bed at night, or to breakfast in the morning, that she asserted herself to him in fleeting memories.
did not like himself. He was self-repelled, as though he had undergone some degradation or was intrinsically foul. All that was god-like in him was blotted out. The spur of ambition was blunted; he had no vitality with which to feel the prod of it. He was dead. His soul seemed dead. He was a beast, a work-beast. He saw no beauty in the sunshine sifting down through the green leaves, nor did the azure vault of the sky whisper as of old and hint of cosmic vastness and secrets trembling to disclosure. Life was intolerably dull and stupid, and its taste was bad in his mouth
Slipping off his shoes, to ease his swollen feet, he sat down at the table with his books. He opened Fiske, where he had left off to read. But he found trouble began to read it through a second time.
and awoke by the alarm, feeling that he had not had enough.
He was too tired and jaded to be interested in anything,
He tried to read a chapter in Fiske, but his brain was restless and he closed the book
-day witnessed the beginning of the new battle, wherein for some time there would be no writing
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