CHINESE (in preparation)
January 12, 1876 - November 22, 1916
a classic of world literature
- on occasion of the centenary of his death -
Jack London is one of the classics of world literature.
That is why the Comintern (SH) decided to publish the works of Jack London, initially in 10 languages. This way we have created the greatest international online archive of Jack London - free of charge.
Many people know Jack London as the most famous writer of adventure romans. The few, however, know that he was inspired by revolutionary ideas and that he was even a candidate for the Socialist Party in the USA. He held mass meetings and collected donations to support the Russian Revolution of 1905.
For Jack London, socialism was the fulfillment of the American dream.
"From rags to riches ?" This bourgeois lie of the so called "American Way of Life" does not apply to Jack London. He remained all his life a worker, whether as a seaman, as an occasional worker, or as a worker at a typewriter. They were the capitalist media tycoons who drew their riches from the surplus labour of his writings. By the way: Jack London was bad with money.
Who was Jack London?
Jack London came from a poor back ground and had to teach himself to survive as a young man - finally by writing books. Jack London's short life span was only 40 years, in which he created over 50 books and innumerous other works. This great proficiency within shortest time, alone, is absolutely amazing. His slogan was: " "writing 1 000 words per day".
He was, above all, the most popular writer of the American working class. Although he was not a theoretically savvy Marxist writer, he knew the hard life of the workers from his own experience. Jack London was popular among the workers because he lived among them for a time and was familiar with their language. Jack London was one of the great pioneers of proletarian literature in the West. He was influenced not least by Maxim Gorki, who then traveled the USA.
At Jack London's lifetime the American workers had not yet been liberated from the cultural fetters of capitalism. Their imaginations of socialism was still quite blurred. The class consciousness of the American workers was clouded by leaders of right opportunism and "left" radicalism. Especially the "trade-unionism", the Anarcho syndicalism, was still very common at the beginning of the 20th century. But with the rise of the proletarian mass movement in the United States favorable conditions for the spread of Marxist ideas were created, especially by the famous revolutionary novel "The Iron Heel".
Pragmatism - the characteristic ideology of American imperialism - did also influence the American workers' movement. American Marxist theory was very weak so far, and so the petty bourgeois illusions about socialism and the denial of the dictatorship of the proletariat were overcome only with the founding of the Communist Party in the USA - thus after the death of Jack London who died in 1916, towards the end of the First World War. It was only a year later when the USA came into the war.
Jack London was a rebel, an adventurer and a daredevil, namely for his whole life. He has traveled all over the world. Many novels are based on his own travels. It was the time when American imperialism moved on to conquer the world. Jack London, however, went out to conquer the hearts of people all over the world. And, indeed, he had taken mankind's heart by storm. His works are published in nearly every language of the world. He is still one of the most successful writers in the world.
Unfortunately, he did not find the background illumination of Marxist science in search of the only correct revolutionary path of the liberation of the proletariat. He could not free himself from influences of bourgeois ideology and morality. He moved away from the working class with the increase in his popularity. And this was also observed by the workers. Among the workers there were not few who mocked about him and his chaotic lifestyle. It can not be denied that, alongside a proletarian side, there was a bourgeois side in the works of Jack London, too. One can not appreciate his great work, without critically pointing to many of his weaknesses.
The whole work of Jack London deals with the "battle between man and nature", the "struggle for survival", the socalled "natural selection", the "superiority of the strong over the weak" etc. Marxism teaches that the laws of nature cannot be mechanically transferred to the laws of social development, and vice versa. The bourgeois social-Darwinists turned upside down the progressive ideas of Darwin who was much appreciated by Marx and Engels. The social-Darwinists were not only questioning the moral legitimacy of helping the weak, but preaching the extermination of "inferior races and peoples." The inhuman ideology of Social Darwinism thus constituted a basic pillar of the ideology of the fascists who turned Social Darwinism into the practical tool of the most cruel genocide.
Jack London was especially influenced by Spencer's social-Darwinism and must therefore be criticized, since he dressed social-Darwinism in a socialist garment, thus exercising bourgeois influence on the consciousness of the working class. Jack wrote about himself: "I am first a white man and only then a socialist." This racscist attitude was also characteristic for many other writers of his time. An eclectic synthesis of the ideas of Karl Marx, Darwin, Schopenhauer, and Nietzsche were widespread in the time in which Jack London lived and worked. At this point, Renegat Kautsky must be critically mentioned, who equated the class struggle with the "struggle for existence" in nature and thus helped the fascists come to power. Social-democraticism leads to social-fascism, and is nothing but a twin of fascism. In contrast to Kautsky, the Marxists-Leninists argue that the class struggle is based on the contradiction between the productive forces and the production relation, namely beyond any ideology of biologism. The class struggle is thus not an "eternal natural law" of social development, for it necessarily ends with the overcoming of class society. And this means in consequence the overcoming of any further influence of social-Darwinism.
"The basic law of social development is the absolute conformity of the influence of humans on the natural forces with the action on their own socialization." [Program of the Comintern (SH)]
That what remains and what we defend communists are not the social Darwinist views of Jack London but his valuable contribution to the revolutionary development of the working class, and not just the American one. Jack London embodied the type of a radical writer, who wavered between the influence of the working class and the bourgeoisie. Notwithstanding all the weaknesses, we consider the sincerity of Jack London's socialist conviction unassailable. Above all, we defend his great revolutionary book: "The iron heel."
Jack London, incidentally, is one of those numerous writers whose books were burnt by the Fascists.
November 22, 2016
(Novel of alternative history—1908)
"The iron Heel"
a great revolutionary novel that we recommend to read.
"This book has always been secretly published in the three hundred years of the reign of the Iron Heel." (Jack London)
... so also 83 years after this book had been burned publicly by the "iron heel" of the German fascists.
Not secretely but public was the burning of this book. To this day this book is hushed up in Germany.
This changed with our publication of this book in German language on occasion of the 100th anniversary of the death of Jack London.
The name "Iron Heel" stands for the finance oligarchy of America, which promptly overrules the constitution when it sees its power threatened by the election results. As more and more socialists are elected to the Congress, the "iron heel" is launching the "Black Hundreds" and building a fascist regime.
With "The Iron Heel", Jack London foresees the emergence of Fascism, which emanates from a rotting decaying capitalism. With a "bombing" - planted at the government building by the Fascists themselves - the counter-revolution got ahead of the revolution, and the revolutionaries were arrested before the beginning of the revolution. The planted "Reichstagsbrand" of the Nazis was so deceptively similar to the novel of Jack London that one could assume that Hitler would have read the book of Jack London before it served as a guide to his own machinations.
Donald Trump's attempt to openly install American fascism is a pragmatic attempt to liberate American imperialism from its deepest crisis of American history and to regain its world dominance with renewed imperialist wars. Donald Trump is the new tragic leader figure of a decaying class that has now begun with the downfall of its world domination. However, even with brutal violence, the wheel of history can not be turned back. With the beginning of American fascism begins also its total downfall. This is the undisputable historical lesson of Hitler-fascism.
It is precisely the American bourgeoisie's fear about her own decline, the intensification of the class antagonisms, which drives her to drop the democratic shells and to unbag the cudgel of the open fascist dictatorship. The unavoidable result of the polarization and radicalization of the American society will confront the working class with the inevitability of leading the socialist revolution in the United States. The American proletariat will hit the heart of world capitalism and put a deadly blow to it. This presupposes that it frees itself from the influence of imperialist ideology and equips itself with Stalinism-Hoxhaism. And this also presupposes the establishment of the American Section of the Comintern (SH), which organizes the revolutionary transformation from capitalism to socialism. The study of the novel, "The Iron Heel", is thus still highly relevant today.
The novel is about the revolutionary struggle against the terrorist rule of the finance oligarchy. However, we must point out the truth that the finance oligarchy is only a part of the ruling bourgeois class, though the most reactionary, most chauvinistic and monopolistic shift. The struggle against the financel oligarchy is thus only a part of the class struggle between the working class and the bourgeois class. The finance oligarchy must therefore never be confused or equated with the entire class of the bourgeoisie. The bourgeoisie cannot be defeated only by the defeat of the finance oligarchy. According to the lessons of Marxism-Leninism, the whole class of the bourgeoisie must be defeated. Dimitrov has committed this inadmissible mistake in order to justify his pacting with the bourgeoisie (ie with his revisionist People's front-policy). The proletarian anti-fascist struggle means nothing but struggle for the socialist revolution, the destruction of the capitalist state and the establishment of the dictatorship of the proletariat.
In the Soviet Union "The Iron Heel" was very popular. This of course does not apply to the fascist and reactionary Germany. It is no wonder that "The Iron Heel" is still not printed by the German book publishers. This means nothing other but the continuation of book burnings by the Nazis, only with more subtle means. The country, with its Nazi past, has never published this book, although this is self-evident in many countries of the world. (See the International Jack London Archives of the Comintern [SH])
Was Jack London a "Terrorist"?
There is nothing lower than a Strikebreaker !
DEFINITION OF A STRIKEBREAKER
By Jack London
After God had finished the rattlesnake, the toad and the vampire, he had some awful
substance left with which he made a Strikebreaker. A Strikebreaker is a two-legged animal
with a cork-screwed soul, a water-logged brain, and a combination backbone made of jelly
and glue. Where others have hearts, he carries a tumor of rotten principles.
When a Strikebreaker comes down the street men turn their backs and angels weep in
Heaven, and the devil shuts the gates of Hell to keep him out. No man has the right to be
a Strikebreaker, so long as there is a pool of water deep enough to drown his body in, or a
rope long enough to hang his carcass with. Judas Iscariot was a gentleman compared with
a Strikebreaker. For be traying his master, he had the character to hang himself–a Strikebreaker hasn’t.
Esau sold his birthright for a mess of pottage. Judas Iscariot sold his Savior for thirty
pieces of silver. Benedict Arnold sold his country for a promise of a commission in the
British Army. The modern Strikebreaker sells his birthright, his country, his wife, his
children, and his fellow men for an unfilled promise from his employer, trust or corporation.
Esau was a traitor to himself. Judas Iscariot was a traitor to God. Benedict Arnold was a
traitor to his country. A Strikebreaker is a traitor to himself, a traitor to his God, a traitor
to his country, a traitor to his family and a traitor to his class.
There is nothing lower than a Strikebreaker.
also available in PDF-Format
and other Essays
also available in PDF-Format
Based on London's observations of the slums of London and illustrated with photographs taken by himself and others
The first part of this novel exposes the struggles of the working-class of London's day.
(First published in Dilettante, February, 1901)
Jack London - Video Library
written by his wife Charmian London
HOW I BECAME A SOCIALIST
It is quite fair to say that I became a Socialist in a fashion somewhat similar to the way in which the Teutonic pagans became Christians -- it was hammered into me. Not only was I not looking for Socialism at the time of my conversion, but I was fighting it . I was very young and callow, did not know much of anything, and though I had never even heard of a school called " Individualism," I sang the paean of the strong with all my heart.
This was because I was strong myself. By strong I mean that I had good health and hard muscles, both of which possessions are easily accounted for. I had lived my childhood on California ranches, my boyhood hustling newspapers on the streets of a healthy Western city, and my youth on the ozone-laden waters of San Francisco Bay and the Pacific Ocean. I loved life in the open, and I toiled in the open, at the hardest kinds of work. Learning no trade, but drifting along from job to job, I looked on the world and called it good, every bit of it. Let me repeat, this optimism was because I was healthy and strong, bothered with neither aches nor weaknesses, never turned down by the boss because I did not look fit, able always to get a job at shovelling coal, sailorizing, or manual labor of some sort.
And because of all this, exulting in my young life, able to hold my own at work or fight, I was a rampant individualist. It was very natural. I was a winner. Wherefore I called the game, as I saw it played, or thought I saw it played, a very proper game for MEN. To be a MAN was to write man in large capitals on my heart. To adventure like a man, and fight like a man, and do a man's work (even for a boy's pay) -- these were things that reached right in and gripped hold of me as no other thing could. And I looked ahead into long vistas of a hazy and interminable future, into which, playing what I conceived to be MAN'S game, I should continue to travel with unfailing health, without accidents, and with muscles ever vigorous. As I say, this future was interminable. I could see myself only raging through life without end like one of Nietzsche's blond beasts, lustfully roving and conquering by sheer superiority and strength.
As for the unfortunates, the sick, and ailing, and old, and maimed, I must confess I hardly thought of them at all, save that I vaguely felt that they, barring accidents, could be as good as I if they wanted to real hard, and could work just as well. Accidents ? Well, they represented FATE, also spelled out in capitals, and there was no getting around FATE. Napoleon had had an accident at Waterloo, but that did not dampen my desire to be another and later Napoleon. Further, the optimism bred of a stomach which could digest scrap iron and a body which flourished on hardships did not permit me to consider accidents as even remotely related to my glorious personality.
I hope I have made it clear that I was proud to be one of Nature's strong-armed noblemen. The dignity of labor was to me the most impressive thing in the world. Without having read Carlyle, or Kipling, I formulated a gospel of work which put theirs in the shade. Work was everything. It was sanctification and salvation. The pride I took in a hard day's work well done would be inconceivable to you. It is almost inconceivable to me as I look back upon it. I was as faithful a wage slave as ever capitalist exploited. To shirk or malinger on the man who paid me my wages was a sin, first, against myself, and second, against him. I considered it a crime second only to treason and just about as bad.
In short, my joyous individualism was dominated by the orthodox bourgeois ethics. I read the bourgeois papers, listened to the bourgeois preachers, and shouted at the sonorous platitudes of the bourgeois politicians. And I doubt not, if other events had not changed my career, that I should have evolved into a professional strike-breaker, (one of President Eliot's American heroes), and had my head and my earning power irrevocably smashed by a club in the hands of some militant trades-unionist.
Just about this time, returning from a seven months' voyage before the mast, and just turned eighteen, I took it into my head to go tramping. On rods and blind baggages I fought my way from the open West, where men bucked big and the job hunted the man, to the congested labor centres of the East, where men were small potatoes and hunted the job for all they were worth. And on this new blond-beast adventure I found myself looking upon life from a new and totally different angle. I had dropped down from the proletariat into what sociologists love to call the "submerged tenth," and I was startled to discover the way in which that submerged tenth was recruited.
I found there all sorts of men, many of whom had once been as good as myself and just as blond-beastly; sailor-men, soldier-men, labor-men, all wrenched and distorted and twisted out of shape by toil and hardship and accident, and cast adrift by their masters like so many old horses. I battered on the drag and slammed back gates with them, or shivered with them in box cars and city parks, listening the while to life-histories which began under auspices as fair as mine, with digestions and bodies equal to and better than mine, and which ended there before my eyes in the shambles at the bottom of the Social Pit.
And as I listened my brain began to work. The woman of the streets and the man of the gutter drew very close to me. I saw the picture of the Social Pit as vividly as though it were a concrete thing, and at the bottom of the Pit I saw them, myself above them, not far, and hanging on to the slippery wall by main strength and sweat. And I confess a terror seized me. What when my strength failed? when I should be unable to work shoulder to shoulder with the strong men who were as yet babes unborn? And there and then I swore a great oath. It ran something like this: All my days I have worked hard with my body and according to the number of days I have worked, by just that much am I nearer the bottom of the Pit. I shall climb out of the Pit, but not by the muscles of my body shall I climb out I shall do no more hard work, and may God strike me dead if I do another day's hard work with my body more than I absolutely have to do. And I have been busy ever since running away from hard work.
Incidentally, while tramping some ten thousand miles through the United States and Canada, I strayed into Niagara Falls, was nabbed by a fee-hunting constable, denied the right to plead guilty or not guilty, sentenced out of hand to thirty days' imprisonment for having no fixed abode and no visible means of support, handcuffed and chained to a bunch of men similarly circumstanced, carted down country to Buffalo, registered at the Erie County Penitentiary, had my head clipped and my budding mustache shaved, was dressed in convict stripes, compulsorily vaccinated by a medical student who practiced on such as we, made to march the lock-step, and put to work under the eyes of guards armed with Winchester rifles -- all for adventuring in blond-beastly fashion. Concerning further details deponent sayeth not, though he may hint that some of his plethoric national patriotism simmered down and leaked out of the bottom of his soul somewhere -- at least, since that experience he finds that he cares more for men and women and little children than for imaginary geographical lines.
To return to my conversion. I think it is apparent that my rampant individualism was pretty effectively hammered out of me, and something else as effectively hammered in. But, just as I had been an individualist without knowing it, I was now a Socialist without knowing it, withal, an unscientific one. I had been reborn, but not renamed, and I was running around to find out what manner of thing I was. I ran back to California and opened the books. I do not remember which ones I opened first. It is an unimportant detail anyway. I was already It, whatever It was, and by aid of the books I discovered that It was a Socialist. Since that day I have opened many books, but no economic argument, no lucid demonstration of the logic and inevitableness of Socialism affects me as profoundly and convincingly as I was affected on the day when I first saw the walls of the Social Pit rise around me and felt myself slipping down, down, into the shambles at the bottom.
"My faith is in the working-class"
What Life Means to Me
I was born in the working-class. Early I discovered enthusiasm, ambition, and ideals; and to satisfy these became the problem of my child- life. My environment was crude and rough and raw. I had no outlook, but an uplook rather. My place in society was at the bottom. Here life offered nothing but sordidness and wretchedness, both of the flesh and the spirit; for here flesh and spirit were alike starved and tormented.
Above me towered the colossal edifice of society, and to my mind the only way out was up. Into this edifice I early resolved to climb. Up above, men wore black clothes and boiled shirts, and women dressed in beautiful gowns. Also, there were good things to eat, and there was plenty to eat. This much for the flesh. Then there were the things of the spirit. Up above me, I knew, were unselfishnesses of the spirit, clean and noble thinking, keen intellectual living. I knew all this because I read "Seaside Library" novels, in which, with the exception of the villains and adventuresses, all men and women thought beautiful thoughts, spoke a beautiful tongue, and performed glorious deeds. In short, as I accepted the rising of the sun, I accepted that up above me was all that was fine and noble and gracious, all that gave decency and dignity to life, all that made life worth living and that remunerated one for his travail and misery.
But it is not particularly easy for one to climb up out of the working- class — especially if he is handicapped by the possession of ideals and illusions. I lived on a ranch in California, and I was hard put to find the ladder whereby to climb. I early inquired the rate of interest on invested money, and worried my child's brain into an understanding of the virtues and excellencies of that remarkable invention of man, compound interest. Further, I ascertained the current rates of wages for workers of all ages, and the cost of living. From all this data I concluded that if I began immediately and worked and saved until I was fifty years of age, I could then stop working and enter into participation in a fair portion of the delights and goodnesses that would then be open to me higher up in society. Of course, I resolutely determined not to marry, while I quite forgot to consider at all that great rock of disaster in the working-class world — sickness.
But the life that was in me demanded more than. a meagre existence of scraping and scrimping. Also, at ten years of age, I became a newsboy on the streets of a city, and found myself with a changed uplook. All about me were still the same sordidness and wretchedness, and up above me was still the same paradise waiting to be gained; but the ladder whereby to climb was a different one. It was now the ladder of business. Why save my earnings and invest in government bonds, when, by buying two newspapers for five cents, with a turn of the wrist I could sell them for ten cents and double my capital ? The business ladder was the ladder for me, and I had a vision of myself becoming a baldheaded and successful merchant prince.
Alas for visions! When I was sixteen I had already earned the title of "prince." But this title was given me by a gang of cut-throats and thieves, by whom I was called "The Prince of the Oyster Pirates." And at that time I had climbed the first rung of the business ladder. I was a capitalist. I owned a boat and a complete oyster-pirating outfit. I had begun to exploit my fellow-creatures. I had a crew of one man. As captain and owner I took two-thirds of the spoils, and gave the crew one-third, though the crew worked just as hard as I did and risked just as much his life and liberty.
This one rung was the height I climbed up the business ladder. One night I went on a raid amongst the Chinese fishermen. Ropes and nets were worth dollars and cents. It was robbery, I grant, but it was precisely the spirit of capitalism. The capitalist takes away the possessions of his fellow-creatures by means of a rebate, or of a betrayal of trust, or by the purchase of senators and supreme-court judges. I was merely crude. That was the only difference. I used a gun.
But my crew that night was one of those inefficients against whom the capitalist is wont to fulminate, because, forsooth, such inefficients increase expenses and reduce dividends. My crew did both. What of his carelessness he set fire to the big mainsail and totally destroyed it. There weren't any dividends that night, and the Chinese fishermen were richer by the nets and ropes we did' not get. I was bankrupt, unable just then to pay sixty-five dollars for a new mainsail. I left my boat at anchor and went off on a bay-pirate boat on a raid up the Sacramento River. While away on this trip, another gang of bay pirates raided my boat. They stole everything, even the anchors; and later on, when I recovered the drifting hulk, I sold it for twenty dollars. I had slipped back the one rung I had climbed, and never again did I attempt the business ladder.
From then on I was mercilessly exploited by other capitalists. I had the muscle, and they made money out of it while I made but a very indifferent living out of it. I was a sailor before the mast, a longshoreman, a roustabout; I worked in canneries, and factories, and laundries; I mowed lawns, and cleaned carpets, and washed windows. And I never got the full product of my toil. I looked at the daughter of the cannery owner, in her carriage, and knew that it was my muscle, in part, that helped drag along that carriage on its rubber tires. I looked at the son of the factory owner, going to college, and knew that it was my muscle that helped, in part, to pay for the wine and good fellowship he enjoyed.
But I did not resent this. It was all in the game. They were the strong. Very well, I was strong. I would carve my way to a place amongst them and make money out of the muscles of other men. I was not afraid of work. I loved hard- work. I would pitch in and work harder than ever and eventually become a pillar of society.
And just then, as luck would have it, I found an employer that was of the same mind. I was willing to work, and he was more than willing that I should work. I thought I was learning a trade. In reality, I had displaced two men. I thought he was making an electrician out of me; as a matter of fact, he was making fifty dollars per month out of me. The two men I had displaced had received forty dollars each per month; I was doing the work of both for thirty dollars per month.
This employer worked me nearly to death. A man may love oysters, but too many oysters will disincline him toward that particular diet. And so with me. Too much work sickened me. I did not wish ever to see work again. I fled from work. I became a tramp, begging my way from door to door, wandering over the United States and sweating bloody sweats in slums and prisons.
I had been born in the working-class, and I was now, at the age of eighteen, beneath the point at which I had started. I was down in the cellar of society, down in the subterranean depths of misery about which it is neither nice nor proper to speak. I was in the pit, the abyss, the human cesspool, the shambles and the charnel-house of our civilization. This is the part of the edifice of society that society chooses to ignore. Lack of space compels me here to ignore it, and I shall say only that the things I there saw gave me a terrible scare.
I was scared into thinking. I saw the naked simplicities of the complicated civilization in which I lived. Life was a matter of food and shelter. In order to get food and shelter men sold things. The merchant sold shoes, the politician sold his manhood, and the representative of the people, with exceptions, of course, sold his trust; while nearly all sold their honor. Women, too, whether on the street or in the holy bond of wedlock, were prone to sell their flesh. All things were commodities, all people bought and sold. The one commodity that labor had to sell was muscle. The honor of labor had no price in the market-place. Labor had muscle, and muscle alone, to sell.
But there was a difference, a vital difference. Shoes and trust and honor had a way of renewing themselves. They were imperishable stocks. Muscle, on the other hand, did not renew. As the shoe merchant sold shoes, he continued to replenish his stock. But there was no way of replenishing the laborer's stock of muscle. The more he sold of his muscle, the less of it remained to him. It was his one commodity, and each day his stock of it diminished. In the end, if he did not die before, he sold out and put up his shutters. He was a muscle bankrupt, and nothing remained to him but to go down into the cellar of society and perish miserably.
I learned, further, that brain was likewise a commodity. It, too, was different from muscle. A brain seller was only at his prime when he was fifty or sixty years old, and his wares were fetching higher prices than ever. But a laborer was worked out or broken down at forty-five or fifty. I had been in the cellar of society, and I did not like the place as a habitation. The pipes and drains were unsanitary, and the air was bad to breathe. If I could not live on the parlor floor of society, I could, at any rate, have a try at the attic. It was true, the diet there was slim, but the air at least was pure. So I resolved to sell no more muscle, and to become a vender of brains.
Then began a frantic pursuit of knowledge. I returned to California and opened the books. While thus equipping, myself to become a brain merchant, it was inevitable that I should delve into sociology. There I found, in a certain class of books, scientifically formulated, the simple sociological concepts I had already worked out for myself. Other and greater minds, before I was born, had worked out all that I had thought and a vast deal more. I discovered that I was a socialist.
The socialists were revolutionists, inasmuch as they struggled to overthrow the society of the present, and out of the material to build the society of the future. I, too, was a socialist and a revolutionist. I joined the groups of working-class and intellectual revolutionists, and for the first time came into intellectual living. Here I found keen-flashing intellects and brilliant wits; for here I met strong and alert-brained, withal horny- handed, members of the working-class; unfrocked preachers too wide in their Christianity for any congregation of Mammon-worshippers; professors broken on the wheel of university subservience to the ruling class and flung out because they were quick with knowledge which they strove to apply to the affairs of mankind.
Here I found, also, warm faith in the human, glowing idealism, sweetnesses of unselfishness, renunciation, and martyrdom — all the splendid, stinging things of the spirit. Here life was clean, noble, and alive. Here life rehabilitated itself, became wonderful and glorious; and I was glad to be alive. I was in touch with great souls who exalted flesh and spirit over dollars and cents, and to whom the thin wail of the starved slum child meant more than all the pomp and circumstance of commercial expansion and world empire. All about me were nobleness of purpose and heroism of effort, and my days and nights were sunshine and starshine, all fire and dew, with before my eyes, ever burning and blazing, the Holy Grail, Christ's own Grail, the warm human, long-suffering and maltreated, but to be rescued and saved at the last.
And I, poor foolish I, deemed all this to be a mere foretaste of the delights of living I should find higher above me in society. I had lost many illusions since the day I read "Seaside Library" novels on the California ranch. I was destined to lose many of the illusions I still retained.
As a brain merchant I was a success. Society opened its portals to me. I entered right in on the parlor floor, and my disillusionment proceeded rapidly. I sat down to dinner with the masters of society, and with the wives and daughters of the masters of society. The women were gowned beautifully, I admit; but to my naive surprise I discovered that they were of the same clay as all the rest of the women I had known down below in the cellar. "The colonel's lady and Judy O'Grady were sisters under their skins" — and gowns.
It was not this, however, so much as their materialism, that shocked me. It is true, these beautifully gowned, beautiful women prattled sweet little ideals and dear little moralities; but in spite of their prattle the dominant key of the life they lived was materialistic. And they were so sentimentally selfish ! They assisted in all kinds of sweet little charities, and informed one of the fact, while all the time the food they ate and the beautiful clothes they wore were bought out of dividends stained with the blood of child labor, and sweated labor, and of prostitution itself. When I mentioned such facts, expecting in my innocence that these sisters of Judy O'Grady would at once strip off their blood-dyed silks and jewels, they became excited and angry, and read me preachments about the lack of thrift, the drink, and the innate depravity that caused all the misery in society's cellar. When I mentioned that I couldn't quite see that it was the lack of thrift, the intemperance, and the depravity of a half-starved child of six that made it work twelve hours every night in a Southern cotton mill, these sisters of Judy O'Grady attacked my private life and called me an "agitator" — as though that, forsooth, settled the argument.
Nor did I fare better with the masters themselves. I had expected to find men who were clean, noble, and alive, whose ideals were clean, noble, and alive. I went about amongst the men who sat in the high places — the preachers, the politicians, the business men, the professors, and the editors. I ate meat with them, drank wine with them, automobiled with them, and studied them. It is true, I found many that were clean and noble; but with rare exceptions, they were not alive. I do verily believe I could count the exceptions on the fingers of my two hands. Where they were not alive with rottenness, quick with unclean life, they were merely the unburied dead — clean and. noble, like well- preserved mummies, but not alive. In this connection I may especially mention the professors I met, the men who live up to that decadent university ideal, "the passionless pursuit of passionless intelligence."
I met men who invoked the name of the Prince of Peace in their diatribes against war, and who put rifles in the hands of Pinkertons with which to shoot down strikers in their own factories. I met men incoherent with indignation at the brutality of prize-fighting, and who, at the same time, were parties to the adulteration of food that killed each year more babies than even red-handed Herod had killed.
I talked in hotels and clubs and homes and Pullmans and steamer- chairs with captains of industry, and marvelled at how little travelled they were in the realm of intellect. On the other hand, I discovered that their intellect, in the business sense, was abnormally developed. Also, I discovered that their morality, where business was concerned, was nil.
This delicate, aristocratic-featured gentleman, was a dummy director and a tool of corporations that secretly robbed widows and orphans. This gentleman, who collected fine editions and was an especial patron of literature, paid blackmail to a heavy-jowled, black-browed boss of a municipal machine. This editor, who published patent medicine advertisements and did not dare print the truth in his paper about said patent medicines for fear of losing the advertising, called me a scoundrelly demagogue because I told him that his political economy was antiquated and that his biology was contemporaneous with Pliny.
This senator was the tool and the slave, the little puppet of a gross, uneducated machine boss; so was this governor and this supreme court judge; and all three rode on railroad passes. This man, talking soberly and earnestly about the beauties of idealism and the goodness of God, had just betrayed his comrades in a business deal. This man, a pillar of the church and heavy contributor to foreign missions, worked his shop girls ten hours a day on a starvation wage and thereby directly encouraged prostitution. This man, who endowed chairs in universities, perjured himself in courts of law over a matter of dollars and cents. And this railroad magnate broke his word as a gentleman and a Christian when he granted a secret rebate to one of two captains of industry locked together in a struggle to the death.
It was the same everywhere, crime and betrayal, betrayal and crime — men who were alive, but who were neither clean nor noble, men who were clean and noble but who were not alive. Then there was a great, hopeless mass, neither noble nor alive, but merely clean. It did not sin positively nor deliberately; but it did sin passively and ignorantly by acquiescing in the current immorality and profiting by it. Had it been noble and alive it would not have been ignorant, and it would have refused to share in the profits of betrayal and crime.
I discovered that I did not like to live on the parlor floor of society. Intellectually I was bored. Morally and spiritually I was sickened. I remembered my intellectuals and idealists, my unfrocked preachers, broken professors, and clean-minded, class-conscious workingmen. I remembered my days and nights of sunshine and starshine, where life was all a wild sweet wonder, a spiritual paradise of unselfish adventure and ethical romance. And I saw before me, ever blazing and burning, the Holy Grail.
So I went back to the working-class, in which I had been born and where I belonged. I care no longer to climb. The imposing edifice of society above my head holds no delights for me. It is the foundation of the edifice that interests me. There I am content to labor, crowbar in hand, shoulder to shoulder with intellectuals, idealists, and class-conscious workingmen, getting a solid pry now and again and setting the whole edifice rocking. Some day, when we get a few more hands and crowbars to work, we'll topple it over, along with all its rotten life and unburied dead, its monstrous selfishness and sodden materialism. Then we'll cleanse the cellar and build a new habitation for mankind, in which there will be no parlor floor, in which all the rooms will be bright and airy, and where the air that is breathed will be clean, noble, and alive.
Such is my outlook. I look forward to a time when man shall progress upon something worthier and higher than his stomach, when there will be a finer incentive to impel men to action than the incentive of to-day, which is the incentive of the stomach. I retain my belief in the nobility and excellence of the human. I believe that spiritual sweetness and unselfishness will conquer the gross gluttony of to-day. And last of all, my faith is in the working-class. As some Frenchman has said, "The stairway of time is ever echoing with the wooden shoe going up, the polished boot descending."
"Yours for the Revolution."
Jack London 1905
No revolutionary can possibly be respectable in these days of the reign of property.
“Class supremacy can rest only on class degradation”
“It is what we of the working class preach. We know, and well we know by bitter experience, that no appeal for the right, for justice, for humanity, can ever touch you.”
“All my reading and studying of them has taught me that law is one thing and right is another thing. Ask any lawyer.”
“I am an idealist who believes in reality, and who, therefore, in all I write strive to be real, to keep both my own feet and the feet of my readers on the ground so that no matter how high we dream our dreams will be based on reality.”
One and all, the professors, the preachers, and the editors, hold their jobs by serving the Plutocracy, and their service consists of propagating only such ideas as are either harmless to or commendatory of the Plutocracy. Whenever they propagate ideas that menace the Plutocracy, they lose their jobs, in which case, if they have not provided for the rainy day, they descend into the proletariat and either perish or become working-class agitators. And don't forget that it is the press, the pulpit, and the university that mould public opinion, set the thought-pace of the nation. As for the artists, they merely pander to the little less than ignoble tastes of the Plutocracy.
“The press of the United States? It is a parasitic growth that battens on the capitalist class. Its function is to serve the established by moulding public opinion, and right well it serves it.”
The Law is a lie, and through it men lie most shamelessly.”
There are no Republicans nor Democrats in this House. You are lick-spittlers and panderers, the creatures of the Plutocracy.
“[Speaking to a group of wealthy New Yorkers]
A million years ago, the cave man, without tools, with small brain, and with nothing but the strength of his body, managed to feed his wife and children, so that through him the race survived. You on the other hand, armed with all the modern means of production, multiplying the productive capacity of the cave man a million times — you are incompetents and muddlers, you are unable to secure to millions even the paltry amount of bread that would sustain their physical life. You have mismanaged the world, and it shall be taken from you. ”
"The scab is a traitor to his God, his mother, and his class" —
“limited minds can recognize limitations only in others.”
"A bone to the dog is not charity. Charity is the bone shared with the dog, when you are just as hungry as the dog." —
“Then the business game is to make profits out of others, and to prevent others from making profits out of you.”
― Jack London,
"Life is not a matter of holding good cards, but sometimes, playing a poor hand well." —
The function of man is to live, not to exist. I shall not waste my days trying to prolong them. I shall use my time." —
"You can't wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club." —
"San Francisco at the present time is like the crater of a volcano, around which are camped tens of thousands of refugees." —
You are one with a crowd of men who have made what they call a government, who are masters of all the other men, and who eat the food the other men get and would like to eat themselves. You wear the warm clothes. They made the clothes, but they shiver in rags and ask you, the lawyer, or business agent who handles your money, for a job.
“Wherever there is an ascendant class, a large portion of the morality emanates from its class interests and its class feelings of superiority.”
― Jack London, The Iron Heel
“The myriads that raise the cry of hunger wail in the greatest empire in the world”
― Jack London,
“Fear urged him to go back, but growth drove him on.”
We will grind you revolutionists down under our heel, and we shall walk upon your faces. The world is ours, we are its lords, and ours it shall remain.
“You are metaphysicians. You can prove anything by metaphysics; and having done so, every metaphysician can prove every other metaphysician wrong—to his own satisfaction. You are anarchists in the realm of thought. And you are mad cosmos-makers. Each of you dwells in a cosmos of his own making, created out of his own fancies and desires. You do not know the real world in which you live, and your thinking has no place in the real world except in so far as it is phenomena of mental aberration.”
“Growth is life, and life is for ever destined to make for light.”
making the laws of humans so that humans might live together in amity and by united effort beat down and destroy all manner of creeping, crawling, squalling things that might else destroy them.
“It is far easier to see brave men die than to hear a coward beg for life.”
― Jack London,