Let’s reverse the
usual review method today. We’ll start with the opinion and end with the extract
as I have chosen a lengthy one.
Jack London wrote the Sea Wolf in 1904, the year after his
also classic The Call of the Wild
[also reviewed on this blog.] Some may scratch their heads at this sea-faring
tale being classed as a Western, but I see this hard-bitten frontier tale of overcoming
hardships and forging spirit as kin to the pioneer stories of the eastern
woodlands or the tales of overland prairie travels or survival tales of the southwestern
desert.
This book is hailed as
a classic, which can mean it’s “boring but important” or that it’s actually quite
good and a touchstone. My take on this one, is the first half works beautifully.
I loved Wolf Larsen’s observations delivered robustly here and there, but as it
wore on it seems to sink into a bit of melodrama that is less Larsen focused.
To my tastes, the novel needs Larsen to keep its heart beating.
With that said, I enjoyed
it quite a bit. I’ll allow the lengthy extract to cement the theme of
bootstrapping self-reliance.
"What
do you do for a living?"
I
confess I had never had such a question asked me before, nor had I ever
canvassed it. I was quite taken aback, and before I could find myself had
sillily stammered, "I am a gentleman."
His
lip curled in a swift sneer.
"I
have worked, I do work," I cried impetuously, as though he were my judge
and I required vindication, and at the same time very much aware of my arrant
idiocy in discussing the subject at all.
"For
your living?"
There
was something so imperative and masterful about him that I was quite beside
myself -- "rattled," as Furuseth would have termed it, like a quaking
child before a stern schoolmaster.
"Who
feeds you?" was his next question.
"I
have an income," I answered stoutly, and could have bitten my tongue the
next instant. "All of which, you will pardon my observing, has nothing
whatsoever to do with what I wish to see you about."
But
he disregarded my protest.
"Who
earned it? Eh? I thought so. Your father. You stand on dead men's legs. You've
never had any of your own. You couldn't walk alone between two sunrises and
hustle the meat for your belly for three meals. Let me see your hand."
His
tremendous, dormant strength must have stirred, swiftly and accurately, or I
must have slept a moment, for before I knew it he had stepped two paces
forward, gripped my right hand in his, and held it up for inspection. I tried
to withdraw it, but his fingers tightened, without visible effort, till I
thought mine would be crushed. It is hard to maintain one's dignity under such
circumstances. I could not squirm or struggle like a schoolboy. Nor could I
attack such a creature who had but to twist my arm to break it. Nothing
remained but to stand still and accept the indignity. I had time to notice that
the pockets of the dead man had been emptied on the deck, and that his body and
his grin had been wrapped from view in canvas, the folds of which the sailor,
Johansen, was sewing together with coarse white twine, shoving the needle
through with a leather contrivance fitted on the palm of his hand.
Wolf
Larsen dropped my hand with a flirt of disdain.
"Dead
men's hands have kept it soft. Good for little else than dish-washing and
scullion work."
"I
wish to be put ashore," I said firmly, for I now had myself in control.
"I shall pay you whatever you judge your delay and trouble to be
worth."
He
looked at me curiously. Mockery shone in his eyes.
"I
have a counter proposition to make, and for the good of your soul. My mate's
gone, and there'll be a lot of promotion. A sailor comes aft to take mate's
place, cabin-boy goes for'ard to take sailor's place, and you take the
cabin-boy's place, sign the articles for the cruise, twenty dollars per month and
found. Now what do you say? And mind you, it's for your own soul's sake. It
will be the making of you. You might learn in time to stand on your own legs
and perhaps to toddle along a bit."
