Jack London Writer Date of Birth: 12.01.1876 Country: USA

Biography of Jack London

Jack London was a writer who captivated the attention of many. His portraits were carefully cut out from magazines by admirers, publishers fought over the right to publish his manuscripts, and intellectuals considered him to be one of the most fascinating conversationalists. Those who visited his home knew that a glass of whiskey always awaited them. Throughout his life, he was loved, yet he suffered from a deep sense of loneliness that seemed indelible. Perhaps this stemmed from the fact that his biological father refused to acknowledge him as his son, or that the mother of the girl he loved also refused to call him her own. Maybe it was because God did not grant him the son he longed for.

Jack London was born in a part of the world where people could only dream of having a full meal, a sturdy pair of shoes, and a leak-free roof. However, he was a relentless dreamer, and while working at a canning factory, he aspired to become a great writer, conquer the sea, and make his mark on land. His work day lasted 10 hours and he was paid 10 cents per hour. He kept strict records of his money, allocating 5 cents for lemons, 6 cents for milk, and 4 cents for bread, all on a weekly basis. His mother made sure he washed his hands frugally, as otherwise, who else would wash the dishes?

His stepfather, John London, who had recently been hit by a train and was lying on a tattered couch that barely resembled a bed, cursed his fate. How unlucky was it to have such a disastrous accident and end up as a living cripple? Now Jack had to provide for the whole family - his mother Flora, his two step-sisters (John's daughters), and John himself. And the boy was only 13 years old, yet it seemed as if he had a wise head on his shoulders. He could have read books, gone to his library in Oakland - he could have become someone.

But fate had its own plans. John, groaning, turned to the other side, avoiding eye contact with Jack. He loved his stepson and almost forgave Flora for giving birth to him without knowing who the father was. Rumors circulated that his father was a famous astrology professor, an Irishman named Mr. Chaney. They also said that he was never married to Jack's mother, although they lived together in furnished rooms on First Avenue in San Francisco. It was thanks to him that she dabbled in astrology for a while and, incidentally, spiritualism as well. They also gossiped that when Flora became pregnant, she openly told the professor that the child was unlikely to be his - he was too old (Chaney was about fifty at that time), and when he refused to acknowledge the child, she attempted suicide. A terrible scandal erupted: the "Chronicle" newspaper poured heaps of mud on Mr. Chaney, even though no one bothered to check if this person had really shot himself in the temple so unsuccessfully as to survive, or (which is more likely) if he simply scratched his head to garner sympathy from his neighbors... Yet little Jack appeared in the world as a healthy baby with a well-formed voice. He wanted to live, wanted to eat, and cried loudly. And Flora had no idea how to help him, as she was entirely consumed by the prospect of her upcoming marriage to John London, a widower and a respectable man. To get the boy to leave her alone, they found him a wet nurse - Jenny, a black woman. Jenny's heart was as big as her bust size. She sang African-American songs to the little white boy, combed his curls, and loved him with a tenderness his restless mother could never muster.

As he grew older, Jack forgave Flora and never forgot Jenny. He helped them both, considering himself the son of both women. He also loved his stepfather, John. It was great to wander the fields with him, saying nothing yet understanding everything. It was great to go to the market with him to sell potatoes - in those happy but quickly fading years when John was a successful farmer and Flora, with her destructive energy, had not yet made a couple of bad decisions that would ultimately ruin the farm. They could fish on the waterfront or hunt ducks together. John even gave Jack a small gun and a fishing rod, real ones! With John, they could sometimes go to the theater in Oakland. On Sundays, the audience was treated to uncomplicated plays, sandwiches, and beer, so it was something in between a tavern and a temple of art. But it suited little Jack just fine: his stepfather would sit him right on the table, where he had a perfect view of the stage, ruffling his hair and laughing joyfully... But his father! Who was he? What was he like? Why did he leave Flora Wellman so unceremoniously in 1876? Why did he never make himself known or come to even catch a glimpse of his son?

However, all of this was in the past: the theater trips, the completion of elementary school, and the public library, where Mrs. Aina Coulburt always had books about unknown lands and brave, salt-covered sailors waiting for him. The present only consisted of the detestable canning factory and exhausting work. And the future? "I will be a writer, Frank, just wait and see," Jack told his school friend one day, as they shot at wild cats on the Piedmont hills with slingshots. "Oh, come on! A writer!" Frank scoffed. In his opinion, wanting to be a writer was as successful as wanting to be the King of England or the Crown Prince. In their surroundings, there was not a single living writer - they were all worn-out factory workers, mailmen, street sweepers, and porters. With a bit of imagination, one could dream of a career as a schoolteacher or a doctor, although it was clear that earning any diploma required a lot of money, which could never be earned by twisting cans. Who else was there in the world? Ah yes, sailors! The sea was right there, just three steps away from the shack that Jack called home. The sea beckoned with freedom, vastness, and blue, and it was populated by characters who resembled more the heroes of adventure novels than living people: honest fishermen and oyster pirates who raided other people's traps... "Oysters, oysters, buy my oysters!" the traders would cry on the pier in the morning, having bought them at dawn from the pirates who "acquired" them overnight. Jack knew that these pirates earned as much in a day as he did in a few months. And on more than one occasion, barely alive, returning from the factory and hearing the pirates swearing and laughing as they prepared for their mission, he thought to himself: it would be better to live not too honestly - like them - than to die obediently after spending the years granted to you by standing at a machine... But where could he find a boat? And then he learned that one of the pirates, a drunkard and a scoundrel known as the Frenchman, was selling his skiff. The price - 300 dollars. Without hesitation, Jack said, "I'm buying it!" and ran to his black nanny, Jenny.
"Jenny, I need money!" he exclaimed.
"Of course, my boy," she replied and reached under the mattress, where she kept all her treasures. "How much?"
"Three hundred dollars, Jenny!"
"Alright, Jack... But that's all I have."
"I'll pay you back. Just wait and see. Very soon, Jenny!" It never occurred to him that pirates were "working" as experienced adults, and he was not yet fifteen, that the sea was not only beautiful but also dangerous, and that if a strong storm occurred, he would not stand a chance with the skiff. In that case, his nanny would lose her 300 dollars forever, and perhaps even her beloved boy. This simple and common feeling - fear - was completely unknown to him. He had never experienced it. And so, Jack bought the boat from the Frenchman, and with it, he also acquired his new companion, sixteen-year-old Mamie. Mamie fell in love with the blond handsome boy the moment she laid eyes on him. And while the Frenchman was counting the money, she hid herself in the cabin of the skiff. After completing the transaction, filled with joy, Jack inspected his treasure and discovered the girl, who happened to be quite beautiful. "Now I am yours, Jack," Mamie declared. "Can I be yours?" "W-w-well, okay," Jack stammered. He couldn't possibly confess to this young lady that he wasn't quite sure what real pirates did with girls!

However, Mamie quickly taught him the ways, and it turned out he was a capable student. And though he had to resort to using his fists to earn the right to "belong" in this unique group and steal other people's oysters (and with someone else's girl!), he didn't mind! But in return for his first raid, he earned as much as he did in three months of work at the factory. He bought Mamie a shiny trinket, repaid part of his debt to his nanny, and gave the rest of the money to his mother. Flora, without saying a word, bought a new piece of soap on that very day.

...Jack had barely grown up, but his adult life had already begun. He drank whiskey just like the pirates, and even more than them. He cursed just like them, even louder. He got involved in the most brutal fights, where dying was easier than staying alive, and in one of them, he lost two front teeth. He took his skiff out to sea on nights when even the most daring stayed on the shore. He allowed Mamie to take care of him and kissed her on the lips in front of everyone. In short, he did everything to prove that he was a real man. "This guy won't last a year," muttered the old sailors, whose life experiences outweighed the biggest oyster catch. "What a shame: he would have made a great captain," some sighed. "He'll drink himself to death," others shook their heads. "He'll get himself killed," predicted the third. "But he loves the sea too much," argued the fourth. "And he's not afraid of anything..." "He loves the sea too much," came the reply. "And he's not afraid. The sea takes those desperate ones for itself..." Jack just laughed, listening to such prophecies. He did everything loudly, almost ostentatiously. And only for one activity did he indulge in complete solitude, making sure the doors of the skiff's cabin were securely closed - reading. Barely opening his eyes in the morning and plunging his buzzing head into the salty seawater, he passionately and incessantly read what Mrs. Aina Coulburt had reserved for him. He read all the new releases from the New York book market, the volumes of Zola, Melville, and Kipling that still smelled of the printing press. Satan Nelson would die of laughter if he found out about this exotic pastime his young friend enjoyed in his free time, away from drinking and brawling.

But Satan Nelson died from a knife in some drunken fight, never having suspected Jack's weakness. And Jack, not having a chance to die yet, embarked on a great voyage - and thank God for that, or else the gloomy predictions of the old sailors would have come true. He, who had never ventured into open sea, signed up - a sheer audacity! - as a first-class sailor on one of the last sailing ships in the world - the fast clipper "Sophie Sutherland" bound for Korea and Japan... And if he had been even slightly more cowardly and slightly lazier, if he had known just a bit less about the psychology of sailors, this journey would not have ended well for him. "Greenhorn! He should be running errands as a cabin boy!" the sailors thought, having spent more than one year at sea. "And yet he talked so much nonsense just to earn a little more money..." Jack read all of this in their squinted eyes, just like in his beloved books. And he knew that there was only one way to prove that he was not a loser: to open his mouth as little as possible and work as hard as possible. He climbed the rigging like a bird. He went off watch last. He descended to the cabin only when he personally made sure that all the rigging was in order. Yet, they forgave his youth only after "Sophie Sutherland" found itself in a fierce storm, and he, struggling against the wind, steered the ship in the right direction for a whole hour - so much so that even the captain, nodding approvingly, calmly went to have dinner... After that storm, no one said a word to him, but he understood that he had become his own man.

He could have stayed in that world forever. He loved the sea, and it loved him back. But as he lay on the deck at night, staring up at the vast sky, counting the stars above him, Jack searched among them for his own - the biggest and brightest one - and whispered to it, "I will be a writer. Do you hear me? I will be a writer, and my father, whoever he may be, will be proud of me!" It didn't sound like a request; rather, it sounded like a pact or even a command.

However, he didn't yet know what it took to become one. Therefore, every time he returned to Oakland, Jack, comforting his mother, promised to reconsider and took on some somber job that paid barely anything - now even less than before due to the crisis of 1893. Eight thousand enterprises in America went bankrupt, and the number of unemployed in the United States exceeded the number of deceased. But he was lucky for now; he was so young and strong that he could be hired at a jute factory or as a coal handler at the Oakland streetcar power station. He carried coal so swiftly that the workers couldn't keep up with him, and he earned $30 per month for it... And then he couldn't resist, he ran away, left, escaped, sailed away. When the "gold rush" came, he would go to Klondike and bring back more gold than the luckiest gold digger - the "ore" for his brilliant stories. But that was in the future. For now, he found a new adventure, a new brotherhood - the brotherhood of Road Men. It meant the following: you don't live anywhere but travel everywhere. Of course, without money or tickets. Of course, at your own risk. Wherever you can, you beg for alms or a piece of bread. Wherever you can't, you steal. Why? To see the world while others die of hunger or exhaustion, working for 15 hours a day. If you stay at home and your last name isn't Rockefeller, then America at the end of the 19th century cannot offer you any other options. But the Road awaits you always!

And Jack became a knight of the Road. He wandered the country, sometimes on the roof of a train car, sometimes under it, holding on tightly to the iron protrusions; freezing and suffocating from the heat; going for three days without a crumb in his mouth. Once, he was incredibly lucky: he spent the whole evening telling stories to an impressionable old lady, and in return, she fed him real pies with real meat... Jack had experience in spinning tales: sometimes he avoided the police station only because he could talk people to death, tell them a load of nonsense, and convince the "cops" that he wasn't a vagabond but simply an unfortunate boy left behind by the train. The lady ran out of pies before Jack ran out of stories, and she offered him tea with a cheese pie. Then she asked him what he would become if not for the unfortunate circumstances of life (which he only slightly embellished with his imagination, mostly telling the truth about his father, almost an astrologer, and his mother, almost insane, about oysters and pirates, about catching seals off the coast of Japan). "What would I be?" Jack repeated, devouring the pie and sipping tea from a delicate porcelain cup that he was afraid to crush due to unfamiliarity. "I would be a writer. Actually, I will be one!" The lady looked at him - ragged, dirty, missing front teeth, but incredibly handsome 18-year-old boy - and burst into genuine laughter. How could she know that on that same evening, he would sketch her portrait in his greasy notebook with a pencil stub, and she would become one of the characters in his Road, forever entering history - along with her delicate porcelain cups.