Jack London Essay
Several of our eWorld Fiction Writers are big Jack London fans. This piece was transcribed exactly as written by him, so the punctuation and grammar may appear somewhat archaic.
ON THE WRITERS PHILOSOPHY OF LIFE
by Jack London
The literary hack, the one who is satisfied to turn out pot boilers for the rest
of his or her life, will save time and vexation by passing this article by. It contains
no hints as to the disposing of manuscripts, the vagaries of the blue-pencil, the
filing of material, nor the innate perversity of adjectives and adverbs. Petrified
Pen-trotters, pass on! This is for the writerno matter how much hack-work he is
turning out just nowwho cherishes ambitions and ideals, and yearns for the time
when agricultural newspapers and home magazines no more may occupy the major portion
of his visiting list.
How are you, dear sir, madam, or miss, to achieve distinction in the field you have
chosen? Genius? Oh, but you are no genius. If you were you would not be reading these
lines. Genius is irresistible; it casts aside all shackles and restraints; it cannot
be held down. Genius is a rara avis, not to be found fluttering in every grove
as are you and I. But then are you talented? Yes, in an embryonic sort of way. The
biceps of Hercules was a puny affair when he rolled about in swaddling-clothes. So
with youyour talent is undeveloped. If it had received proper nutrition and were
well matured, you would not be wasting your time over this. And if you think your
talent really has attained its years of discretion, stop right here. If you think
it has not, then by what methods do you think it will?
By being original, you at once suggest; then add, and by constantly strengthening
that originality. Very good. But the question is not merely being originalthe
veriest tyro knows that muchbut now can you become original. How are you to cause
the reading world to look eagerly for your work? to force the publishers to pant
for it? You cannot expect to become original by following the blazed trail of another,
by reflecting the radiations of some one elses originality. No one broke ground
for Scott or Dickens, for Poe or Longfellow, for George Eliot or Mrs. Humphrey Ward,
for Stevenson and Kipling, Anthony Hope, Stephen Crane, and many others of the lengthening
list. Yet publishers and public have clamored for their ware. They conquered originality.
and how? By not being silly weather-cocks, turning to every breeze that flows. They,
with the countless failures, started even in the race; the world with its traditions
was their common heritage. But in one thing they differed from the failures; they
drew straight from the source, rejecting the material which filtered through other
hands. They had no use for the conclusions and conceits of others. They must put
the stamp of self upon their worka trade mark of far greater value than copyright.
So, from the world and its traditionswhich is another term for knowledge and culturethey
drew at first hand, certain materials, which they builded into an individual philosophy
of life.
Now the phrase, a philosophy of life, will not permit of precise definition. In
the first place it does not mean a philosophy on any one thing. It has no especial
concern with any one of such questions as the past and future travail of the soul,
the double and single standard of morals for the sexes, the economic independence
of women, the possibility of acquired characteristics being inherited, spiritualism,
reincarnation, temperance, etc. But it is concerned with all of them, in a way, and
with all the other ruts and stumbling blocks which confront the man or woman who
really lives. In short, it is an ordinary working philosophy of life.
Every permanently successful writer had possessed this philosophy. It was a view
peculiarly his own. It was a yardstick by which he measured all things which came
to his notice. By it he focused the characters he drew, the thoughts he uttered.
Because of it his work was sane, normal, and fresh. It was something new, something
the world wished to hear. It was his, and not a garbled mouthing of things the world
had already heard.
But make no mistake. The possession of such a philosophy does not imply a yielding
to the didactic impulse. Because one may have pronounced views on any question is
no reason that he assault the public ear with a novel with a purpose, and for that
matter, no reason that he should not. But it will be noticed, however, that this
philosophy of the writer rarely manifests itself in a desire to sway the world to
one side or the other of any problem. Some few great writers have been avowedly didactic,
while some, like Robert Louis Stevenson, in a manner at once bold and delicate, have
put themselves almost wholly into their work, and done so without once imparting
the idea that they had something to teach.
and it must be understood that such a working philosophy enables the writer to put
not only himself into his work, but to put that which is not himself but which is
viewed and weighted by himself. Of none is this more true than of that triumvirate
of intellectual giantsShakespeare, Goethe, Balzac. Each was himself, and so much
so, that there is no point in comparison. Each had drawn from this store his own
working philosophy. And by this individual standard they accomplished their work.
At birth they must have been very similar to all infants; but somehow, from the world
and its traditions, they acquired something which their fellows did not. And this
was neither more nor less than something to say.
Now you, young writer, have you something to say, or do you merely think you have
something to say? If you have, there is nothing to prevent your saying it. If you
are capable of thinking thoughts which the world would like to hear, the very form
of the thinking is the expression. If you think clearly, you will write clearly;
of your thoughts are worthy, so will your writing be worthy. But if your expression
is poor, it is because your thought is poor, if narrow, because you are narrow. If
your ideas are confused and jumbled, how can you expect a lucid utterance? If your
knowledge is sparse or unsystematized, how can your words be broad or logical? And
without the strong central thread of a working philosophy, how can you make order
out of chaos? how can your foresight and insight be clear? how can you have a quantitative
and qualitative perception of the relative importance of every scrap of knowledge
you possess? And without all this how can you possibly be yourself? how can you have
something fresh for the jaded ear of the world?
The only way of gaining this philosophy is by seeking it, by drawing the materials
which go to compose it from the knowledge and culture of the world. What do you know
of the world beneath the bubbling surface? What can you know of the bubbles unless
you comprehend the forces at work in the depths of the cauldron? Can an artist paint
and Ecce Homo without having a conception of the Hebrew myths and history, and
all the varied traits which form collectively the character of the Jew, his beliefs
and ideals, his passions and his pleasures, his hopes and fears? Can a musician compose
a Ride of the Valkyries and know nothing of the great Teutonic epics? So with youyou
must study. You must come to read the face of life with understanding. To comprehend
the characters and phases of any movement, you must know the spirit which moves to
action individuals and peoples, which gives birth and momentum to great ideas, which
hangs a John Brown or crucifies a Savior. You must have your hand on the inner pulse
of things. And the sum of all this will be your working philosophy, by which, in
turn, you will measure, weigh, and balance, and interpret to the world. It is this
stamp of personality of individual view, which is known as individuality.
What do you know of history, biology, evolution, ethics, and the thousand and one
branches of knowledge? But, you object, I fail to see how such things can aid
me in the writing of a romance or a poem. Ah, but they will. They broaden your thought,
lengthen out your vistas, drive back the bounds of the field in which you work. They
give you your philosophy, which is like unto no other mans philosophy, force you
to original thought.
But the task is stupendous, you protest; I have no time. Others have not been
deterred by its immensity. The years of your life are at your own disposal. Certainly
you cannot expect to master it all, but in the proportion you do master it, just
so will your efficiency increase, just so will you command the attention of your
fellows. Time! When you speak of its lack you mean lack of economy of its use. Have
you really learned how to read? How many insipid short stories and novels
do you read in the course of a year, endeavoring either to master the art of storywriting
or of exercising your critical facility? How many magazines do you read clear through
from beginning to end? Theres time for you, time you have been wasting with a fools
prodigalitytime which can never come again. Learn to discriminate in the selection
of your reading and learn to skim judiciously. You laugh at the doddering graybeard
who reads the daily paper, advertisements and all. But is it less pathetic, the spectacle
you present in trying to breast the tide of current fiction? But dont shun it. Read
the best, and the best only. Dont finish a tale simply because you have commenced
it. Remember that you are a writer, first, last, and always. Remember that these
are the mouthings of others, and if you read them exclusively, that you may garble
them; you will have nothing else to write about. Time! If you cannot find time, rest
assured that the world will not find time to listen to you.
From The Editor, October 1899.
[Apparently this magazine once filled the niche now occupied primarily by Writer's
Digest.]