Jack London

The land it­self was a des­ol­a­tion, life­less, without move­ment, so lone and cold that the spirit of it was not even that of sad­ness. There was a hint in it of laughter, but of a laughter more ter­rible than any sad­ness—a laughter that was mirth­less as the smile of the sphinx, a laughter cold as the frost and par­tak­ing of the grim­ness of in­fal­lib­il­ity. It was the mas­ter­ful and in­com­mu­nic­able wis­dom of etern­ity laugh­ing at the fu­til­ity of life and the ef­fort of life. It was the Wild, the sav­age, frozen-hearted North­land Wild.

com­mis­er­at­ingly

wist­ful­ness

It is not the way of the Wild to like move­ment. Life is an of­fence to it, for life is move­ment;

lodged only in his mind

amused glance that the other stole privily at him

not of the eart

in the upper walks of life.

rounded by the unknown, apprehensive of what might happen, ignorant of what he should do, aware that he walked and bore himself awkwardly, fearful that every attribute and power of him was similarly afflicted. He was keenly sensitive, hopelessly self-conscious

"Ruth." It was a talisman, a magic word to conjure with. Each time he murmured it, her face shimmered before him, suffusing the foul wall with a golden radiance. This radiance did not stop at the wall. It extended on into infinity, and through its golden depths his soul went questing after hers. The best that was in him was out in splendid flood. The very thought of her ennobled and purified him, made him better, and made him want to be better.