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Lust for Life

In 'Martin Eden,' Jack London gives us a hero bigger and more complicated than we can bear

September 15, 2002|PAUL BERMAN | Paul Berman is the author of "A Tale of Two Utopias: The Political Journey of the Generation of 1968." His essay is adapted from the introduction to a new edition of "Martin Eden," to be published by the Modern Library later this year.

There is a passion for reading and study that some people feel intensely and others never will: an extravagant passion that leads to sleepless nights wandering from the bookshelves to the magazine table, a passion for spreading open a book and caressing its pages, for studying its fonts and its stitched and perfect bindings. It is a passion for speech rhythms, storytelling and argument. It is a cerebral passion but not just cerebral.

The passion for reading and study tends to be wonderfully ambiguous, an escape which also manages to be a passion for self-assertion, a passion for succumbing to the personalities and arguments of masterful writers and for mastering personalities and arguments oneself.

It is a playful passion and a passion for brain-wracking labor. Sometimes the passion feeds on itself until it blossoms into very nearly a sexual passion, partly an ache and partly a thrill, something felt with the skin and the muscles as much as with the head and the heart, a desire.

The French philosopher Roland Barthes wrote about this passion, which he called, slightly mischievously, "The Pleasure of the Text." Writers, according to Barthes, are seducers prowling for lovers. Readers are innocents hoping to be seduced. Literature is flirtation.

But it takes more than a philosopher's skill to speak passionately about a passion, and surely one of the strangest of those descriptions, one of the most disturbing, appears in Jack London's novel "Martin Eden."

London wrote "Martin Eden" in 1909 when he was 33. He was already universally admired for having produced "The Call of the Wild" (the greatest dog novel ever written) and his tales of the Alaskan gold rush, a hero of the typewriter who celebrated his success by voyaging at huge expense through the South Seas, all the while pounding out his daily quota of words. He wrote "A Piece of Steak" on that expedition.

But mostly he worked on "Martin Eden." The book recounts what was, by 1909, a familiar tale: the story of a young man who clambers upward from dark anonymity into the glamorous world of literary fame, only to reel in horror at the crassness of the magazines and the book publishers and the crafty hypocrisies of the upper class.

George Gissing wrote a version of that story in "New Grub Street," about the literary life of England in the 1880s, and likewise Balzac in "Lost Illusions," about the literary life of France in the 1830s. (All novels about young people trying to make a career in literature are called "Lost Illusions.") But Gissing and Balzac were insiders in the world of publishing, grizzled veterans who knew how to sprinkle a sophisticated dust over their portraits of struggling writers and sinister editors. London was an outsider's outsider. He was a bitter young man from the California working class, self-taught, without advantages in life, a tough guy who actually did go to Alaska and hunt for gold, not that he found any.

The charm of "Martin Eden" rests in good part on London's early experiences. There is a pathos in the opening scenes: young Martin entering the home of the wealthy Morse family, Martin all too aware of his sailor's gait and unpressed pants and workingman's syntax, Martin terrified by table manners, Martin panicked by the servant's effort to bring him food, Martin sputtering with amazement, "You've gone to the university?" Every one of those details, in its precision, appears to have been lifted directly from memory. But London's special inspiration in "Martin Eden" was to take those tender and accurate working-class observations and charge them with a muscular and even sexual energy, slightly addled.

Martin gazes at the Morses' ethereal daughter, Ruth, and falls in love and gazes at a pile of books on the table, and likewise falls in love. The girl; the books. The books; the girl. Maybe the books more than the girl. And he plunges into a campaign to conquer the books and the girl, alike. This is the heart of the novel: Martin's 19-hour days of reading and study, his pilgrimages to the Oakland Public Library, his grand assaults on mathematics (which defeats him) and philosophy (where victory is his), his effort to write his own stories and poems and essays, his submissions to the magazines, his failures, his zeal to succeed. And at nearly every station of his campaign, a peculiar cloud of oddly violent sexuality hovers overhead.

Martin and Ruth discuss Longfellow. "A wave of intense virility seemed to surge out from him and impinge upon her." She can't take her eyes off his neck. A "wanton thought" crosses her mind. She would like to put her hands on his neck. Her own "undreamed depravity" shocks her. London says of Martin, "The old familiar blaze of health rushed out from him and struck him like a blow." The images are volcanic. Lava seeps upward.

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