Jack London
When God Laughs and Other Stories
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Table of contents
WHEN GOD LAUGHS
THE APOSTATE
A WICKED WOMAN
JUST MEAT
CREATED HE THEM
THE CHINAGO
MAKE WESTING
SEMPER IDEM
A NOSE FOR THE KING
THE "FRANCIS SPAIGHT"
A CURIOUS FRAGMENT
A PIECE OF STEAK
WHEN GOD LAUGHS
"The
gods, the gods are stronger; time
Falls down before them, all men's knees
Bow, all men's prayers and sorrows climb
Like incense toward them; yea, for these
Are gods, Felise."Carquinez
had relaxed finally. He stole a glance at the rattling windows,
looked upward at the beamed roof, and listened for a moment to the
savage roar of the south-easter as it caught the bungalow in its
bellowing jaws. Then he held his glass between him and the fire and
laughed for joy through the golden wine."It
is beautiful," he said. "It is sweetly sweet. It is a
woman's wine, and it was made for gray-robed saints to drink.""We
grow it on our own warm hills," I said, with pardonable
California pride. "You rode up yesterday through the vines from
which it was made."It
was worth while to get Carquinez to loosen up. Nor was he ever really
himself until he felt the mellow warmth of the vine singing in his
blood. He was an artist, it is true, always an artist; but somehow,
sober, the high pitch and lilt went out of his thought-processes and
he was prone to be as deadly dull as a British Sunday—not dull as
other men are dull, but dull when measured by the sprightly wight
that Monte Carquinez was when he was really himself.From
all this it must not be inferred that Carquinez, who is my dear
friend and dearer comrade, was a sot. Far from it. He rarely erred.
As I have said, he was an artist. He knew when he had enough, and
enough, with him, was equilibrium—the equilibrium that is yours and
mine when we are sober.His
was a wise and instinctive temperateness that savoured of the Greek.
Yet he was far from Greek. "I am Aztec, I am Inca, I am
Spaniard," I have heard him say. And in truth he looked it, a
compound of strange and ancient races, what with his swarthy skin and
the asymmetry and primitiveness of his features. His eyes, under
massively arched brows, were wide apart and black with the blackness
that is barbaric, while before them was perpetually falling down a
great black mop of hair through which he gazed like a roguish satyr
from a thicket. He invariably wore a soft flannel shirt under his
velvet-corduroy jacket, and his necktie was red. This latter stood
for the red flag (he had once lived with the socialists of Paris),
and it symbolized the blood and brotherhood of man. Also, he had
never been known to wear anything on his head save a leather-banded
sombrero. It was even rumoured that he had been born with this
particular piece of headgear. And in my experience it was provocative
of nothing short of sheer delight to see that Mexican sombrero
hailing a cab in Piccadilly or storm-tossed in the crush for the New
York Elevated.
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!