Martin Eden

Martin Eden

Paperback(Mass Market Paperback - Unabridged Edition)

$3.37 $3.50 Save 4% Current price is $3.37, Original price is $3.5. You Save 4%. View All Available Formats & Editions

Overview

This is a novel about a young writer and the book is considered a favorite among writers. Some readers believe there is some resemblance between Jack London and Martin Eden.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780804902090
Publisher: Airmont Publishing Company, Incorporated
Publication date: 10/28/1969
Series: Airmont Classics Series , #209
Edition description: Unabridged Edition
Pages: 319
Age Range: 14 - 17 Years

About the Author

John Griffith "Jack" London was an American novelist, journalist, and social activist. A pioneer in the world of commercial magazine fiction, he was one of the first writers to become a worldwide celebrity and earn a large fortune from writing.

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

The one opened the door with a latch-key and went in, followed by a young fellow who awkwardly removed his cap. He wore rough clothes that smacked of the sea, and he was manifestly out of place in the spacious hall in which he found himself. He did not know what to do with his cap, and was stuffing it into his coat pocket when the other took it from him. The act was done quietly and naturally, and the awkward young fellow appreciated it. "He understands," was his thought. "He'll see me through all right."

He walked at the other's heels with a swing to his shoulders, and his legs spread unwittingly, as if the level floors were tilting up and sinking down to the heave and lunge of the sea. The wide rooms seemed too narrow for his rolling gait, and to himself he was in terror lest his broad shoulders should collide with the doorways or sweep the bric-a-brac from the low mantel. He recoiled from side to side between the various objects and multiplied the hazards that in reality lodged only in his mind. Between a grand piano and a centre-table piled high with books was space for a half a dozen to walk abreast, yet he essayed it with trepidation. His heavy arms hung loosely at his sides, He did not know what to do with those arms and hands, and when, to his excited vision, one arm seemed liable to brush against the books on the table, he lurched away like a frightened horse, barely missing the piano stool. He watched the easy walk of the other in front of him, and for the first time realized that his walk was different from that of other men. He experienced a momentary pang of shame that he should walk so uncouthly. The sweat burst through the skin of his forehead in tiny beads, and he paused and mopped his bronzed face with his handkerchief.

"Hold on, Arthur, my boy," he said, attempting to mask his anxiety with facetious utterance. "This is too much all at once for yours truly. Give me a chance to get my nerve. You know I didn't want to come, an' I guess your fam'ly ain't hankerin' to see me neither."

"That's all right," was the reassuring answer. "You mustn't be frightened at us. We're just homely people — Hello, there's a letter for me."

He stepped back to the table, tore open the envelope, and began to read, giving the stranger an opportunity to recover himself. And the stranger, understood and appreciated. His was the gift of sympathy, understanding; and beneath his alarmed exterior that sympathetic process went on. He mopped his forehead dry and glanced about him with a controlled face, though in the eyes there was an expression such as wild animals betray when they fear the trap. He was surrounded 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, and the amused glance that the other stole privily at him over the top of the letter burned into him like a dagger-thrust. He saw the glance, but he gave no sign, for among the things he had learned was discipline. Also, that dagger-thrust went to his pride. He cursed himself for having come, and at the same time resolved that, happen what would, having come, he would carry it through. The lines of his face hardened, and into his eyes came a fighting light. He looked about more unconcernedly, sharply observant, every detail of the pretty interior registering itself on his brain. His eyes were wide apart; nothing in their field of vision escaped; and as they drank in the beauty before them the fighting light died out and a warm glow took its place. He was responsive to beauty, and here was cause to respond.

An oil painting caught and held him. A heavy surf thundered and burst over an outjutting rock; lowering storm-clouds covered the sky; and, outside the line of surf, a pilot-schooner, close-hauled, heeled over till every detail of her deck was visible, was surging along against a stormy sunset sky. There was beauty, and it drew him irresistibly. He forgot his awkward walk and came closer to the painting, very close. The beauty faded out of the canvas. His face expressed his be puzzlement. He stared at what seemed a careless daub of paint, then stepped away. Immediately all the beauty flashed back into the canvas. "A trick picture," was his thought, as he dismissed it, though in the midst of the multitudinous impressions he was receiving he found time to feel a prod of indignation that so much beauty should be sacrificed to make a trick. He did not know painting. He had been brought up on chromos and lithographs that were always definite and sharp, near or far. He had seen oil paintings, it was true, in the show windows of shops, but the glass of the windows had prevented his eager eyes from approaching too near.

He glanced around at his friend reading the letter and saw the books on the table. Into his eyes leaped a wistfulness and a yearning as promptly as the yearning leaps into the eyes of a starving man at sight of food. An impulsive stride, with one lurch to, right and left of the shoulders, brought him to the table, where he began affectionately handling the books. He glanced at the titles and the authors' names, read fragments of text, caressing the volumes with his eyes and hands, and, once, recognized a book he had read. For the rest, they were strange books and strange authors. He chanced upon a volume of Swinburne and began reading steadily, forgetful of where he was, his face glowing. Twice he closed the book on his forefinger to look at the name of the author. Swinburne! he would remember that name. That fellow had eyes, and he had certainly seen color and flashing light. But who was Swinburne? Was he dead a hundred years or so, like most of the poets? Or was he alive still, and writing? He turned to the title-page ... yes, he had written other books; well, he would go to the free library the first thing in the morning and try to get hold of some of Swinburne's stuff. He went back to the text and lost himself. He did not notice that a young woman had entered the room. The first he knew was when he heard Arthur's voice saying: —

"Ruth, this is Mr. Eden."

The book was closed on his forefinger, and before he turned he was thrilling to the first new impression, which was not of the girl, but of her brother's words. Under that muscled body of his he was a mass of quivering sensibilities. At the slightest impact of the outside world upon his consciousness, his thoughts, sympathies, and emotions leapt and played like lambent flame. He was extraordinarily receptive and responsive, while his imagination, pitched high, was ever at work establishing relations of likeness and difference. "Mr. Eden," was what he had thrilled to — he who had been called "Eden," or "Martin Eden," or just "Martin," all his life. And "Mister!" It was certainly going some, was his internal comment. His mind seemed to turn, oh the instant, into a vast camera obscura, and he saw arrayed around his consciousness endless pictures from his life, of stokeholes and forecastles, camps and beaches, jails and boozing-kens, fever-hospitals and slum streets, wherein the thread of association was the fashion in which he had been addressed in those various situations.

And then he turned and saw the girl. The phantasmagoria of his brain vanished at sight of her. She was a pale, ethereal creature, with wide, spiritual blue eyes and a wealth of golden hair. He did not know how she was dressed, except that the dress was as wonderful as she. He likened her to a pale gold flower upon a slender stem. No, she was a spirit, a divinity, a goddess; such sublimated beauty was not of the earth. Or perhaps the books were right, and there were many such as she in the upper walks of life. She might well be sung by that chap Swinburne. Perhaps he had had somebody like her in mind when he painted that girl, Iseult, in the book there on the table. All this plethora of sight, and feeling, and thought occurred on the instant. There was no pause of the realities wherein he moved. He saw her hand coming out to his, and she looked him straight in the eyes as she shook hands, frankly, like a man. The women he had known did not shake hands that way. For that matter, most of them did not shake hands at all. A flood of associations, visions of various ways he had made the acquaintance of women, rushed into his mind and threatened to swamp it. But he shook them aside and looked at her. Never had he seen such a woman. The women he had known! Immediately, beside her, on either hand, ranged the women he had known. For an eternal second he stood in the midst of a portrait gallery, wherein she occupied the central place, while about her were limned many women, all to be weighed and measured by a fleeting glance, herself the unit of weight and measure. He saw the weak and sickly faces of the girls of the factories, and the simpering, boisterous girls from the south of Market. There were women of the cattle camps, and swarthy cigarette-smoking women of Old Mexico. These, in turn, were crowded out by Japanese women, doll-like, stepping mincingly on wooden clogs; by Eurasians, delicate featured, stamped with degeneracy; by full-bodied South-Sea-Island women, flower-crowned and brown-skinned. All these were blotted out by a grotesque and terrible nightmare brood — frowsy, shuffling creatures from the pavements of Whitechapel, gin-bloated hags of the stews, and all the vast hell's following of harpies, vile-mouthed and filthy, that under the guise of monstrous female form prey upon sailors, the scrapings of the ports, the scum and slime of the human pit.

"Won't you sit down, Mr. Eden?" the girl was saying. "I have been looking forward to meeting you ever since Arthur told us. It was brave of you — "

He waved his hand deprecatingly and muttered that it was nothing at all, what he had done, and that any fellow would have done it. She noticed that the hand he waved was covered with fresh abrasions, in the process of healing, and a glance at the other loose-hanging hand showed it to be in the same condition. Also, with quick, critical eye, she noted a scar on his cheek, another that peeped out from under the hair of the forehead, and a third that ran down and disappeared under the starched collar. She repressed a smile at sight of the red line that marked the chafe of the collar against the bronzed neck. He was evidently unused to stiff collars. Likewise her feminine eye took in the clothes he wore, the cheap and unæsthetic cut, the wrinkling of the coat across the shoulders, and the series of wrinkles in the sleeves that advertised bulging biceps muscles.

While he waved his hand and muttered that he had done nothing at all, he was obeying her behest by trying to get into a chair. He found time to admire the ease with which she sat down, then lurched toward a chair facing her, overwhelmed with consciousness of the awkward figure he was cutting. This was a new experience for him. All his life, up to then, he had been unaware of being either graceful or awkward. Such thoughts of self had never entered his mind. He sat down gingerly on the edge of the chair, greatly worried by his hands. They were in the way wherever he put them. Arthur was leaving the room, and Martin Eden followed his exit with longing eyes. He felt lost, alone there in the room with that pale spirit of a woman. There was no barkeeper upon whom to call for drinks, no small boy to send around the corner for a can of beer and by means of that social fluid start the amenities of friendship flowing.

"You have such a scar on your neck, Mr. Eden," the girl was saying. "How did it happen? I am sure it must have been some adventure."

"A Mexican with a knife, miss," he answered, moistening his parched lips and clearing his throat. "It was just a fight. After I got the knife away, he tried to bite off my nose."

Baldly as he had stated it, in his eyes was a rich vision of that hot, starry night at Salina Cruz, the white strip of beach, the lights of the sugar steamers in the harbor, the voices of the drunken sailors in the distance, the jostling stevedores, the flaming passion in the Mexican's face, the glint of the beast-eyes in the starlight, the sting of the steel in his neck; and the rush of blood, the crowd and the cries, the two bodies, his and the Mexican's, locked together, rolling over and over and tearing up the sand, and from away off somewhere the mellow tinkling of a guitar. Such was the picture, and he thrilled to the memory of it, wondering if the man could paint it who had painted the pilot-schooner on the wall. The white beach, the stars, and the lights of the sugar steamers would look great, he thought, and midway on the sand the dark group of figures that surrounded the fighters. The knife occupied a place in the picture, he decided, and would show well, with a sort of gleam, in the light of the stars. But of all this no hint had crept into his speech. "He tried to bite off my nose," he concluded.

"Oh," the girl said, in a faint, far voice, and he noticed the shock in her sensitive face.

He felt a shock himself, and a blush of embarrassment shone faintly on his sunburned cheeks, though to him it burned as hotly as when his cheeks had been exposed to the open furnace-door in the fire-room. Such sordid things as stabbing affrays were evidently not fit subjects for conversation with a lady. People in the books, in her walk of life, did not talk about such things — perhaps they did not know about them, either.

There was a brief pause in the conversation they were trying to get started. Then she asked tentatively about the scar on his cheek. Even as she asked, he realized that she was making an effort to talk his talk, and he resolved to get away from it and talk hers.

"It was just an accident," he said, putting his hand to his cheek. "One night, in a calm, with a heavy sea running, the main-boom-lift carried away, an' next the tackle. The lift was wire, an' it was threshin' around like a snake. The whole watch was tryin' to grab it, an' I rushed in an' got swatted."

"Oh," she said, this time with an accent of comprehension, though secretly his speech had been so much Greek to her and she was wondering what a lift was and what swatted meant.

"This man Swineburne," he began, attempting to put his plan into execution and pronouncing the i long.

"Who?"

"Swineburne," he repeated, with the same mispronunciation. "The poet."

"Swinburne," she corrected.

"Yes, that's the chap," he stammered, his cheeks hot again. "How long since he died?"

"Why, I haven't heard that he was dead." She looked at him curiously. "Where did you make his acquaintance?"

"I never clapped eyes on him," was the reply. "But I read some of his poetry out of that book there on the table just before you come in. How do you like his poetry?"

And thereat she began to talk quickly and easily upon the subject he had suggested. He felt better, and settled back slightly from the edge of the chair, holding tightly to its arms with his hands, as if it might get away from him and buck him to the floor. He had succeeded in making her talk her talk, and while she rattled on, he strove to follow her, marvelling at all the knowledge that was stowed away in that pretty head of hers, and drinking in the pale beauty of her face. Follow her he did, though bothered by unfamiliar words the fell glibly from her lips and by critical phrases and thought-processes that were foreign to his mind, but that nevertheless stimulated his mind and set it tingling. Here was intellectual life, he thought, and here was beauty, warm and wonderful as he had never dreamed it could be. He forgot himself and stared at her with hungry eyes. Here was something to live for, to win to, to fight for — ay, and die for. The books were true. There were such women in the world. She was one of them. She lent wings to his imagination, and great, luminous canvases spread themselves before him, whereon loomed vague, gigantic figures of love and romance, and of heroic deeds for woman's sake — for a pale woman, a flower of gold. And through the swaying, palpitant vision, as through a fairy mirage, he stared at the real woman, sitting there and talking of literature and art. He listened as well, but he stared, unconscious of the fixity of his gaze or of the fact that all that was essentially masculine in his nature was shining in his eyes. But she, who knew little of the world of men, being a woman, was keenly aware of his burning eyes. She had never had men look at her in such fashion, and it embarrassed her. She stumbled and halted in her utterance. The thread of argument slipped from her. He frightened her, and at the same time it was strangely pleasant to be so looked upon. Her training warned her of peril and of wrong, subtle, mysterious, luring; while her instincts rang clarion-voiced through her being, impelling her to hurdle caste and place and gain to this traveller from another world, to this uncouth young fellow with lacerated hands and a line of raw red caused by the unaccustomed linen at his throat, who, all too evidently, was soiled and tainted by ungracious existence. She was clean, and her cleanness revolted; but she was woman, and she was just beginning to learn the paradox of woman.

(Continues…)



Excerpted from "Martin Eden"
by .
Copyright © 2017 Dover Publications, Inc..
Excerpted by permission of Dover Publications, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Customer Reviews

Most Helpful Customer Reviews

See All Customer Reviews

Martin Eden 4.3 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 32 reviews.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Having read the book myself, I disagree with those who regard it an inspiring tale of personal triumph. To be sure, the book dramatizes the gut-wrenching, heart-wringing struggle of the protagonist, Martin Eden, to reinvent himself, through self-study, into a versatile writer of repute with a view to making himself worthy not only of his fiancée, Ruth Morse, but also of the bourgeois society to which she belongs and in which he seeks to gain membership despite his humble origins. But the book, as anyone who has read it conscientiously knows, ends on a tragic note: Martin Eden¿s suicide at the height of his success can¿t simply be discounted. Shouldn¿t this ending then provoke one into asking whether or not the book is truly the inspirational narrative that it is popularly regarded to be? I believe it should. In my view, the book is a cautionary tale of transcendence gone awry. How so? Martin Eden¿s tenacity of purpose is predicated on his a priori conviction that his fiancée and the bourgeoisie can value his intrinsic worth as an individual of potential. But alas! Much to his profound disillusionment, he discovers later on that his fiancée and the bourgeoisie have no appreciation at all 'and can never have any' for what he is and what he¿s willing himself to be. Only when Fame and Fortune have already smiled on him are they prepared to regard him well ¿ and only superficially so at that. In other words, Martin Eden realizes he is wrong in believing they can value him on his own terms, not on theirs only his extrinsic worth as an individual of attainment matters to them, and like it or not, that¿s all he can ever expect of them. That the force of realization is strong enough to dissipate his passion for living is hardly surprising. He has inadvertently foredoomed himself by obsessively seeking genuine affirmation from the people of the `wrong¿ sort. It can¿t be otherwise especially in view of his rigid sense of self-consistency, which prevents him from accepting the way things are and amending himself accordingly. Whether or not his suicide then is an act of lunacy, cowardice, or plain weakness, one thing is certain: it is arguably an act of repudiation like Kate Chopin¿s tragic heroine Edna Pontellier¿s in the Awakening. Their suicides, which coincidentally involved entombing themselves in watery graves, could be said to constitute the ultimate statement of defiance against their societies that have given them much sorrow.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This is my favorite book ever! Its very different but very good.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Yes, the bad printing was corrected in 2002 on the edition published by Synergy International of The Americas - on the bright red cover as are all books published by us (Jack Liondon)and also on B. Traven books. 5 Stars from this publisher
Guest More than 1 year ago
Martin Eden is the best book I've read so far! The first sentence will get you intrested right away. Set in San Fransico, it's a love story and a adventure combined. Martin, a not so well educated sailor falls in love with a upper class woman he meets one day while eating dinner. He wants to be come smarter so he starts reading books. But his money runs out from his previous job so he has to go to sea. When he goes to sea he jumps overbored and he kills himself by swimming downuntill he cant get back to the surface with his breath. A good story with alot of big word though.
Guest More than 1 year ago
London succeeds quite well in this effort . Martin Eden is part love story, part psychological study, part social manifesto, and part autobiography. London is able to blend these elements into a cohesive whole that is both fascinating and thought provoking. It is a wonderful story that will certainly make an impression
Guest More than 1 year ago
Martin Eden is indeed the most mature of London's works as Mr. Sinclair said. I don't know what version the other reviewer was reading, but the Modern Library Classics edition doesn't have any of these flaws and comes with a notes section. A very compelling read and another great look into how depressed the human mind can become. Another work of genius by London.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I understood what is the book about and I really identify myself with this book. You can see it everywhere - the film Guru - he was talking about great things, but people werent listening to him, they were just squawking, because other people were squawking and because it was 'in'. The same is Martin Eden and it shows how poor is this world - genius is rated by average people.
manirul01 More than 1 year ago
Beautiful
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Martin tells it like he sees it, sadly true today, I second the Anonymous review of 6/16/2007. I give the story 5 stars, Jack London was the best. There still is a "bourgeois society" and it still has it's attitudes. Same story today in Reston Virginia where I live. That is why they call these books classics, their story is timeless, true a century ago - and true today.
edwinbcn on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Published in 1909, three years earlier than G.B Shaw's Pygmalion (1912), Martin Eden is a male Eliza Doolittle. Saving an upper-class gent in a brawl leads to Martin's introduction into this wealthy family, where he falls in love with the daughter, Ruth Morse. From his point of view, Martin realizes that he must 'improve' himself to meet Ruth at an equal level: he sets out to learn proper English, mend his ways, and goes to school to learn all subjects. Bent on giving up his life as a sailor, he tries to change jobs, and hits on the idea that a career in writing is the best way to go to make a fortune, which would put him on an equal footing with Ruth. Years of toil and rejection follow, but Martin perseveres. In the meantime, however, Ruth's parents steer her away from an unthinkable marriage with Martin Eden, who, in their eyes, will always remain an unworthy choice. Losing Ruth, and achieving fame and riches through the (same) stories which were rejected so many times before, Martin Eden becomes disillusioned. He writes no new stories, and in the end goes back to sea, where he came from.At just over 400 pages, Martin Eden by Jack London is a remarkably readable novel. It is semi-autobiographical, and puts an interesting angle of the reality of becoming a writer, in particular getting stories published in literary magazines. With class differences in the young American nation being less important than in Shaw's Great Britain, the Morse family supposedly nouveau riche, class plays a minor role in the novel.
jd234512 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
This is the first book I have read by Jack London, which may or may not be a good thing. Because this is semi-autobiographical, it gave me a good introduction to him, but also left me wondering what his other books are like. Needless to say, if the writing is similar to this, I can not wait to take on his other books. He has a wonderful way with words and seems to have a consciousness of the plights of different types of people and characterizes wonderfully, while sympathizing more with the "lesser" class. Absolutely wonderful.
JBreedlove on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Jack London writes well. This semi-autobiographical tale set in turn of the century Bay Area in California relates the struggles, triumphs and ultimate surrender of Martin Eden. The book was an easy read and written so well that it kept my interest throughout. I was getting tired of his refusals but finally he wins out. But after all that struggle he becomes empty. I was surprised by the ending. His death throes were, once again, written well.
Soska on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
In my opinion one develops a taste for London when young - ready for an Adventure... But he can be appreciated at any age and read many times, each time offering something new. And so Martin Eden, after the initial head spin at - say - 13, caused by the hero's valiant struggle, his rise and (inevitable) fall, becomes "simply" a very good read. No trivia, just Life.
montano on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
A semi-autobiographical story about a young man from the lower class in San Fransciso who meets an upper middle class girl. The meeting opens his eyes to a whole new world of luxury and sophistication. His infatuation with the beautiful girl drives him to improve himself and he turns to writing as a means of work and expression. A seemingly simple tale of rags-to-riches but with dark overtones.
KaneH More than 1 year ago
Many of us struggle to understand the meaning of life. It's worse when life itself is a struggle, as it is for the protagonist in this book. Attempting to overcome a brutal existence, he aspires to be a writer, and finds that task more than Herculean. A study in values and societal mores, this book is a fictional depiction of many aspects of the life of Jack London, and is a powerful story that writers should read before complaining how hard their lives are.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
FadingStorm prowls along the border, refreshing the scent markers and checking for anything unfamiliar.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This book, which originated in the Internet Archive and should have bern left there, suffrs from a distractingly poor scanning job. Higher quality, free-of-charge versions abound elsewhere, e.g. at Feedbooks. I'm deleting this book and warn you to avoid this particular version. I'm surprised and disappointed BN allows weeds like this one into its walled garden.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago