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orangefan65's review against another edition
4.0
A gripping autobiographical account of Jack London's life-long battle with alcohol. He was convinced that if alcohol had been made illegal and unavailable, it would have saved the lives of countless.
danielsell's review against another edition
adventurous
dark
informative
reflective
medium-paced
3.5
jacqueswiehose's review against another edition
adventurous
reflective
medium-paced
msand3's review against another edition
4.0
One thing I can say after reading this book: Hemingway's got nothing on Jack!
This is no melancholy rumination on the dangers of alcohol. It's a rip-roaring autobiography in which booze plays an integral part. Although London claims to desire prohibition, he can't seem to help celebrating John Barleycorn for the entire first two-thirds of the book. We read as London describes getting drunk at ages five and seven. Then onto his days as a teenage oyster pirate, where he practically lives in taverns, swilling whiskey with "fine, chesty, man-grown men." (Seriously. That's a direct quote. His favorite adjective is "chesty.") At this point the reader has to be wondering if London is joking when he says he's in favor of prohibition. Hell, after reading the first half of the book, I was wishing I could visit a turn-of-the-century San Francisco dockside bar and get loaded with characters like French Frank, Whisky Bob, and Spider. And despite all this boozy, manly camaraderie, London insists (almost every other page) that he is most definitely NOT an alcoholic. (Dear God, I can only imagine what he thinks an alcoholic IS!) Only in the final third of the book do we get a brief essay on the social ills of John Barleycorn and the "truthful-lying" of his "White Logic." But by this point, the reader has to find London's conclusion a bit hard to swallow. (Pardon the pun.) Indeed, in the last chapter (spoiler alert?) London claims that despite his desire for booze to be outlawed so as not to poison young people, he still wants to continue drinking! (Only socially, of course. Because, as he emphasizes constantly, he is most definitely NOT an alcoholic!) Is this meant to be irony? Is London serious? Does he really think his manly body (which, by the way, has been ravaged by so many physical ills it's kinda scary) has actually "beaten" John Barleycorn at his own game, as he claims? I don't think it matters. The point is made: alcohol can distort your thinking, damage your senses, and totally ruin your body. But it sure can be a fun ride along the way.
This is no melancholy rumination on the dangers of alcohol. It's a rip-roaring autobiography in which booze plays an integral part. Although London claims to desire prohibition, he can't seem to help celebrating John Barleycorn for the entire first two-thirds of the book. We read as London describes getting drunk at ages five and seven. Then onto his days as a teenage oyster pirate, where he practically lives in taverns, swilling whiskey with "fine, chesty, man-grown men." (Seriously. That's a direct quote. His favorite adjective is "chesty.") At this point the reader has to be wondering if London is joking when he says he's in favor of prohibition. Hell, after reading the first half of the book, I was wishing I could visit a turn-of-the-century San Francisco dockside bar and get loaded with characters like French Frank, Whisky Bob, and Spider. And despite all this boozy, manly camaraderie, London insists (almost every other page) that he is most definitely NOT an alcoholic. (Dear God, I can only imagine what he thinks an alcoholic IS!) Only in the final third of the book do we get a brief essay on the social ills of John Barleycorn and the "truthful-lying" of his "White Logic." But by this point, the reader has to find London's conclusion a bit hard to swallow. (Pardon the pun.) Indeed, in the last chapter (spoiler alert?) London claims that despite his desire for booze to be outlawed so as not to poison young people, he still wants to continue drinking! (Only socially, of course. Because, as he emphasizes constantly, he is most definitely NOT an alcoholic!) Is this meant to be irony? Is London serious? Does he really think his manly body (which, by the way, has been ravaged by so many physical ills it's kinda scary) has actually "beaten" John Barleycorn at his own game, as he claims? I don't think it matters. The point is made: alcohol can distort your thinking, damage your senses, and totally ruin your body. But it sure can be a fun ride along the way.
epictetsocrate's review against another edition
3.0
Toată povestea începe într-o zi de alegeri. Într-o după-amiază toridă, aşa cum se întâlneşte numai în California, am descălecat în Valea Lunii. Plecasem de la micul meu ranch şi venisem în sat pentru a vota o serie întreagă de reforme ce urmau să se aducă constituţiei statului californian. Era atât de cald, încât dădusem peste cap câteva pahare înainte chiar de a-mi fi pus buletinul în urnă precum şi numeroase altele după aceea. La întoarcere, străbătui la trap colinele acoperite de podgorii, ogoarele ranch-ului şi ajunsei tocmai bine la ora aperitivului şi a mesei.
Abia intrai şi Charmian mă luă în primire:
― Ei, ai fost pentru sau împotriva dreptului de vot al femeilor?
Am votat pentru.
O exclamaţie de surpriză scăpă de pe buzele ei. Trebuie să mărturisesc că în tinereţe, cu toată credinţa mea pătimaşă în democraţie, eram împotriva votului feminin. Câţiva ani mai târziu, am devenit mai îngăduitor şi l-am primit fără entuziasm, ca pe un inevitabil fenomen social.
― Te rog, explică-mi, stărui Charmian, de ce ai votat pentru?
Atunci i-am răspuns; i-am dat amănunte din belşug; i-am pledat plin de indignare. Cu cât vorbeam, cu atât mă aprindeam mai mult. (Nu fiindcă eram beat; dovadă, calul de pe care abia coborâsem. Acesta purta pe drept cuvânt numele de „Nelegiuitul” şi aş vrea să văd un altul capabil să-l încalece).
Totuşi, cum aş putea să mă exprim? ― mă simţeam „bine”, eram încins şi uşor ameţit.
― Când femeile vor avea dreptul să meargă la urnă, au să voteze pentru prohibiţie, susţinui eu. Femeile sunt soţii, surori şi mame; numai ele vor reuşi să bată cuiele în sicriul lui John Barleycorn.
Abia intrai şi Charmian mă luă în primire:
― Ei, ai fost pentru sau împotriva dreptului de vot al femeilor?
Am votat pentru.
O exclamaţie de surpriză scăpă de pe buzele ei. Trebuie să mărturisesc că în tinereţe, cu toată credinţa mea pătimaşă în democraţie, eram împotriva votului feminin. Câţiva ani mai târziu, am devenit mai îngăduitor şi l-am primit fără entuziasm, ca pe un inevitabil fenomen social.
― Te rog, explică-mi, stărui Charmian, de ce ai votat pentru?
Atunci i-am răspuns; i-am dat amănunte din belşug; i-am pledat plin de indignare. Cu cât vorbeam, cu atât mă aprindeam mai mult. (Nu fiindcă eram beat; dovadă, calul de pe care abia coborâsem. Acesta purta pe drept cuvânt numele de „Nelegiuitul” şi aş vrea să văd un altul capabil să-l încalece).
Totuşi, cum aş putea să mă exprim? ― mă simţeam „bine”, eram încins şi uşor ameţit.
― Când femeile vor avea dreptul să meargă la urnă, au să voteze pentru prohibiţie, susţinui eu. Femeile sunt soţii, surori şi mame; numai ele vor reuşi să bată cuiele în sicriul lui John Barleycorn.