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Preview this item Preview this item. Allow this favorite library to be seen by others Keep this favorite library private. I answered. I answered at length. I answered indignantly. The more I answered, the more indignant I became.
No; I was not drunk. And yet—how shall I say? I was. I am not. I never am. I am never less his friend than when he is with me and when I seem most his friend.
He is the king of liars. He is the frankest truth-sayer. He is the august companion with whom one walks with the gods. He is also in league with the Noseless One. His way leads to truth naked, and to death.
Various Authors. Moderate wear to wrappers with some loss at spine ends, some foxing to text and spotting to edges, else near very good. Behrouz Boochani. Synopsis About this title This autobiography by the successful writer of "Call of the Wild" and "White Fang" shattered his international image as a rugged, energetic adventurer when it was first published in One of two trivial spots within else a lovely fine copy in an attractive recent leather binding. Violet Jessop.
He gives clear vision, and muddy dreams. He is a red-handed killer, and he slays youth.
I continued to talk. As I say, I was lighted up. In my brain every thought was at home. Every thought, in its little cell, crouched ready-dressed at the door, like prisoners at midnight waiting a jail-break.
John Barleycorn: Alcoholic Memoirs (Oxford World's Classics) [Jack London, John Sutherland] on rapyzure.tk *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. Published. John Barleycorn: Alcoholic Memoirs (Oxford World's Classics) [Jack London, John Sutherland] on rapyzure.tk *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers.
And every thought was a vision, bright- imaged, sharp-cut, unmistakable. My brain was illuminated by the clear, white light of alcohol. John Barleycorn was on a truth-telling rampage, giving away the choicest secrets on himself. And I was his spokesman. There moved the multitudes of memories of my past life, all orderly arranged like soldiers in some vast review. It was mine to pick and choose. I was a lord of thought, the master of my vocabulary and of the totality of my experience, unerringly capable of selecting my data and building my exposition. I outlined my life to Charmian, and expounded the make-up of my constitution.
I was no hereditary alcoholic.
I had been born with no organic, chemical predisposition toward alcohol. In this matter I was normal in my generation. Alcohol was an acquired taste. It had been painfully acquired. Alcohol had been a dreadfully repugnant thing—more nauseous than any physic. Even now I did not like the taste of it. Twenty years of unwilling apprenticeship had been required to make my system rebelliously tolerant of alcohol, to make me, in the heart and the deeps of me, desirous of alcohol.
I sketched my first contacts with alcohol, told of my first intoxications and revulsions, and pointed out always the one thing that in the end had won me over—namely, the accessibility of alcohol. Not only had it always been accessible, but every interest of my developing life had drawn me to it. A newsboy on the streets, a sailor, a miner, a wanderer in far lands, always where men came together to exchange ideas, to laugh and boast and dare, to relax, to forget the dull toil of tiresome nights and days, always they came together over alcohol.
The saloon was the place of congregation. Men gathered to it as primitive men gathered about the fire of the squatting-place or the fire at the mouth of the cave. I reminded Charmian of the canoe-houses from which she had been barred in the South Pacific, where the kinky-haired cannibals escaped from their womenkind and feasted and drank by themselves, the sacred precincts taboo to women under pain of death. All ways led to the saloon.