LIVING in Oakland at the dawn of the 20th century， Martin Eden struggles to rise far above his destitute proletarian circumstances， the main driving force behind is his love forRuth Morse. Because Eden is a rough，uneducated sailor from a working class background， and the Morses are a bourgeoisfamily， a union between them would be impossible until he reaches their level of wealth and perceived cultural， intellectualrefmement. The novel ends with Martin Edencommitting suicide by drowning; a detailwhich undoubtedly contributed to whatresearcher Clarice Stasz calls the “biographicalmyth” thatJack London's own death was asuicide.
JACK LONDON （1876-1916），American author， journalist， and social activist. He was a pioneerin the burgeoning world of commercial magazine fiction and was one ofthe first fiction writersto obtain worldwide celebrityand a large fortune from hisFiction alone.London's most famous novels are The Call of the Wild，WhiteFang， The Sea-Wolf and MartinEden.Ina letter，London'sMacmillan publisher GeorgePlatt Brett，Sr.said “he believedJack's fiction represented 'the very best kind of work' done inAmerica.”
CHAPTER Ⅰ
CHAPTER Ⅱ
CHAPTER Ⅲ
CHAPTER Ⅳ
CHAPTER Ⅴ
CHAPTER Ⅵ
CHAPTER Ⅶ
CHAPTER Ⅷ
CHAPTER Ⅸ
CHAPTER Ⅹ
CHAPTER Ⅺ
CHAPTER Ⅻ
CHAPTER ⅩⅢ
CHAPTER ⅩⅣ
CHAPTER ⅩⅤ
CHAPTER ⅩⅥ
CHAPTER ⅩⅦ
CHAPTER ⅩⅧ
CHAPTER ⅩⅨ
CHAPTER ⅩⅩ
CHAPTER ⅩⅪ
CHAPTER ⅩⅩⅡ
CHAPTER ⅩⅩⅢ
CHAPTER ⅩⅩⅣ
CHAPTER ⅩⅩⅤ
CHAPTER ⅩⅩⅥ
CHAPTER ⅩⅩⅦ
CHAPTER ⅩⅩⅧ
CHAPTER ⅩⅩⅨ
CHAPTER ⅩⅩⅩ
CHAPTER ⅩⅩⅪ
CHAPTER ⅩⅩⅫ
CHAPTER ⅩⅩⅩⅢ
CHAPTER ⅩⅩⅩⅨ
CHAPTER ⅩⅩⅩⅤ
CHAPTER ⅩⅩⅩⅥ
CHAPTER ⅩⅩⅩⅦ
CHAPTER ⅩⅩⅩⅧ
CHAPTER ⅩⅩⅩⅨ
CHAPTER ⅩL
CHAPTER ⅩLⅠ
CHAPTER ⅩLⅡ
CHAPTER ⅩLⅢ
CHAPTER ⅩLⅣ
CHAPTER ⅩLⅤ
CHAPTER ⅩLⅥ
bronzed face with his handkerchief.“Hold on， Arthur，my boy，”he said，attempfing to maskhis anxiety with facetious utterance.“This is too much all atonce for yours truly.Give me a chance to get my nerve. Youknow I didn't want to come， an' I guess your fam'ly ain'thankerin' to see me neither.”
“That's all right，”was the reassuring answer.“You mustn'tbe 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， andbegan to read， giving the stranger an opportunity to recoverhimself. And the stranger understood and appreciated.His was the gift of sympathy，understanding; and beneathhis alarmed exterior that sympathetic process went on. Hemopped his forehead dry and glanced about him with acontrolled face， though in the eyes there was an expressionsuch as wild animals betray when they fear the trap. Hewas surrounded by the unknown，apprehensive of whatmight happen， ignorant of what he should do， aware thathe walked and bore himself awkwardly，fearful that everyattribute and power of him was similarly afflicted. He waskeenly sensitive， hopelessly self-consaous， and the amusedglance that the other stole privily at him over the top ofthe letter burned into him like a dagger-thrust. He saw theglance， but he gave no sign， for among the tlungs he had learned was discipline. Also， that dagger——thrust went to hispride. He cursed himself for having come， and at the sametime resolved that， happen what would， having come， he would carry it through. The lines of his face hardened， andinto 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 surfthundered and burst over an outjutting rock; loweringstorm-clouds covered the sky;and，outside the line of surf，a pilot-schooner， close-hauled， heeled over till every detailof her deck was visible， was surging along against a stormysunset sky. There was beauty， and it drew lum irresistibly.He forgot his awkward walk and came closer to the painting，very close. The beauty faded out of the canvas. His face Jexpressed his bepuzzlement. He stared at what seemed acareless daub of paint， then stepped away. Immediately allthe beauty flashed back into the canvas.“A trick picture，”was his thought， as he dismissed it， though in the midst ofthe multitudinous impressions he was receiving he foundtime to feel a prod of indignation that so much beauty shouldbe sacrificed to make a trick. He did not know painting.He had been brought up on chromos and lithographs thatwere always definite and sharp， near or far. He had seen oilpaintings， it was true， in the show windows of shops， butthe glass of the windows had prevented his eager eyes fromapproaching too near.He glanced around at his friend reading the letter and sawthe books on the table. Into his eyes leaped a wistfulnessand a yearning as promptly as the yearning leaps into theeyes of a starving man at sight of food. An impulsive stride，with one lurch to right and left of the shoulders， broughthim to the table， where he began affectionately handling the Jbooks. He glanced at the titles and the authors' names， readfragments of text， caressing the volumes with his eyes andhands， and， once， recognized a book he had read. For the rest，they were strange books and strange authors. He chancedupon a volume of Swinburne and began reading steadily，forgetful of where he was， his face glowing. Twice he closedthe book on his forefinger to look at the name of the author.Swinburne！ He would remember that name. That fellow hadeyes， and he had certainly seen color and flashing light. Butwho was Swinburne？
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