from
The Sea Wolf
by
Jack London
"Death Larsen!" I involuntarily cried. "Is he like you?"
"Hardly. He is a lump of an animal without any head.
He has all my-- my--"
He has all my-- my--"
"Brutishness," I suggested.
"Yes,--thank you for the word,--all my brutishness, but
he can scarcely read or write."
"And he has never philosophized on life," I added.
"No," Wolf Larsen answered, with an indescribable air of
sadness, "And he is all the happier for leaving life alone.
He is too busy living it to think about it.
My mistake was in ever opening the books."
He is too busy living it to think about it.
My mistake was in ever opening the books."
