Most famously a socialist text: concerning itself with manufactured consent, how capitalism not only robs of but becomes the life of the underclass and how the wellbeing of the worker rests entirely on the whims and attitudes of the 'master.' And yeah, that's all in there but you've got to wonder how many people are reading it for that. London's prose is, and I hate to go all 'economy of words' on this blessed website, never a letter out of place, and at a brisk seven chapters, the thing hasn't an ounce of fat. It's not hard to see London's vivid landscapes and bloody fights and tender tears and come away from The Call of the Wild feeling good about it as a sad, pretty and inspirational adventure novel. Which, to be clear, is great! I have nothing but praise for well-crafted thematically intentional populist storytelling and this is top-shelf.

My Dad is a bit of an unknowable guy, of a generation of Australian farmers who have the kind of bugs in their brains that make conversation with other human beings about interiority excruciating if not impossible. But, over the years he's let slip which of the authors in his pretty sizeable library mean the most to him, and Jack London is pretty high on that list. The last time I saw him I brought up The Call of the Wild and asked him what he loved so much about it. His eyes turned skyward to wistfully search his brain for the answer, and he told me he loves what it says about life. The beauty and brutality, both accounted for, unpredictable in quantity and never even, but one making the other ever sweeter (I'm paraphrasing). That's I think what makes London's direct prose so impactful. "If you strike that dog again, I will kill you." The tears bubbling under the lid matched by the euphoric elation it stirs in yourself. Just plain beautiful, that.