The Call of the Wild and White Fang

The Call of the Wild and White Fang

by Jack London

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Part St. Bernard, part Scotch shepherd, Buck is a sturdy crossbreed canine accustomed to a comfortable life as a family dog -- until he's seized from his pampered surroundings and shipped to Alaska to be a sled dog. There, the forbidding landscape is as harsh as life itself during the gold rush of the 1890s. Forced to function in a climate where every day is a savage struggle for survival, Buck adapts quickly. Traces of his earlier existence are obliterated and he reverts to his dormant primeval instincts, encountering danger and adventure as he becomes the leader of a wolf pack and undertakes a journey of nearly mythical proportions. Superb details, taken from Jack London's firsthand knowledge of Alaskan frontier life, make this classic tale of endurance as gripping today as it was over a century ago. One of literature's most popular and exciting adventure stories, The Call of the Wild will enrich the reading experience of youngsters, and rekindle fond memories of a favorite among older generations.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781448161515
Publisher: Random House
Publication date: 06/06/2013
Sold by: Barnes & Noble
Format: NOOK Book
Pages: 512
File size: 3 MB
Age Range: 10 - 14 Years

About the Author

Jack London was born in San Francisco, California, on January 12th, 1876, as “John Griffith Chaney.” He wrote short stories, essays, and novels and worked in journalism. London was one of the first novelists to make a lucrative career out of fiction-writing, achieving worldwide fame at age twenty-seven with The Call of the Wild. He passed away on November 12th, 1916, at age forty.

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One: Into the Primitive

"Old longings nomadic leap,
Chafing at custom's chain;
Again from its brumal sleep
Wakens the ferine strain."

Buck did not read the newspapers, or he would have known that trouble was brewing, not alone for himself, but for every tidewater dog, strong of muscle and with warm, long hair, from Puget Sound to San Diego. Because men, groping in the Arctic darkness, had found a yellow metal, and because steamship and transportation companies were booming the find, thousands of men were rushing into the Northland. These men wanted dogs, and the dogs they wanted were heavy dogs, with strong muscles by which to toil, and furry coats to protect them from the frost.

Buck lived at a big house in the sun-kissed Santa Clara Valley. Judge Miller's place, it was called. It stood back from the road, half hidden among the trees, through which glimpses could be caught of the wide cool veranda that ran around its four sides. The house was approached by gravelled driveways which wound about through wide-spreading lawns and under the interlacing boughs of tall poplars. At the rear things were on even a more spacious scale than at the front. There were great stables, where a dozen grooms and boys held forth, rows of vine-clad servants' cottages, an endless and orderly array of outhouses, long grape arbors, green pastures, orchards, and berry patches. Then there was the pumping plant for the artesian well, and the big cement tank where Judge Miller's boys took their morning plunge and kept cool in the hot afternoon.

And over this great demesne Buck ruled. Here he was born, and here he had lived the four years of his life. It was true, there were other dogs. There could not but be other dogs on so vast a place, but they did not count. They came and went, resided in the populous kennels, or lived obscurely in the recesses of the house after the fashion of Toots, the Japanese pug, or Ysabel, the Mexican hairless -- strange creatures that rarely put nose out of doors or set foot to ground. On the other hand, there were the fox terriers, a score of them at least, who yelped fearful promises at Toots and Ysabel looking out of the windows at them and protected by a legion of housemaids armed with brooms and mops.

But Buck was neither house-dog nor kennel dog. The whole realm was his. He plunged into the swimming tank or went hunting with the Judge's sons; he escorted Mollie and Alice, the Judge's daughters, on long twilight or early morning rambles; on wintry nights he lay at the Judge's feet before the roaring library fire; he carried the Judge's grandsons on his back, or rolled them in the grass, and guarded their footsteps through wild adventures down to the fountain in the stable yard, and even beyond, where the paddocks were, and the berry patches. Among the terriers he stalked imperiously, and Toots and Ysabel he utterly ignored, for he was king -- king over all creeping, crawling, flying things of Judge Miller's place, humans included.

His father, Elmo, a huge St. Bernard, had been the Judge's inseparable companion, and Buck bid fair to follow in the way of his father. He was not so large -- he weighed only one hundred and forty pounds -- for his mother, Shep, had been a Scotch shepherd dog. Nevertheless, one hundred and forty pounds, to which was added the dignity that comes of good living and universal respect, enabled him to carry himself in right royal fashion. During the four years since his puppyhood he had lived the life of a sated aristocrat; he had a fine pride in himself, was ever a trifle egotistical, as country gentlemen sometimes become because of their insular situation. But he had saved himself by not becoming a mere pampered house-dog. Hunting and kindred outdoor delights had kept down the fat and hardened his muscles; and to him, as to the cold-tubbing races, the love of water had been a tonic and a health preserver.

And this was the manner of dog Buck was in the fall of 1897, when the Klondike strike dragged men from all the world into the frozen North. But Buck did not read the newspapers, and he did not know that Manuel, one of the gardener's helpers, was an undesirable acquaintance. Manuel had one besetting sin. He loved to play Chinese lottery. Also, in his gambling, he had one besetting weakness -- faith in a system; and this made his damnation certain. For to play a system requires money, while the wages of a gardener's helper do not lap over the needs of a wife and numerous progeny.

The Judge was at a meeting of the Raisin Growers' Association, and the boys were busy organizing an athletic club, on the memorable night of Manuel's treachery. No one saw him and Buck go off through the orchard on what Buck imagined was merely a stroll. And with the exception of a solitary man, no one saw them arrive at the little flag station known as College Park. This man talked with Manuel, and money chinked between them.

"You might wrap up the goods before you deliver 'm," the stranger said gruffly, and Manuel doubled a piece of stout rope around Buck's neck under the collar.

"Twist it, an' you'll choke 'm plentee," said Manuel, and the stranger grunted a ready affirmative.

Buck had accepted the rope with quiet dignity. To be sure, it was an unwonted performance: but he had learned to trust in men he knew, and to give them credit for a wisdom that outreached his own. But when the ends of the rope were placed in the stranger's hands, he growled menacingly. He had merely intimated his displeasure, in his pride believing that to intimate was to command. But to his surprise the rope tightened around his neck, shutting off his breath. In quick rage he sprang at the man, who met him halfway, grappled him close by the throat, and with a deft twist threw him over on his back. Then the rope tightened mercilessly, while Buck struggled in a fury, his tongue lolling out of his mouth and his great chest panting futilely. Never in all his life had he been so vilely treated, and never in all his life had he been so angry. But his strength ebbed, his eyes glazed, and he knew nothing when the train was flagged and the two men threw him into the baggage car.

The next he knew, he was dimly aware that his tongue was hurting and that he was being jolted along in some kind of a conveyance. The hoarse shriek of a locomotive whistling a crossing told him where he was. He had travelled too often with the Judge not to know the sensation of riding in a baggage car. He opened his eyes, and into them came the unbridled anger of a kidnapped king. The man sprang for his throat, but Buck was too quick for him. His jaws closed on the hand, nor did they relax till his senses were choked out of him once more.

"Yep, has fits," the man said, hiding his mangled hand from the baggageman, who had been attracted by the sounds of struggle. "I'm takin' 'm up for the boss to 'Frisco. A crack dog-doctor there thinks that he can cure 'm."

Concerning that night's ride, the man spoke most eloquently for himself, in a little shed back of a saloon on the San Francisco water front.

"All I get is fifty for it," he grumbled; "an' I wouldn't do it over for a thousand, cold cash."

His hand was wrapped in a bloody handkerchief, and the right trouser leg was ripped from knee to ankle.

"How much did the other mug get?" the saloon-keeper demanded.

"A hundred," was the reply. "Wouldn't take a sou less, so help me."

"That makes a hundred and fifty," the saloon-keeper calculated; "and he's worth it, or I'm a squarehead."

The kidnapper undid the bloody wrappings and looked at his lacerated hand. "If I don't get the hydrophoby -- "

"It'll be because you was born to hang," laughed the saloon-keeper. "Here lend me a hand before you pull your freight," he added.

Dazed, suffering intolerable pain from throat and tongue, with the life half throttled out of him, Buck attempted to face his tormentors. But he was thrown down and choked repeatedly, till they succeeded in filing the heavy brass collar from off his neck. Then the rope was removed, and he was flung into a cagelike crate.

There he lay for the remainder of the weary night, nursing his wrath and wounded pride. He could not understand what it all meant. What did they want with him, these strange men? Why were they keeping him pent up in this narrow crate? He did not know why, but he felt oppressed by the vague sense of impending calamity. Several times during the night he sprang to his feet when the shed door rattled open, expecting to see the Judge, or the boys at least. But each time it was the bulging face of the saloon-keeper that peered in at him by the sickly light of a tallow candle. And each time the joyful bark that trembled in Buck's throat was twisted into a savage growl.

But the saloon-keeper let him alone, and in the morning four men entered and picked up the crate. More tormentors, Buck decided, for they were evil-looking creatures, ragged and unkempt; and he stormed and raged at them through the bars. They only laughed and poked sticks at him, which he promptly assailed with his teeth till he realized that that was what they wanted. Whereupon he lay down sullenly and allowed the crate to be lifted into a wagon. Then he, and the crate in which he was imprisoned, began a passage through many hands. Clerks in the express office took charge of him; he was carted about in another wagon; a truck carried him, with an assortment of boxes and parcels, upon a ferry steamer; he was trucked off the steamer into a great railway depot, and finally he was deposited in an express car.

For two days and nights this express car was dragged along at the tail of shrieking locomotives; and for two days and nights Buck neither ate nor drank. In his anger he had met the first advances of the express messengers with growls, and they had retaliated by teasing him. When he flung himself against the bars, quivering and frothing, they laughed at him and taunted him. They growled and barked like detestable dogs, mewed, and flapped their arms and crowed. It was all very silly, he knew; but therefore the more outrage to his dignity, and his anger waxed and waxed. He did not mind the hunger so much, but the lack of water caused him severe suffering and fanned his wrath to fever-pitch. For that matter, high-strung and finely sensitive, the ill treatment had flung him into a fever, which was fed by the inflammation of his parched and swollen throat and tongue.

He was glad for one thing: the rope was off his neck. That had given them an unfair advantage; but now that it was off, he would show them. They would never get another rope around his neck. Upon that he was resolved. For two days and nights he neither ate nor drank, and during those two days and nights of torment, he accumulated a fund of wrath that boded ill for whoever first fell foul of him. His eyes turned blood-shot, and he was metamorphosed into a raging fiend. So changed was he that the Judge himself would not have recognized him; and the express messengers breathed with relief when they bundled him off the train at Seattle.

Four men gingerly carried the crate from the wagon into a small, high-walled back yard. A stout man, with a red sweater that sagged generously at the neck, came out and signed the book for the driver. That was the man, Buck divined, the next tormentor, and he hurled himself savagely against the bars. The man smiled grimly, and brought a hatchet and a club.

"You ain't going to take him out now?" the driver asked.

"Sure," the man replied, driving the hatchet into the crate for a pry.

There was an instantaneous scattering of the four men who had carried it in, and from safe perches on top the wall they prepared to watch the performance.

Buck rushed at the splintering wood, sinking his teeth into it, surging and wrestling with it. Wherever the hatchet fell on the outside, he was there on the inside, snarling and growling, as furiously anxious to get out as the man in the red sweater was calmly intent on getting him out.

"Now, you red-eyed devil," he said, when he had made an opening sufficient for the passage of Buck's body. At the same time he dropped the hatchet and shifted the club to his right hand.

And Buck was truly a red-eyed devil, as he drew himself together for the spring, hair bristling, mouth foaming, a mad glitter in his blood-shot eyes. Straight at the man he launched his one hundred and forty pounds of fury, surcharged with the pent passion of two days and nights. In mid air, just as his jaws were about to close on the man, he received a shock that checked his body and brought his teeth together with an agonizing clip. He whirled over, fetching the ground on his back and side. He had never been struck by a club in his life, and did not understand. With a snarl that was part bark and more scream he was again on his feet and launched into the air. And again the shock came and he was brought crushingly to the ground. This time he was aware that it was the club, but his madness knew no caution. A dozen times he charged, and as often the club broke the charge and smashed him down.

After a particularly fierce blow he crawled to his feet, too dazed to rush. He staggered limply about, the blood flowing from nose and mouth and ears, his beautiful coat sprayed and flecked with bloody slaver. Then the man advanced and deliberately dealt him a frightful blow on the nose. All the pain he had endured was as nothing compared with the exquisite agony of this. With a roar that was almost lionlike in its ferocity, he again hurled himself at the man. But the man, shifting the club from right to left, coolly caught him by the under jaw, at the same time wrenching downward and backward. Buck described a complete circle in the air, and half of another, then crashed to the ground on his head and chest.

For the last time he rushed. The man struck the shrewd blow he had purposely withheld for so long, and Buck crumpled up and went down, knocked utterly senseless.

"He's no slouch at dog-breakin', that's wot I say," one of the men on the wall cried enthusiastically.

"Druther break cayuses any day, and twice on Sundays," was the reply of the driver, as he climbed on the wagon and started the horses.

Buck's senses came back to him, but not his strength. He lay where he had fallen, and from there he watched the man in the red sweater.

"'Answers to the name of Buck,'" the man soliloquized, quoting from the saloon-keeper's letter which had announced the consignment of the crate and contents. "Well, Buck, my boy," he went on in a genial voice, "we've had our little ruction, and the best thing we can do is to let it go at that. You've learned your place, and I know mine. Be a good dog and all 'll go well and the goose hang high. Be a bad dog, and I'll whale the stuffin' outa you. Understand?"

As he spoke he fearlessly patted the head he had so mercilessly pounded, and though Buck's hair involuntarily bristled at touch of the hand, he endured it without protest. When the man brought him water he drank eagerly, and later bolted a generous meal of raw meat, chunk by chunk, from the man's hand.

He was beaten (he knew that); but he was not broken. He saw, once for all, that he stood no chance against a man with a club. He had learned the lesson, and in all his after life he never forgot it. That club was a revelation. It was his introduction to the reign of primitive law, and he met the introduction halfway. The facts of life took on a fiercer aspect; and while he faced that aspect uncowed, he faced it with all the latent cunning of his nature aroused. As the days went by, other dogs came, in crates and at the ends of ropes, some docilely, and some raging and roaring as he had come; and, one and all, he watched them pass under the dominion of the man in the red sweater. Again and again, as he looked at each brutal performance, the lesson was driven home to Buck: a man with a club was a law-giver, a master to be obeyed, though not necessarily conciliated. Of this last Buck was never guilty, though he did see beaten dogs that fawned upon the man, and wagged their tails, and licked his hand. Also he saw one dog, that would neither conciliate nor obey, finally killed in the struggle for mastery.

Now and again men came, strangers, who talked excitedly, wheedling, and in all kinds of fashions to the man in the red sweater. And at such times that money passed between them the strangers took one or more of the dogs away with them. Buck wondered where they went, for they never came back; but the fear of the future was strong upon him, and he was glad each time when he was not selected.

Yet his time came, in the end, in the form of a little weazened man who spat broken English and many strange and uncouth exclamations which Buck could not understand.

"Sacredam!" he cried, when his eyes lit upon Buck. "Dat one dam bully dog! Eh? How moch?"

"Three hundred, and a present at that," was the prompt reply of the man in the red sweater. "And seein' it's government money, you ain't got no kick coming, eh, Perrault?"

Perrault grinned. Considering that the price of dogs had been boomed skyward by the unwonted demand, it was not an unfair sum for so fine an animal. The Canadian Government would be no loser, nor would its despatches travel the slower. Perrault knew dogs, and when he looked at Buck he knew that he was one in a thousand -- "One in ten t'ousand," he commented mentally.

Buck saw money pass between them, and was not surprised when Curly, a good-natured Newfoundland, and he were led away by the little weazened man. That was the last he saw of the man in the red sweater, and as Curly and he looked at receding Seattle from the deck of the Narwhal, it was the last he saw of the warm Southland. Curly and he were taken below by Perrault and turned over to a black-faced giant called François. Perrault was a French-Canadian, and swarthy; but François was a French-Canadian half-breed, and twice as swarthy. They were a new kind of men to Buck (of which he was destined to see many more), and while he developed no affection for them, he none the less grew honestly to respect them. He speedily learned that Perrault and François were fair men, calm and impartial in administering justice, and too wise in the way of dogs to be fooled by dogs.

In the 'tween-decks of the Narwhal, Buck and Curly joined two other dogs. One of them was a big, snow-white fellow from Spitzbergen who had been brought away by a whaling captain, and who had later accompanied a Geological Survey into the Barrens.

He was friendly, in a treacherous sort of way, smiling into one's face the while he meditated some underhand trick, as, for instance, when he stole from Buck's food at the first meal. As Buck sprang to punish him, the lash of François's whip sang through the air, reaching the culprit first; and nothing remained to Buck but to recover the bone. That was fair of François, he decided, and the half-breed began his rise in Buck's estimation.

The other dog made no advances, nor received any; also, he did not attempt to steal from the newcomers. He was a gloomy, morose fellow, and he showed Curly plainly that all he desired was to be left alone, and further, that there would be trouble if he were not left alone. "Dave" he was called, and he ate and slept, or yawned between times, and took interest in nothing, not even when the Narwhal crossed Queen Charlotte Sound and rolled and pitched and bucked like a thing possessed. When Buck and Curly grew excited, half wild with fear, he raised his head as though annoyed, favored them with an incurious glance, yawned, and went to sleep again.

Day and night the ship throbbed to the tireless pulse of the propeller, and though one day was very like another, it was apparent to Buck that the weather was steadily growing colder. At last, one morning, the propeller was quiet, and the Narwhal was pervaded with an atmosphere of excitement. He felt it, as did the other dogs, and knew that a change was at hand. François leashed them and brought them on deck. At the first step upon the cold surface, Buck's feet sank into white mushy something very like mud. He sprang back with a snort. More of this white stuff was falling through the air. He shook himself, but more of it fell upon him. He sniffed it curiously, then licked some up on his tongue. It bit like fire, and the next instant was gone. This puzzled him. He tried it again, with the same result. The onlookers laughed uproariously, and he felt ashamed, he knew not why, for it was his first snow.

Copyright © 2001 by Simon & Schuster

Table of Contents

About This Series



A Note on the Text


Pt. 1

The Call of the Wild


Pt. 2

Jack London, "Batard"


Pt. 3

Letters of Jack London


To Anna Strunsky, Jan. 21, 1900


To Houghton Mifflin Company, Jan. 31, 1900


To Cloudesley Johns, Jan. 6, 1902


To George P. Brett, March 10, 1903


To George P. Brett, March 25, 1903


To Anna Strunsky, Oct. 13, 1904


To George P. Brett, Dec. 5, 1904


To C. F. Lowrie, Jan. 13, 1911


To Ralph Kasper, June 25, 1914


Pt. 4

The Cultural Context of The Call of the Wild: Jack London's Klondike


"Gold Creek and Gold Town"


"Jack the Giant St. Bernard"


Pt. 5

Selected Early Reviews


"A Reader's Report for The Call of the Wild"


Anonymous Review


"Jack London's Book The Call of the Wild: It Is More Than a Rattling Good Dog Story - It Is an Allegory of Human Struggles and Aspirations"


"Reviews: The Call of the Wild"


"A Review of The Call of the Wild" by Jack London


"Books New and Old"


"Jack London's One Great Contribution to American Literature"


"To the Editor of the Independent"


Pt. 6

Critical Essays 1966-1996


"The Romantic Necessity in Literary Naturalism: Jack London"


"Jack London's Mondo Cane: The Call of the Wild and White Fang"


"Jack London's Naturalism: The Example of The Call of the Wild"


"The Call of the Wild": Parental Metaphor"


"A Romantic Novel"


"The Doppelganger and the Naturalist Self: The Call of the Wild"


"'Congested Mails': Buck and Jack's 'Call'"


Works Cited


For Further Reading


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The Call of the Wild and White Fang 3.9 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 404 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Call of the Wild and White Fang are two of my favorite books. I enjoyed reading them because of my love for wolves.
TheDutchCanadian More than 1 year ago
Lately I have been picking up many Barnes and Nobles classics for their great price and better than average quality. So a couple weeks ago I went to Barnes and Noble and picked up the very book I am reviewing. I looked at the appealing price (Eight dollars), the fact that it was a hardcover, and the nice ruffled paper. I started reading it a few days later and finished it in three days flat. I was taken into the frigid and brutal Alaskan wilderness and followed the dogs that Jack London created. I thought it was a great book overall. It has an interesting setting and time (the Klondike gold rush), and was written well, in my opinion. Now if you like dogs, then this book will be a more meaningful and powerful read for you. Now there was some brutal parts in the book(No spoilers, dont worry), but I think that Jack London included them to show the power of nature and give you a different feeling of the book. Now a big thing that I have learned with Barnes and Noble classics in general is that one should read the Introduction AFTER reading the book (Do I smell a paradox?). For some odd reason Barnes and Noble feels the need to spoil the entire story before you even hit page one. The introduction gives away the plot, many events, and, basically, just made you waste eight dollars if you got the book for enjoyment only. I really think they should make it a Conclusion.But, the Introduction is very helpful for giving one a better understanding of the book, and I, personally find it quite interesting and find it helps connect some "dots" of the book if I read the Introduction AFTER I have read the book in full. Now if you are reading this review, you may have noticed that it is "out of stock" or something to that degree (It is as I am writing this). If I am correct, I remember looking at a hardcover Barnes and Noble classics named "The Count of Monte Cristo," and it said the same thing(out of stock). But when I checked a couple weeks later it was "in stock." So if one really wants this book, it should, if I am correct, be "in stock" in some weeks. If not, just buy the paperback copy. The paper is good and the only difference is that its not a hardcover (Did I mention its cheaper?) So, in summary: Great Book,great value, and read the Introduction after reading the book. Hope you like it as much as I did :)
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
An Amazing Book!!! I read this book in seventh grade Literature class and I LOVED THIS BOOK!!!!! I'm eighth grade right now and I've already read this book three other times!!
pwee More than 1 year ago
These two books, being the Call of the Wild and White Fang, were very unique books indeed. The first novel, the Call of the Wild, follows the story of the domesticated dog Buck, who is rather wolf-like in appearance, who is unexpectedly stolen from his comfortable life and his loving master and thrown into the harsh challenges of a violent world. Throughout the majority of this first book, the story tells of Buck's hardships, as he is forced into the crude (and gory) sport of dog fighting, and is faced with ever-abusive (and changing) owners, all the while coming to learn of the law of kill or be killed. White Fang, the second of the two novels, follows the wolf called, obviously, White Fang, who, as opposed to Buck, is thrust into the confusing realm of men, which results in his gradual domestication. Both of these novels I largely recommend, although they are somewhat strange in their forthcoming, and at some points a tad gory, but not extensively. Full of action, yet embellished with a noticeable realism, Jack London gives as a grand portrayal of looking through a canine's eyes. Although the author seems like a low-life (if you were to read his autobiography! A drunk and having gone to jail on several occasions!!!), his writing doesn't at all portray it, and I strongly recommend that you give these novels a try.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Wild book...
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
London uses amazing technic and style to tell this tale through the eyes of a Husky dog, Buck. Buck learns through trial and error the importance and effectiveness of leadership. London's tale can also compare to us as humans, and how we react and adapt to the harsh conditions of life. This book is a timeless classic that everyone should read some point in their life. Jessica the bug freak
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This particular novel combined the two books, Call of the Wild and White Fang, both written by Jack London. The first book, Call of the Wild, is about a Saint Bernard named Buck who was born and raised in a luxurious life with very wealthy owners. Then one day, he was kidnapped from his opulent life and sold to Alaskan gold seekers as a sled dog. In order to stay alive in the Alaskan Wilderness, Buck must learn: to scavenge every scrap of food he can get, the "Law of Club and Fang", how to fit in with the pack and, most importantly, how to fight. Throughout his perilous adventure, Buck has to endure the cruelty of his malicious masters, an innumerous amount of wounds from thousands of battles, and the harsh conditions of the winter to survive the American Northwest. The second novel, White Fang, is about a wolf that is half dog that grew up in the Wild. the first few months of his life are spent with his mother in the Wild, but they accidentally stumble into the hands of indians who amaze him with their "powers". These ways of man cause White Fang to believe that they are his gods and that his calling in life is to serve them. His wolfness causes him to be shunned and hated by all dogs that he meets, which molds White Fang into a ferocious fighter, a very agile speedster, and makes the wolf much more faithful to men. This faithfulness introduces him to the evil part of mankind that changes him into a merciless monster that loathes anything and everything that is living. However, one man treats him differently from the others, but in a good way. Using the power of love, his new god rids White Fang of his hatred and replaces it with an affinity towards him.
PurpleInkling More than 1 year ago
I read this book as a young child and fell in love with it- I laid it down, and have not looked at it in many years. I wondered before reading it if I would still enjoy it, and although I appreciate London's techniques better now, it is still a fantastic story for almost all ages.
Awesome_1 More than 1 year ago
The Call of the Wild by Jack London centers on Buck, a dog that was born and raised in a life of comfort and ease on a California estate, but is kidnapped from his life of luxury and his loving master and thrown into the harsh challenges of the north. In order to survive, buck must listen to the Call and learn the ways of his wolf- ancestors to guide him along the way. Throughout the majority of the book, the story tells of Buck's hardships, as he is forced into the cruel and bloody sport of dog fighting, and is faced with many ruthless owners, all the while coming to learn of the law of kill or be killed. A major theme that is constant throughout the book is survival of the fittest, kill or be killed. Only the strongest and most fit will survive. I liked this book so much I would pick it up and reread it again. I like dogs so this was an enjoyable book to read. On the other hand though one of my dislikes was that there was some gore in the book, but no extensively, also some of the slang for the people, it made it hard to understand what they were saying and made for a confusing read. I do recommend that someone who likes dog and or animals to read this book.I do suggest it to be for an older audience though do to that there are some gruesome parts that may not be appropriate for younger people. I give this book a four star rating. I liked it very much and Jack London gives a portrayal of looking through a canine's eye.
MAV-N More than 1 year ago
Excellent excellent excellent.
TimberWolf11 More than 1 year ago
This book is like an elegant red whine, it is sold with a companion book Whitefang if you can find it. I just finished it, it is the most descriptive and in depth literature i have ever read. Jack London's writing style is strange, looking back he made out perfectly what was happening in Call of the Wild and Whitefang with nearly no dialect. The animals themselves do not ever talk but the humans bearly talk through the entire book. It is almost perfectly from the animals point of view. The only let down is it was written in 1901 and therefore is one of its kind as fa as i know Jack London does not have many books published i have only heard of these two but superb book a must have in any collection.
Kyle Rose More than 1 year ago
Just finished call of the wild in less then a week, i didnt want to put it down!
Anonymous 5 days ago
Choccy on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
This probably will be one of my all time fave of animal books. Makes me think whether Jack himself was a reincarnation of a wolf himself, becoz his description is so damn real.The setting is around the end of the 19th century. The Call of the Wild tells about Buck, a normal house-bred dog who was kidnapped and brought to Alaska to be a sled dog. There he has to face a brutal and merciless world with its ¿law of club and fang¿. The description on how he was decivilized, until finally he answers "The Call of the Wild", to become a leader of a wolf pack is so touching yet horrible.On the contrary, White Fang tells a story about a wolf, born in the wild, but finally has to grow among the Indians and educated to be a sled dog. Because his owner had a debt due his liquor addiction, he was sold to a wicked white man who made him become a fighting wolf and had to face life and death at the arena. Similar with Buck, White Fang must learn how to surrender himself completely to a new situation. It gave me the creep when I read the author's desription about the submission process of a wolf to the hands of men. Domestification is not as simple as you think¿.Truly a splendid reading. You¿ll learn (again) that the world can be so cruel and only the strong will prevail.
scottbrown88 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I came to these books having read John Krakauer's Into the Wild, the story of Chris McCandless. Chris had read these book that inspired him to go on his epic adventure to Alaska that led to his death. Being Highly interested in that story I was compelled to read these two stories. I have read The Call of the Wild and am 2 chapters into White Fang. I really did love the former and I can see why it was the inspiration of McCandless. Following the story from the view point of Buck, the cross-breed house dog who was kidknapped to the hard wilds of the Northlands was written fantastically and in a believeble manner. Great story and portrayal of the relationship between man and dog. Highly recommend this book, and I look forward to completing White Fang
reading_fox on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Two counterpoint stories of a dog gone wild and a wild gone dog. Both unfortunately suffer from the same flaws which are at times mitagated by some decent moving prose, but mostly it just drags. Call of the wild: Buck is a hefty mogrel, dognapped out of a Californian comfy life to help power the late 1800s goldrush as a sled dog. Despite being a domesticated dog for 10000 years or so Jack London imparts him (and no others) with the instincts of a wolf, an some very unbelivable 'yearning' to 'go back to nature' which is just victorian melodrama of the worst anthromorphisation. Apparently his large dog build gives him a competitivie advantage over evolution's million years of perfecting a wolf. White fang is almost as bad, White fang being a wolf quarter dog hybrid (already pretty improbable) suddenly decides for no explained reason other than 'racial memory' which doesn't exist that humans are automatically good. I have no issues with a wolf being tamed, all animals can be tamed, but it's a specific process not a genetic compulsion. And he reverts from a wild creature to a sled dog over the course of a slightly longer novel. Interspersed with these annoying inaccuracies are tediously long descriptions sometimes of the dogs mental states, followed byt he disclaimer that they aren't feeling as a human would. It's all just annoying. There are pages of and pages of dog fights too, slash turn run away shoulder barge slash. etc. The good bits in both stories are the occasionally moving portrayals of how the dogs interact with man. Probably best read if you don't own a dog, but do kind of like them.
urhockey22 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I have not read White Fang yet, but Call of the Wild was a very good book. Well-written and no longer than it had to be, it is a great story told by a great storyteller.
rayski on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
White Fang - Opposite story of Call of the Wild, this time we follow the lives of a wolf pack leading to the birth of half wolf White Fang. WF integration into the human world shows us a different view of our species through the eyes of another. In the end WF is tamed and accepts all of our world.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
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Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Two reads that will have you on the edge of your seat. A tragic wolf story that will have you rooting for the protagonists all the way. If you like action and adventure, then you will enjoy this. Happy trails!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
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Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Way better
Anonymous More than 1 year ago