look there." His hand closed reverently but firmly on her arm. "Soft, you're all soft, all over. Not like mine. Here, feel this."
He pressed the ends of her fingers into his hard arm-muscles until she winced from the hurt.
"Hard all over just like that," he went on. "Now that's what I call clean. Every bit of flesh an' blood an' muscle is clean right down to the bones--and they're clean, too. No soap and water only on the skin, but clean all the way in. I tell you it feels clean. It knows it's clean itself. When I wake up in the morning an' go to work, every drop of blood and bit of meat is shouting right out that it is clean. Oh, I tell you--"
He paused with swift awkwardness, again confounded by his unwonted flow of speech. Never in his life had he been stirred to such utterance, and never in his life had there been cause to be so stirred. For it was the Game that had been questioned, its verity and worth, the Game itself, the biggest thing in the world--or what had been the biggest thi
Summary: A 20-year-old prizefighter, about to give up the glory and fame of amateur boxing to settle down with his jealous 18-year-old sweetheart from the candy shop, sneaks her in to witness his final bout.
I love Jack London for the vividness of his words and phrasing… like how the referee uses his toe to ”flirt” the stray water bottle out of the ring.
I also love Jack for his uber-intense emotional dissections. He sorts through everyone’s feelings — even the uncomfortable ones that stay deeply hidden — to take exacting stock of exactly what’s at stake.
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