“It was a clear day, and yet there seemed an intangible pall over the face of things, a subtle gloom that made the day dark, and that was due to the absence of sun. This fact did not worry the man.”
Well, if he’s not worried, I’m not going to worry either.
“But all this—the mysterious, far-reaching hair-line trail, the absence of sun from the sky, the tremendous cold, and the strangeness and weirdness of it all—made no impression on the man. It was not because he was long used to it. He was a newcomer in the land, a chechaquo, and this was his first winter. The trouble with him was that he was without imagination.”
This is going to be one of those stories where man triumphs over nature, I can tell.
“He would be in to camp by six o’clock; a bit after dark, it was true, but the boys would be there, a fire would be going, and a hot supper would be ready.”
That will be great!
“The animal was depressed by the tremendous cold. It knew that it was no time for travelling. Its instinct told it a truer tale than was told to the man by the man’s judgment. In reality, it was not merely colder than fifty below zero; it was colder than sixty below, than seventy below. It was seventy-five below zero.”
I still, at this point, believed with all of my heart that the man was going to build a fire successfully. The title of the story is “To Build A Fire”! Why would you call it that if nobody built a fire in it?
“The sting that followed upon the striking of his fingers against his leg ceased so quickly that he was startled. He had had no chance to take a bite of biscuit. He struck the fingers repeatedly and returned them to the mitten, baring the other hand for the purpose of eating. He tried to take a mouthful, but the ice-muzzle prevented. He had forgotten to build a fire and thaw out. He chuckled at his foolishness, and as he chuckled he noted the numbness creeping into the exposed fingers. Also, he noted that the stinging which had first come to his toes when he sat down was already passing away. He wondered whether the toes were warm or numb.”
Pretty much right up until the very end of this story, if you asked me how it would turn out, I would have told you, “Well, it’s going to be a pretty close call, but nobody who’s got a dog with him is going to die. He’s sure going to learn a valuable lesson about respecting nature, though.”
“The fire was a success. He was safe.”
Terrific! Great story.
“High up in the tree one bough capsized its load of snow. This fell on the boughs beneath, capsizing them. This process continued, spreading out and involving the whole tree. It grew like an avalanche, and it descended without warning upon the man and the fire, and the fire was blotted out! Where it had burned was a mantle of fresh and disordered snow.”
This is terrible. I look forward to seeing how the man overcomes this setback.
“But the tremendous cold had already driven the life out of his fingers. In his effort to separate one match from the others, the whole bunch fell in the snow. He tried to pick it out of the snow, but failed. The dead fingers could neither touch nor clutch. He was very careful. He drove the thought of his freezing feet, and nose, and cheeks, out of his mind, devoting his whole soul to the matches.”
His whole soul! How can nature defeat you if you’re using your whole soul against it?
“A certain fear of death, dull and oppressive, came to him. This fear quickly became poignant as he realized that it was no longer a mere matter of freezing his fingers and toes, or of losing his hands and feet, but that it was a matter of life and death with the chances against him. This threw him into a panic, and he turned and ran up the creek-bed along the old, dim trail. The dog joined in behind and kept up with him. He ran blindly, without intention, in fear such as he had never known in his life.”
Yeah, but he’s going to be fine.
“Then the man drowsed off into what seemed to him the most comfortable and satisfying sleep he had ever known. The dog sat facing him and waiting. The brief day drew to a close in a long, slow twilight. There were no signs of a fire to be made, and, besides, never in the dog’s experience had it known a man to sit like that in the snow and make no fire. As the twilight drew on, its eager yearning for the fire mastered it, and with a great lifting and shifting of forefeet, it whined softly, then flattened its ears down in anticipation of being chidden by the man. But the man remained silent. Later, the dog whined loudly. And still later it crept close to the man and caught the scent of death. This made the animal bristle and back away. A little longer it delayed, howling under the stars that leaped and danced and shone brightly in the cold sky. Then it turned and trotted up the trail in the direction of the camp it knew, where were the other food-providers and fire-providers. – End”
There’s a typo, because how can it be the end if he hasn’t built the fire and survived y–Oh.
Tags: books, it honestly took me that long to get it, jack london, missing the point, relentless stupidity
Yeah, but the dog lives! I tend not to care as much about what happens to people in stories as long as the dog lives.
This. I remember reading this for the first time (I think I was probably 14?) and I was so happy this asshat successfully offed himself. If only we could be rid of other self-important, know-it-all men half as easily.
I DON’T CARE IF THE DOG LIVES, I CARE IF THE HUMAN LIVES, WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH THE INTERNET
Oh Mallory, Mallory. Most of the internet doesn’t care about humans. We’re mostly about cats, but dogs will do in a pinch. Perhaps, just perhaps if the story had been about a woman, more of us would have given a shit. But then, if the story had been about a woman, it would’ve gone something like It was a clear day, and yet there seemed an intangible pall over the face of things, a subtle gloom that made the day dark, and that was due to the absence of sun. This fact did not just worry the sensible woman, it immediately drove her back inside to make another hot cup of tea where she sat and drank it in comfortable silence with her loving dog, Ursula. THE END.
That is the story I desire. Also her wonderful new financial independence as a widow. That husband of hers would go haring off to the Yukon.
a+ dog name
Men are foolish, and think having warm clothes will keep them safe in idiotically cold winters. Dogs are smart, and stay by the fire that has been provided for them. Our Hero just banned himself from life before anybody else got around to it, and the dog went happily back to somewhere safe.
Not a human, Mallory, a MAN. Dog > man.
Man, for some reason I always read that story imagining that the man was going to kill the dog, and put his hands inside it to warm them up like Han Solo and the tauntaun, and somehow my anxiety that this would happen in the story transformed into a memory of the story. So, this whole time I’m waiting for Mallory to get to the part where he kills the dog and wondering how you can be optimistic about THAT.
[edit: wait, he did TRY to kill the dog, right? did it just not work? is that what happened?]
Yeah, you’re not wrong. He tried to coax the dog over to do just that. FUCK HIM. Idiot man. I’m glad he died.
I feel like in Jack London’s mind, the fact that the man would kill a dog to stay alive is proof that he didn’t deserve to stay alive.
Not just in Jack London’s mind.
Killing the dog to remedy his own terrible choices is a violation of the bargain Man made with Dogs when he brought them inside by the fire.
This is what I think Mallory doesn’t realize when she cares what happens to the human and not what happens to the dog. The dog hasn’t done anything; the man has opposed himself to the essential laws of nature. His death is not a tragic failure, an accident — it is a vital and necessary consequence, sacralized by the workings of nature itself.
There is neither older nor holier a compact than that between Man and Dog; the man must die, that the compact remains secure.
Also, this is an example of patriarchy trying to defeat nature. Nature wins, thereby giving A Man what he deserves.
weirdly, that part is what stuck in my head all these years after reading the story (which was nearly two decades ago). like, I actually remembered him killing the dog, even though it’s clear that that didn’t actually happen.
Cosy, fleecy tauntaun guts…
A dog would be useless here.
My current boyfriend lost his virginity in one of those sleeping bags.
I got you this: http://doesthedogdie.com/
I’m so happy the “Never Underestimate Small Town Americana” ad is directly under this story for me.
“To Attempt Disemboweling Your Companion Dog So You Can Warm Your Frostbit Hands In Its Hot Guts”
Side-benefit of this: instant hot meal!
how can the dude even think he can to build a fire when he can’t properly shank his dog to retrieve the hot guts is what im saying
But what if it was so cold that the dog + guts immediately froze round your already frozen fingers so you ended up with a dead dog ice lolly on the end of your arms? What then?
that was the literary question Jack London chose not to pursue, and he is a lesser writer for it
At least you’d leave an extra-interesting death tableau.
I often refer to this story as scientific fact whenever I’m in conversations about freezing to death, and it convinced me that it was the only way I would prefer to die. Just nod off into oblivion? Yes, please.
For destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
Good lord. Every time I read even an excerpt of this story, I feel the need to wrap up in a blanket and drink some hot chocolate.
I read this while smugly drinking hot chocolate and inching the space heater closer to me. INSIDE FOREVER.
Humanity has spent thousands of years developing Inside Technology. Deliberately abandoning that technology to fight against the elements is just an insult to those thousands of years of work.
Oh God I think about this story every time I have to walk outside in the winter for more than five minutes. “Maybe I’ll just lie here in the snow for a second…..”
having never once read this book, from this summary i get:
man, that dog is a dick if he knew where a camp with food and fire was the whole time. why didn’t he just take the man there? dick.
But so did the guy! And instead of hauling ass there, he decided to go Galt and faff about all “Manly man make fire!”
Yup, it’s like Into The Wild, except I don’t have to hear endless rounds of city kids saying how brave he was not to make a fire.
I remember thinking he would be fine because “he has a delicious biscuit!’ then being sad but also thinking, “Well, at least he HAD a biscuit!” Biscuits–marker of a life well-lived.
Everyone should be handed a biscuit in the trying moments of life.
“Here’s your Enduring Biscuit. Good luck.”
“It’s dangerous to go alone: take this.”
Take this. Its contents will help you on your way.
This kind of comment belongs in the Link roundup.
It’s the Uberwaldaen Potato Church, only tastier!
this story contains every objection i have to all forms of camping within it, thank you Jack London for teaching me why I do not need to Canadian Heritage Moment my already-certainly-short life.
“Then the man drowsed off into what seemed to him the most comfortable and satisfying sleep he had ever known.”
That sounds great! This story might as well be called “A Man Goes for a Brisk Walk in the Snow and then Takes an Absolutely Killer Nap”
You Won’t Believe What Happens Next! /Upworthy version
And you follow the link to…
“He dies.”
Followed by a thirty second time-lapse video of a body decaying in the woods.
Dogs, man’s* best* friend*.
*Man meaning the one who has the food & shelter.
*Best, when food & shelter is provided.
*Friend, when food & shelter is a-happening.
Hey, that dog stayed around way longer than it had to.
WHY did they make us read this in school? Did they want us to be sad all the time? I feel like they wanted us to be sad.
Also… I find the Duck Dynasty ad I’m getting on the side here pretty weird.
We read this in seventh grade, where I’m pretty sure the theme of everything we read that year was “sad short stories to make you hate yourself and humanity”
Yes–this and The Pearl
I feel quite glad I have never read this story in my life. :-/ Well, obviously until reading these bits through Mallory.
Me too!
I want to say we also read “The Necklace” by Guy DeMaupassant that year, which is also depressing as hell. And maybe “Harrison Bergeron”, although that might have been the year after.
Michael Chabon quote? Michael Chabon quote.
“Imagine that, sometime about 1950, it had been decided, collectively, informally, a little at a time, but with finality, to proscribe every kind of novel but the nurse romance from the canon of the future. Not merely from the critical canon, but from the store racks and library shelves as well. Nobody could be paid, published, lionized, or cherished among the gods of literature for writing any kind of fiction other than nurse romances. Now, because of my faith and pride in the diverse and rigorous brilliance of American writers of the last half century, I do believe that from this bizarre decision, in this theoretical America, a dozen or more authentic masterpieces would have emerged. Thomas Pynchon’s Blitz Nurse, for example, and Cynthia Ozick’s Ruth Puttermesser, R.N. One imagines, however, that this particular genre—that any genre, even one far less circumscribed in its elements and possibilities than the nurse romance—would have paled somewhat by now. In that oddly diminished world, somebody, somewhere, is laying down his copy of Dr. Kavalier & Nurse Clay with a weary sigh.
Instead of “the novel” and “the nurse romance,” try this little thought experiment with “jazz” and “the bossanova,” or with “cinema” and “fish-out-of-water comedies.” Now go ahead and try it with “short fiction” and “the contemporary, quotidian, plotless, moment-of-truth revelatory story.”
Suddenly you find yourself sitting right back in your very own universe.”
(Michael Chabon, Maps & Legends [San Francisco: McSweeney’s Books, 2008], 17-18)
Sounds like it was cold.
Yup. A fire would have come in handy: did he think of that?
It certainly was cold.
My uncle read this story out loud when my family was staying in our cabin in rural northern Arizona many years back.
I was six years old.
Needless to say, it stuck with me.
Six! That’s child cruelty, dammit.
I mean, in fairness to him, he thought it was a really exciting story! So he read it out loud to my mom. While I was sitting like ten feet away, haha.
“Then it turned and trotted up the trail in the direction of the camp it knew, where were the other food-providers and fire-providers”
‘One Man Much the Same as Another, Area Dog Says’
Now I have “It’s all the Same” from Man of La Mancha stuck in my head. That is … disturbing.
“I’ll go with you or with your brother, who can probably also use a can opener…” I’m glad for the boring name I have because my father wanted to name me Dulcinea, which probably would have ended with me getting into MMA and busting a lot of teasing youths in the face, but her songs are never far from my ear.
My father used to refer to my mother as his Dulcinea when they were in college! And then they had a weird first date, didn’t see each other for like two years and met again in a bookstore and fell in love.
Which is why I’m pretty sanguine about claims that dudes need to pursue a relationship with their true love RIGHT NOW. No dude, it’s cool, wait a couple years and things will be better.
this guy had never heard the trick question about you are in a small cabin with a lamp, a stove, a candle, and a woodpile, which one do you light first.
it’s the match
the dog probably knew it was the match but he wasn’t telling
I HATE THIS STORY SO MUCH, thanks for raising horrible memories…
My mother taught this short story to a class of high school students in rural northern Wisconsin. They were a.) not impressed, and b.) provided a quote that has stuck with our family for nearly 40 years.
“Why’d he go out in the Natural if he didn’t have no smarts?”
Hah! This is absolutely how I read “On the Beach.” yes, there’s been a terrible nuclear war and all the people in the northern hemisphere have died, but these people in Melbourne are going to survive, right? The radiation’s going to dissipate, or something? They’re going to find a way to live underground, or shield themselves, or something? And start a new life as the last scrappy remnants of humanity? (spoiler: they don’t).
If you want that ending, the book for it is Alas, Babylon. Most unrealistic plucky post-nuclear apocalypse story I ever read.
I feel like we need to bring “chidden” back. Also “holpen.”
My chorus is doing a piece using a William Morris text. “Holpen” appears six times in a three-minute song.
Morris was both a Communist and a medieval revivalist, two phrases not often used together.
Both my folks used to read to me and my brother when we were little, regular kid stuff like “Go Dog Go;” but when I got to be around 8 or 10, my dad decided to start reading us more, um, adult fare. In particular I remember him reading us “To Build A Fire,” “The Monkey’s Paw,” “The Cask of Amontillado,” and “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge.”
Warped at an early age, I tell you. I never had a chance.
Dads! So much Poe at my house in my impressionable years. *applies third layer of eyeliner*
I have never read any Jack London, so I didn’t know who this was until the tags. But I DID get unreasonably excited about the word chechaquo appearing because just this past week I have been trying to tell everyone I meet interesting facts about the Yukon, and no one wants to listen to me (I’m doing some research for work; this is not some random obsession of mine–although it does tend to be a habit with me that I find out a strange fact about something obscure and then try to inflict it on everyone). That guy will never be a sourdough! He’s not skookum enough! … I’ll show myself out.
Is skookum Yukon talk? It gets thrown around a lot at wildland fire camps, though I don’t know if the meaning is the same.
It’s Chinook Jargon! So interesting.
You hear it in BC sometimes too, it makes me happy.
I’m in BC and I heard it in a business meeting today! “So I think we’ve got a pretty skookum plan here…” I love it.
So what *is* a sourdough? I have recently blasted through a load of Dana Stabenow books (murrder mysteries set in Alaska, for those who like that kind of thing), and she keeps calling people sourdoughs and it’s one I haven’t been able to work out!
Bread. Alaska is full of bread people, that’s why we talk about Baked Alaskans.
Note to self: do not go to Alaska, as you will be arrested for toasting and eating all the inhabitants.
It’s someone who’s lasted a full winter up there (from the forming of the ice on the river to the breaking up of the ice in the spring)! Some people get miffy about it and say it’s someone who’s been up there x amount of years or whatnot, but traditionally you have to make it through just one winter. I will never be a sourdough.
I remember reading a story in school about a girl from Outside who really really wanted to be a true sourdough. That was her life’s ambition. She waits out the winter in Anchorage, I think it was, and is overjoyed to find out this makes her, by definition, a Real Sourdough.
The guy had it coming, and the dog survived. I don’t see a problem.
Seriously, though, in the first published version of the story, the guy lived: http://www.jacklondons.net/olderbuild-a-fire.html
That is a less-good story. And he has a name! This reduces the Everyman feel.
Basically, I preferred it when the man was a fool who died as a result of his poor life choices and failure to listen to the dog.
This version was written for children (or whoever the audience was for “Youth’s Companion”), which is probably why he Learns An Important Lesson instead of dying.
I mean, I think we all learned pretty important lessons from the later version of that story. Namely, if your dog is freaked out by the weather, stay the fuck indoors, and also make sure to have a reliable outdoor thermometer.
Note the emphasis of 75 degrees below zero. Not just a casual note, but indication that it is cuttingly, deathly cold.
Bears don’t travel in 75 degrees below. Nor penguins.
In fact, the movie March of the Penguins kinda spoils the story by demonstrating the effect of -40 degree tundra on a mismanaged egg.
Secret ending of To Build a Fire: the dog dies, also.
This is pretty much to a tee exactly how I reacted to this short upon first reading it. I’m still not entirely sure that we have the entire story.