White Fang: “The Wild still lingered in him and the wolf in him merely slept.”

By Jack London

John Griffith "Jack" London was born John Griffith Chaney on January 12th, 1876 in San Francisco. His father, William Chaney, was living with his mother Flora Wellman when she became pregnant. Chaney insisted she have an abortion. Flora's response was to turn a gun on herself. Although her wounds were not severe the trauma made her temporarily deranged. In late 1876 his mother married John London and the young child was brought to live with them as they moved around the Bay area, eventually settling in Oakland where Jack completed grade school. Jack also worked hard at several jobs, sometimes 12-18 hours a day, but his dream was university. He was lent money for that and after intense studying enrolled in the summer of 1896 at the University of California in Berkeley. In 1897, at 21 , Jack searched out newspaper accounts of his mother's suicide attempt and the name of his biological father. He wrote to William Chaney, then living in Chicago. Chaney said he could not be London's father because he was impotent; and casually asserted that London's mother had relations with other men. Jack, devastated by the response, quit Berkeley and went to the Klondike. Though equally because of his continuing dire finances Jack might have taken that as the excuse he needed to leave. In the Klondike Jack began to gather material for his writing but also accumulated many health problems, including scurvy, hip and leg problems many of which he then carried for life. By the late 1890's Jack was regularly publishing short stories and by the turn of the century full blown novels. By 1904 Jack had married, fathered two children and was now in the process of divorcing. A stint as a reporter on the Russo-Japanese war of 1904 was equal amounts trouble and experience. But that experience was always put to good use in a remarkable output of work. Twelve years later Jack had amassed a wealth of writings many of which remain world classics. He had a reputation as a social activist and a tireless friend of the workers. And yet on November 22nd 1916 Jack London died in a cottage on his ranch at the age of only 40. Here we present White Fang.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Copyright Group
• Release date: Sep 2, 2014
• ISBN: 9781783942879

Jack London

Jack London (1876-1916) was an American novelist and journalist. Born in San Francisco to Florence Wellman, a spiritualist, and William Chaney, an astrologer, London was raised by his mother and her husband, John London, in Oakland. An intelligent boy, Jack went on to study at the University of California, Berkeley before leaving school to join the Klondike Gold Rush. His experiences in the Klondike—hard labor, life in a hostile environment, and bouts of scurvy—both shaped his sociopolitical outlook and served as powerful material for such works as “To Build a Fire” (1902), The Call of the Wild (1903), and White Fang (1906). When he returned to Oakland, London embarked on a career as a professional writer, finding success with novels and short fiction. In 1904, London worked as a war correspondent covering the Russo-Japanese War and was arrested several times by Japanese authorities. Upon returning to California, he joined the famous Bohemian Club, befriending such members as Ambrose Bierce and John Muir. London married Charmian Kittredge in 1905, the same year he purchased the thousand-acre Beauty Ranch in Sonoma County, California. London, who suffered from numerous illnesses throughout his life, died on his ranch at the age of 40. A lifelong advocate for socialism and animal rights, London is recognized as a pioneer of science fiction and an important figure in twentieth century American literature.

Book preview

White Fang by Jack London

John Griffith Jack London was born John Griffith Chaney on January 12th, 1876 in San Francisco. 

His father, William Chaney, was living with his mother Flora Wellman when she became pregnant.  Chaney insisted she have an abortion.  Flora's response was to turn a gun on herself.  Although her wounds were not severe the trauma made her temporarily deranged.

In late 1876 his mother married John London and the young child was brought to live with them as they moved around the Bay area, eventually settling in Oakland where Jack completed grade school.

Jack also worked hard at several jobs, sometimes 12-18 hours a day, but his dream was university.  He was lent money for that and after intense studying enrolled in the summer of 1896 at the University of California in Berkeley.

In 1897, at 21 , Jack searched out newspaper accounts of his mother's suicide attempt and the name of his biological father. He wrote to William Chaney, then living in Chicago. Chaney said he could not be London's father because he was impotent; and casually asserted that London's mother had relations with other men.  Jack, devastated by the response, quit Berkeley and went to the Klondike. Though equally because of his continuing dire finances Jack might have taken that as the excuse he needed to leave.

In the Klondike Jack began to gather material for his writing but also accumulated many health problems, including scurvy, hip and leg problems many of which he then carried for life.

By the late 1890's Jack was regularly publishing short stories and by the turn of the century full blown novels.

By 1904 Jack had married, fathered two children and was now in the process of divorcing.  A stint as a reporter on the Russo-Japanese war of 1904 was equal amounts trouble and experience. But that experience was always put to good use in a remarkable output of work.

Twelve years later Jack had amassed a wealth of writings many of which remain world classics. He had a reputation as a social activist and a tireless friend of the workers.  And yet on November 22nd 1916 Jack London died in a cottage on his ranch at the age of only 40.

Index Of Contents

PART I

CHAPTER I – THE TRAIL OF THE MEAT

CHAPTER II - THE SHE-WOLF

CHAPTER III - THE HUNGER CRY

PART II

CHAPTER I - THE BATTLE OF THE FANGS

CHAPTER II - THE LAIR

CHAPTER III - THE GREY CUB

CHAPTER IV - THE WALL OF THE WORLD

CHAPTER V - THE LAW OF MEAT

PART III

CHAPTER I - THE MAKERS OF FIRE

CHAPTER II - THE BONDAGE

CHAPTER III - THE OUTCAST

CHAPTER IV - THE TRAIL OF THE GODS

CHAPTER V - THE COVENANT

CHAPTER VI - THE FAMINE

PART IV

CHAPTER I - THE ENEMY OF HIS KIND

CHAPTER II - THE MAD GOD

CHAPTER III - THE REIGN OF HATE

CHAPTER IV - THE CLINGING DEATH

CHAPTER V - THE INDOMITABLE

CHAPTER VI - THE LOVE-MASTER

PART V

CHAPTER I - THE LONG TRAIL

CHAPTER II - THE SOUTHLAND

CHAPTER III - THE GOD'S DOMAIN

CHAPTER IV - THE CALL OF KIND

CHAPTER V - THE SLEEPING WOLF

JACK LONDON – A SHORT BIOGRAPHY

JACK LONDON – A CONCISE BIBLIOGRAPHY

PART I

CHAPTER I - THE TRAIL OF THE MEAT

Dark spruce forest frowned on either side the frozen waterway.  The trees had been stripped by a recent wind of their white covering of frost, and they seemed to lean towards each other, black and ominous, in the fading light.  A vast silence reigned over the land.  The land itself was a desolation, lifeless, without movement, so lone and cold that the spirit of it was not even that of sadness.  There was a hint in it of laughter, but of a laughter more terrible than any sadness, a laughter that was mirthless as the smile of the sphinx, a laughter cold as the frost and partaking of the grimness of infallibility.  It was the masterful and incommunicable wisdom of eternity laughing at the futility of life and the effort of life.  It was the Wild, the savage, frozen-hearted Northland Wild.

But there was life, abroad in the land and defiant.  Down the frozen waterway toiled a string of wolfish dogs.  Their bristly fur was rimed with frost.  Their breath froze in the air as it left their mouths, spouting forth in spumes of vapour that settled upon the hair of their bodies and formed into crystals of frost.  Leather harness was on the dogs, and leather traces attached them to a sled which dragged along behind.  The sled was without runners.  It was made of stout birch-bark, and its full surface rested on the snow.  The front end of the sled was turned up, like a scroll, in order to force down and under the bore of soft snow that surged like a wave before it.  On the sled, securely lashed, was a long and narrow oblong box.  There were other things on the sled, blankets, an axe, and a coffee-pot and frying-pan; but prominent, occupying most of the space, was the long and narrow oblong box.

In advance of the dogs, on wide snowshoes, toiled a man.  At the rear of the sled toiled a second man.  On the sled, in the box, lay a third man whose toil was over, a man whom the Wild had conquered and beaten down until he would never move nor struggle again.  It is not the way of the Wild to like movement.  Life is an offence to it, for life is movement; and the Wild aims always to destroy movement.  It freezes the water to prevent it running to the sea; it drives the sap out of the trees till they are frozen to their mighty hearts; and most ferociously and terribly of all does the Wild harry and crush into submission man, man who is the most restless of life, ever in revolt against the dictum that all movement must in the end come to the cessation of movement.

But at front and rear, unawed and indomitable, toiled the two men who were not yet dead.  Their bodies were covered with fur and soft-tanned leather.  Eyelashes and cheeks and lips were so coated with the crystals from their frozen breath that their faces were not discernible.  This gave them the seeming of ghostly masques, undertakers in a spectral world at the funeral of some ghost.  But under it all they were men, penetrating the land of desolation and mockery and silence, puny adventurers bent on colossal adventure, pitting themselves against the might of a world as remote and alien and pulseless as the abysses of space.

They travelled on without speech, saving their breath for the work of their bodies.  On every side was the silence, pressing upon them with a tangible presence.  It affected their minds as the many atmospheres of deep water affect the body of the diver.  It crushed them with the weight of unending vastness and unalterable decree.  It crushed them into the remotest recesses of their own minds, pressing out of them, like juices from the grape, all the false ardours and exaltations and undue self-values of the human soul, until they perceived themselves finite and small, specks and motes, moving with weak cunning and little wisdom amidst the play and inter-play of the great blind elements and forces.

An hour went by, and a second hour.  The pale light of the short sunless day was beginning to fade, when a faint far cry arose on the still air. It soared upward with a swift rush, till it reached its topmost note, where it persisted, palpitant and tense, and then slowly died away.  It might have been a lost soul wailing, had it not been invested with a certain sad fierceness and hungry eagerness.  The front man turned his head until his eyes met the eyes of the man behind.  And then, across the narrow oblong box, each nodded to the other.

A second cry arose, piercing the silence with needle-like shrillness. Both men located the sound.  It was to the rear, somewhere in the snow expanse they had just traversed.  A third and answering cry arose, also to the rear and to the left of the second cry.

They're after us, Bill, said the man at the front.

His voice sounded hoarse and unreal, and he had spoken with apparent effort.

Meat is scarce, answered his comrade.  I ain't seen a rabbit sign for days.

Thereafter they spoke no more, though their ears were keen for the hunting-cries that continued to rise behind them.

At the fall of darkness they swung the dogs into a cluster of spruce trees on the edge of the waterway and made a camp.  The coffin, at the side of the fire, served for seat and table.  The wolf-dogs, clustered on the far side of the fire, snarled and bickered among themselves, but evinced no inclination to stray off into the darkness.

Seems to me, Henry, they're stayin' remarkable close to camp, Bill commented.

Henry, squatting over the fire and settling the pot of coffee with a piece of ice, nodded.  Nor did he speak till he had taken his seat on the coffin and begun to eat.

They know where their hides is safe, he said.  They'd sooner eat grub than be grub.  They're pretty wise, them dogs.

Bill shook his head.  Oh, I don't know.

His comrade looked at him curiously.  First time I ever heard you say anything about their not bein' wise.

Henry, said the other, munching with deliberation the beans he was eating, did you happen to notice the way them dogs kicked up when I was a-feedin' 'em?

They did cut up more'n usual, Henry acknowledged.

How many dogs 've we got, Henry?

Six.

Well, Henry . . . Bill stopped for a moment, in order that his words might gain greater significance.  As I was sayin', Henry, we've got six dogs.  I took six fish out of the bag.  I gave one fish to each dog, an', Henry, I was one fish short.

You counted wrong.

We've got six dogs, the other reiterated dispassionately.  I took out six fish.  One Ear didn't get no fish.  I came back to the bag afterward an' got 'm his fish.

We've only got six dogs, Henry said.

Henry, Bill went on.  I won't say they was all dogs, but there was seven of 'm that got fish.

Henry stopped eating to glance across the fire and count the dogs.

There's only six now, he said.

I saw the other one run off across the snow, Bill announced with cool positiveness.  I saw seven.

Henry looked at him commiseratingly, and said, I'll be almighty glad when this trip's over.

What d'ye mean by that? Bill demanded.

I mean that this load of ourn is gettin' on your nerves, an' that you're beginnin' to see things.

I thought of that, Bill answered gravely.  An' so, when I saw it run off across the snow, I looked in the snow an' saw its tracks.  Then I counted the dogs an' there was still six of 'em.  The tracks is there in the snow now.  D'ye want to look at 'em?  I'll show 'em to you.

Henry did not reply, but munched on in silence, until, the meal finished, he topped it with a final cup of coffee.  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said:

Then you're thinkin' as it was -

A long wailing cry, fiercely sad, from somewhere in the darkness, had interrupted him.  He stopped to listen to it, then he finished his sentence with a wave of his hand toward the sound of the cry, - one of them?

Bill nodded.  I'd a blame sight sooner think that than anything else. You noticed yourself the row the dogs made.

Cry after cry, and answering cries, were turning the silence into a bedlam.  From every side the cries arose, and the dogs betrayed their fear by huddling together and so close to the fire that their hair was scorched by the heat.  Bill threw on more wood, before lighting his pipe.

I'm thinking you're down in the mouth some, Henry said.

Henry . . .  He sucked meditatively at his pipe for some time before he went on.  Henry, I was a-thinkin' what a blame sight luckier he is than you an' me'll ever be.

He indicated the third person by a downward thrust of the thumb to the box on which they sat.

You an' me, Henry, when we die, we'll be lucky if we get enough stones over our carcases to keep the dogs off of us.

But we ain't got people an' money an' all the rest, like him, Henry rejoined.  Long-distance funerals is somethin' you an' me can't exactly afford.

What gets me, Henry, is what a chap like this, that's a lord or something in his own country, and that's never had to bother about grub nor blankets; why he comes a-buttin' round the Godforsaken ends of the earth, that's what I can't exactly see.

He might have lived to a ripe old age if he'd stayed at home, Henry agreed.

Bill opened his mouth to speak, but changed his mind.  Instead, he pointed towards the wall of darkness that pressed about them from every side.  There was no suggestion of form in the utter blackness; only could be seen a pair of eyes gleaming like live coals.  Henry indicated with his head a second pair, and a third.  A circle of the gleaming eyes had drawn about their camp.  Now and again a pair of eyes moved, or disappeared to appear again a moment later.

The unrest of the dogs had been increasing, and they stampeded, in a surge of sudden fear, to the near side of the fire, cringing and crawling about the legs of the men.  In the scramble one of the dogs had been overturned on the edge of the fire, and it had yelped with pain and fright as the smell of its singed coat possessed the air.  The commotion caused the circle of eyes to shift restlessly for a moment and even to withdraw a bit, but it settled down again as the dogs became quiet.

Henry, it's a blame misfortune to be out of ammunition.

Bill had finished his pipe and was helping his companion to spread the bed of fur and blanket upon the spruce boughs which he had laid over the snow before supper.  Henry grunted, and began unlacing his moccasins.

How many cartridges did you say you had left? he asked.

Three, came the answer.  An' I wisht 'twas three hundred.  Then I'd show 'em what for, damn 'em!

He shook his fist angrily at the gleaming eyes, and began securely to prop his moccasins before the fire.

An' I wisht this cold snap'd break, he went on.  It's ben fifty below for two weeks now.  An' I wisht I'd never started on this trip, Henry.  I don't like the looks of it.  I don't feel right, somehow.  An' while I'm wishin', I wisht the trip was over an' done with, an' you an' me a-sittin' by the fire in Fort McGurry just about now an' playing cribbage, that's what I wisht.

Henry grunted and crawled into bed.  As he dozed off he was aroused by his comrade's voice.

Say, Henry, that other one that come in an' got a fish, why didn't the dogs pitch into it?  That's what's botherin' me.

You're botherin' too much, Bill, came the sleepy response.  You was never like this before.  You jes' shut up now, an' go to sleep, an' you'll be all hunkydory in the mornin'.  Your stomach's sour, that's what's botherin' you.

The men slept, breathing heavily, side by side, under the one covering. The fire died down, and the gleaming eyes drew closer the circle they had flung about the camp.  The dogs clustered together in fear, now and again snarling menacingly as a pair of eyes drew close.  Once their uproar became so loud that Bill woke up.  He got out of bed carefully, so as not to disturb the sleep of his comrade, and threw more wood on the fire.  As it began to flame up, the circle of eyes drew farther back.  He glanced casually at the huddling dogs.  He rubbed his eyes and looked at them more sharply.  Then he crawled back into the blankets.

Henry, he said.  Oh, Henry.

Henry groaned as he passed from sleep to waking, and demanded, What's wrong now?

Nothin', came the answer; only there's seven of 'em again.  I just counted.

Henry acknowledged receipt of the information with a grunt that slid into a snore as he drifted back into sleep.

In the morning it was Henry who awoke first and routed his companion out of bed.  Daylight was yet three hours away, though it was already six o'clock; and in the darkness Henry went about preparing breakfast, while Bill rolled the blankets and made the sled ready for lashing.

Say, Henry, he asked suddenly, how many dogs did you say we had?

Six.

Wrong, Bill proclaimed triumphantly.

Seven again? Henry queried.

No, five; one's gone.

The hell!  Henry cried in wrath, leaving the cooking to come and count the dogs.

You're right, Bill, he concluded.  Fatty's gone.

An' he went like greased lightnin' once he got started.  Couldn't 've seen 'm for smoke.

No chance at all, Henry concluded.  They jes' swallowed 'm alive.  I bet he was yelpin' as he went down their throats, damn 'em!

He always was a fool dog, said Bill.

But no fool dog ought to be fool enough to go off an' commit suicide that way.  He looked over the remainder of the team with a speculative eye that summed up instantly the salient traits of each animal.  I bet none of the others would do it.

Couldn't drive 'em away from the fire with a club, Bill agreed.  I always did think there was somethin' wrong with Fatty anyway.

And this was the epitaph of a dead dog on the Northland trail, less scant than the epitaph of many another dog, of many a man.

CHAPTER II - THE SHE-WOLF

Breakfast eaten and the slim camp-outfit lashed to the sled, the men turned their backs on the cheery fire and launched out into the darkness. At once began to rise the cries that were fiercely sad, cries that called through the darkness and cold to one another and answered back. Conversation ceased.  Daylight came at nine o'clock.  At midday the sky to the south warmed to rose-colour, and marked where the bulge of the earth intervened between the meridian sun and the northern world.  But the rose-colour swiftly faded.  The grey light of day that remained lasted until three o'clock, when it, too, faded, and the pall of the Arctic night descended upon the lone and silent land.

As darkness came on, the hunting-cries to right and left and rear drew closer, so close that more than once they sent surges of fear through the toiling dogs, throwing them into short-lived panics.

At the conclusion of one such panic, when he and Henry had got the dogs back in the traces, Bill said:

I wisht they'd strike game somewheres, an' go away an' leave us alone.

They do get on the nerves horrible,  Henry sympathised.

They spoke no more until camp was made.

Henry was bending over and adding ice to the babbling pot of beans when he was startled by the sound of a blow, an exclamation from Bill, and a sharp snarling cry of pain from among the dogs.  He straightened up in time to see a dim form disappearing across the snow into the shelter of the dark.  Then he saw Bill, standing amid the dogs, half triumphant, half crestfallen, in one hand a stout club, in the other the tail and part of the body of a sun-cured salmon.

It got half of it, he announced; but I got a whack at it jes' the same.  D'ye hear it squeal?

What'd it look like? Henry asked.

Couldn't see.  But it had four legs an' a mouth an' hair an' looked like any dog.

Must be a tame wolf, I reckon.

It's damned tame, whatever it is, comin' in here at feedin' time an' gettin' its whack of fish.

That night, when supper was finished and they sat on the oblong box and pulled at their pipes, the circle of gleaming eyes drew in even closer than before.

I wisht they'd spring up a bunch of moose or something, an' go away an' leave us alone, Bill said.

Henry grunted with an intonation that was not all sympathy, and for a quarter of an hour they sat on in silence, Henry staring at the fire, and Bill at the circle of eyes that burned in the darkness just beyond the firelight.

I wisht we was pullin' into McGurry right now, he began again.

Shut up your wishin' and your croakin', Henry burst out angrily.  Your stomach's sour.  That's what's ailin' you.  Swallow a spoonful of sody, an' you'll sweeten up wonderful an' be more pleasant company.

In the morning Henry was aroused by fervid blasphemy that proceeded from the mouth of Bill.  Henry propped himself up on an elbow and looked to see his comrade standing among the dogs beside the replenished fire, his arms raised in objurgation, his face distorted with passion.

Hello! Henry called.  What's up now?

Frog's gone, came the answer.

No.

I tell you yes.

Henry leaped out of the blankets and to the dogs.  He counted them with care, and then joined his partner in cursing the power of the Wild that had robbed them of another dog.

Frog was the strongest dog of the bunch, Bill pronounced finally.

An' he was no fool dog neither, Henry added.

And so was recorded the second epitaph in two days.

A gloomy breakfast was eaten, and the four remaining dogs were harnessed to the sled.  The day was a repetition of the days that had gone before. The men toiled without speech across the face of the frozen world.  The silence was unbroken save by the cries of their pursuers, that, unseen, hung upon their rear.  With the coming of night in the mid-afternoon, the cries sounded closer as the pursuers drew in according to their custom; and the dogs grew excited and frightened, and were guilty of panics that tangled the traces and further depressed the two men.

There, that'll fix you fool critters, Bill said with satisfaction that night, standing erect at completion

Reviews for White Fang

[maxybo_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Excellent!!!

[barryu21 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A true classic.

[ctpress_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The aim of life was meat. Life itself was meat. Life lived on life. There were the eaters and the eaten. The law was: EAT OR BE EATEN. He did not formulate the law in clear, set terms and moralize about it. He did not even think the law; he merely lived the law without thinking about it at all.” “I’m going to give the evolution, the civilization of a dog—development of domesticity, faithfulness, love, morality, and all the amenities and virtues.” Jack LondonThe opening scene where White Fang lures out the sledge dogs one by one and kills them - and then goes after the two men - is both frigthening and fascinating. There are several other frightening scenes - like the crucial fight with the bull dog. Oh, my. But then also delightful scenes where White Fang encounters the God’s (humans) goodness and tenderness. I had forgotton how great this classic American tale was - up there with "Watership Down"] in it’s realism and moral force.

[sturlington_1 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Enjoyed the first three chapters, even if they were a bit gruesome. Cast Liam Neeson and you'd have the makings of a fine movie there. Lost interest when the narration switched to the wolves' point of view. Also, the narrator's voice was grating and seemed to emphasize the wrong things. Unfinished.

[karenleefield · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I first read this book when I was a young teenager. I remember crying then. I didn’t cry this time round but the actions in this book did strike a chord with me. I really do detest cruelty to animals; the cruelty in this book is paramount.White Fang is a product of his past. He has been taught to hate. He has been taught to survive at any measure. He is vicious. He is a killer! Yet he’s these things because he has to be. His other choice is to be the weak link and die.It’s a powerful story. Well told. No holding back; aimed straight for the jugular. The biggest lesson learned by reading White Fang is that you can beat an animal (and I believe this relates to people too) into doing what you want but loving them produces a much better (long-lasting) result. A beaten animal will do as you want, but will rip your throat out if given the opportunity. A loved animal will be faithful, loyal and forever.There’s little more to be said about this book except that it’s worth reading. I highly recommend it.

[evan719 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Book ReviewBy: Evan MercadoThis is a classic story about survival (in my eyes). This starts off interesting with a pack of 6 wolfs, and ends up with, well, you have to read the book for that :). It ends up in a good home after attacking it's owner's family. No one knows for sure, but the other wolfs might still be alive. Only 1 dies that I know of) the rest (except for 1 who goes solo) and they travel in a pack of 4. That until they came across this tribe of Indians (I called them Indians because in the book they were called Indians, if that offends anyone).Thats when one wolf turns on the rest of it’s pack, and leaves. It found a home, owner , until a Dog Musher wants this dog. But the owner (Scott) keeps the dog and moves to Sierra Vista, with his family.

[davidgnp · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Though I responded with boyish enthusiasm to 'The Call of the Wild' many years ago and it re-echoes in memory, I had not read 'White Fang' or any of London's other books until now. I don't think 'White Fang' quite compares with its companion novel stylistically - the later chapters in particular are too obviously allegorical and predictable - but it is equally rugged, energetic and thrilling. London excels at seeing the world through the dog wolf's eyes, and he also manages the difficult and necessary task of shifting the narrative viewpoint occasionally to move the story along at critical points. He is least successful with his human portrayals, especially the dialogue which reads as if it has been written on cardboard with too thick a pen, but he is entirely at home in the Yukon where it stands on the cusp between traditional existence and 'civilisation' in the trail of the gold rush. His evocation of the animal and human struggles in these harsh surroundings - with very survival constantly under threat - is supremely vivid and vital, inked as it were in blood.

[shanaqui_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

For some reason, though I had it when I was little, I never read White Fang. I think I was afraid of anthropomorphism. I figured it was going to be kind of cutesy, not really worth my time. Much as I liked Narnia and the like, in fiction based in the real world, I wanted more realism. I obviously never even started reading it. I think the book does a good job of portraying the wolf as a completely different creature from the human -- as well as a human can do without becoming a wolf for a while himself. The slow taming of White Fang seemed more or less realistic to me, and my heart was in my mouth in the last couple of pages. The book does make you care about the characters, particularly White Fang and his final master.

I was especially intrigued by the idea of wolves/dogs seeing humans as their gods. White Fang's view of his gods reminded me of the ancient Greek pantheon -- all those jealous and fighting gods, some more powerful than others...

I'm glad I finally did read this book.

[marsap_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A classic by Jack London, White Fang could be considered the companion to London’s Call of the Wild, except in reserve. Whereas Buck from Call of the Wild finds his wild nature—White Fang finds his human love and is able to integrate into domestic life. White Fang is born in the wild to a wolf father and a half wolf mother. When he is made captive by humans, he is outcast from the other dogs because of his wildness. He learns to fight for his life. Finally, he has an opportunity to experience a new life away from the violence and savagery—but will he learn to embrace it is the question. I loved this book despite the violence and the brutality of the life led by White Fang—and the cruelty of the humans he encounters. A 4 out of 5 stars.

[librarycin · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

White Fang is ¼ dog and ¾ wolf. He is born into the wild, but since his mother is ½ dog, she brings him back to live with people. Over the course of his lifetime, he has to learn to adapt to many different worlds. London does an amazing job of telling the story from the wolf/dog’s point of view. Although, I find it very, very difficult to get past some of the abuse that happens in the story, it is an amazing book about an amazing animal. The way the story is told depicts exactly how I think an animal’s mind would work.

[maryreinert · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Beautiful writing about the life of a dog/wolf in the Yukon. Life in the wild changes as White Fang is first "owned" by an Indian, later by a terrible man named Beauty Smith who makes him into a fighting dog, and last by a kind man who becomes very attached to the dog.

[corinneblackmer · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Jack London imports Social Darwinist credo, used more clumsily and less divertingly by authors such as Frank Norris, into letters with fervor, conviction, and skill. We encounter White Fang, a part domestic dog and mostly wolf dog that lives with a pack in the wilderness and whose mother had once been domesticated by the Native Americans. As in the case of its companion volume, "Call of the Wild," (where the dog Buck moves from domesticity to the wild, as opposed to vice versa), White Fang has abusive owners who want White Fang to fight for money, but White Fang is rescued by a man who is called, under the regime of London's casually assumed racism, one of the "white human gods." A great tale, and a book that serves as an excellent introduction to literature for young adolescents, bit can be relished at all ages.

[liscarey · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I've lost track of how many times I read this as a kid. Wonderful book!

[andyray_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I used to confuse this with London's "Call of the Wild," and stupidly so. White Fang is three times meaner than Buck ever became. Hee. Curious that London's pieces have become Young Adult classics over the years.

[animyrch · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

An emotive book depicting the imaginary life of a wolf. Through his feelings and opinions, Jack London presents us a comprehensive critic of inner and outer nature of humans by means of implicit comparisons between animals and humans.

[kikiunhinged · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I liked it alright as a dog lover but was a little bored finding descriptions repetitious. Call of the Wild was much better in my opinion.

[isaacpeterson.sbhs · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Amazing book with a great story that kept me on my toes. Although you need to have kind of a long attention span it's a great story once you get into it.

[saltvand-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I read this book in Danish when I was about 10, and it made a strong lasting impression. For that reason I'll give it at least 4 stars, although don't know how I would had rated it if I had read it as an adult.

[lizzybeth23 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Not as good as Call of the Wild, but still one of Jack London's best books.

[fuzzi_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I bought this book at a book fair at school when I was nine. I cannot tell how many times I have read it. As a child, I mainly read it for the 'wolf' story, but as an adult, I have appreciated the deeper aspects of the writing. London was big on analyzing why people do what they do, not always correct imo. It's still a good read, forget the movie(s).

[eilantha_le_fay · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This is an amazing book, highly addictive. I just couldn’t put it down. Jack London writes with detail and emotion!The story’s about a wolf named White Fang and its life through the hands of many masters. This is one of those books that transports you to another place and time while you’re reading it - a real time machine. And since it’s always told from the wolf’s point of view, sometimes it made me remember the National Geographic TV documentaries I watched in awe when I was a child.It also focuses on the man-animal relationship, and how the environment and society shape spirits and behaviours.After reading it I learned that this book is a companion novel for Jack London’s most famous novel, “Call of the Wild”, in which a dog becomes wild again, in contrast to White Fang, a wolf that becomes domesticated.

[faitharo5_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I loved this book. It chronicles the life of a wolf(half dog) through the harse wilderness, brutal treatment at the hand of man, and then ultimately friendship and love. The book is written from the aspect of the wolf. Truly a great book. Highly recommend for dog lovers!

[pummelson · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

White Fang is the story of a wolf, the likes of which has never been heard of before. It takes place in Yukon Territory, Canada, and follows the life of White Fang, a crossbreed of wolf and dog, through the many twists and turns that make a story memorable. White Fang begins his life in a small cave, with very little more than a mother and an instinct: Survive. Following a chance encounter with Grey Beaver, an Indian that was once his mother’s master, his life begins to change drastically. Once a young wolf struggling to learn the ways of the wild, then a furious devil in awe of the power of man, White Fang struggles with conflicts. When he is bought by Beauty Smith, a coward with a brutal nature, and made to fight in an arena against other animals, his rage only worsens. Then he is rescued from certain death by Weedon Scott, the son of an influential Judge, and his life begins to take a turn for the better. But can White Fang overcome his killer instinct and lead a different life? One of Love, instead of hate?White Fang is one of the best books I have read for a long time. Once I picked it up, it was truly impossible to put it down again. Every page I turned only made me more curious as to how the story would end. Like Call of the Wild, Jack London has worked his magic again. A truly memorable read.

[peleiades22 · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

I don't think I've ever read such an offensive, disturbing book in my life. I've never encountered a book with so much violence, nor have I ever read a book that so clearly advocated for violence on every front. I have no idea why this book is geared towards children??? I would NEVER give my child this book.On top of that, I don't think enough people pay attention to what a flagrant racist London was. For example, "Those white gods [white men] were strong. They possessed greater mastery over matter than the gods [Native Americans White Fang] had known, most powerful among which was Grey Beaver [a Native American]. And yet Grey Beaver was a child-god among these white-skinned ones" (162).Beyond this, London is unendingly pessimistic and depressing. He has a horrendously ugly worldview in which the world is "a chaos of gluttony and slaughter, ruled over by chance, merciless, planless, endless" (90). And he is incredibly disrespectful towards religion -- I'm not a particularly religious person, but even I was offended.However, after reading this book, I would have to say I am thankful for a few things. First, I am thankful I never have to read this book again or be curious about it or get snookered into reading another London text. Second, I am thankful tenfold for the fact that I will never know Jack London. I have never disliked an author more and I will never read another London book as long as I live. Half a star is too good for this book.

[kenzie12368 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

White Fang is a very good book which I recommend to 4th grade and higher readers. I think anybody would love to read this action-packed book!!!!!!!!

[theseus75 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Having only a cursory knowledge of London's work, I decided to choose White Fang first when considering which public domain works to record as audio books. I've only "read" it once, but have listened to it probably a half-dozen more times in the editing process. It's very well written, accessible, and very involved. At no time did I feel as if London was writing without a clear purpose and passion. Excellent read and rather timeless. As a side note, there are some very decent young adult versions with illustrations and even one with a sidebar defining more complex words. Very useful for young readers.

[kuiperdolin · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A strange, strange book. But powerful.

[oreillynsf_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

If you have kids you are trying to interest in reading more, White Fang is a great book suggestion. Especially if they are boys yes go ahead call me sexist. The story is gripping. the language is gripping, and London paints a scene like no one else. It's a book that kids can understand, but it is not a kids book, which I bet your children or nephews or nieces or whatnot will appreciate.

[carolyn7727 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Powerfully written and heart wrenching. The story of an abused wolf-dog- beat, abandoned, and only let loose in a dog fight ring. Made vicious and wary of all, but still going strong, waiting for a kind heart.

[fwendy_3 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Avoided reading this for many years despite it being recommended by many. Guess the name suggested gory violence, and there is very little of that. The tale of this dog/wolf mix from puppy to adult is a loving, curious, sorrowful, and joyful adventure. The human/dog relationships depicted are realistic. A captivating read.