Imagery of "Whitefang"  by Jack London

In the fall of the year when the days were shortening and the bite of the frost was coming into the air, Whitefang got his chance at liberty. For several days there had been a great hubbub in the village. The summer camp was being dismantled, and the tribe, bag and baggage, was preparing to go off to the fall hunting. Whitefang watched it with all eager eyes, and when the teepees began to come down and the canoes were loading at the bank, he understood. Already the canoes were departing, and some had dissappeared down the river. (chapter 12 page 189

Dark spruce forest frowned on either side of the frozen waterway. The trees had been stripped by a recent wind of their white covering of frost, and they seemed to lean toward 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 smiles of the Sphinx, a laughter cold as the frost and partaking of the grimness of infallibility. It was the masterful and incommunicable wisdom of the eternity laughing at the futility of life and the effort of life. It was the Wild, the savage, frozen-hearted Northland Wild.

(chapter1 page 105)

White fang landed from the steamer in San Francisco. He was appalled. Deep in him, below any reasoning process or act of consciousness, he had associated power with godhead. And never had the white men seemed such marvelous gods as now, when he trod the slimy pavement of San Francisco. The log cabins he had known were replaced by towering buildings. The streets were crowded with perils-wagons, carts, automobiles; great, straining horses pulling huge trucks; and monstrous cable and electric cars hooting and clanging through the midst, screeching their insistent menace after the manner of the lynxes he had known in the northern woods.(chapter22 page264)

But White Fang was to have no more than a nightmare vision of the city-an experience that was like a bad dream, unreal and terrible, that haunted him for long after in his dreams. He was put into a baggage car by the master, changed in a corner in the midst with heaped trunks and valises. Here a squat and a brawny god held sway, with much noise, hurling trunks and boxes about, dragging them in through the door and tossing them into the piles, or flinging them out of the door, smashing and crashing, to other gods who awaited them. (chapter 22 page 265)

They made noises, and at first he was frightened at them. Then he perceived that they were very little, and he became bolder. They moved. He placed his paw on one, and its movements were accelerated. This was a source of enjoyment to him. He smelled it. He picked up in his mouth. It struggled and tickled his tongue. At the same time he was made aware of a sensation of hunger. His jaws closed together. There was a crunching of fragile bones, and warm blood ran in his mouth. The taste of it was good. This was meat, the same as his mother gave him, only it was alive between his teeth and therefore better. So he ate the ptarmigan. Nor did he stop till he had devoured the whole brood. Then he licked his chops in quite the same way his mother did, and began to crawl out of the bush.

(chapter7 page157)

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2 years ago
0

Your third paragraph matches the weasel picture very well.

2 years ago
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The last paragraph really shows how scarce the food was

2 years ago
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The fourth imagery really describes the cruelness of the battle.

2 years ago
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I liked how your first image shows how White Fang was watching the camps be dismantled finding the perfect time to escape

2 years ago
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I felt like I was scared and alone when I read your second paragraph.

2 years ago
0

I like your adjectives in the 3rd paragraph.

2 years ago
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I liked how you choose the picture showing us what White Fang was probably snarling at the god.

2 years ago
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Your last passage described everything well with words like fragile, struggling, and tickling. The picture went along well and was a very good choice.

2 years ago
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2 years ago
0

I like how the last paragraph it felt like I could hear the chicken bones crack.