what life means to me essay

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What life means to me essay sample, example.

This is an essay written by Jack London in 1905, with some minor changes.

Above me towered the colossal edifice of society , and to my mind the only way out was up. Into this edifice I early resolved to climb. Up above, men wore black clothes and boiled shirts, and women dressed in beautiful gowns. Also, there were good things to eat, and there was plenty to eat. This much for the flesh. Then there were the things of the spirit. Up above me, I knew, were unselfishnesses of the spirit, clean and noble thinking, keen intellectual living. I knew all this because I read “Seaside Library” novels, in which, with the exception of the villains and adventuresses, all men and women thought beautiful thoughts, spoke a beautiful tongue, and performed glorious deeds. In short, as I accepted the rising of the sun, I accepted that up above me was all that was fine and noble and gracious, all that gave decency and dignity to life, all that made life worth living and that remunerated one for travail and misery.

But it is not particularly easy for one to climb up out of the working-class—especially if he or she is handicapped by the possession of ideals and illusions. I lived on a ranch in California, and I was hard put to find the ladder whereby to climb. I early inquired the rate of interest on invested money, and worried my child’s brain into an understanding of the virtues and excellencies of that remarkable invention of humankind, compound interest. Further, I ascertained the current rates of wages for workers of all ages, and the cost of living. From all this data, I concluded that if I began immediately and worked and saved until I was fifty years of age, I could then stop working and enter into participation in a fair portion of the delights and goodness that would then be open to me higher up in society. Of course, I resolutely determined not to marry, while I quite forgot to consider at all that great rock of disaster in the working-class world—sickness.

But the life that was in me demanded more than a meager existence of scraping and scrimping. Also, at ten years of age, I became a newsboy on the streets of a city, and found myself with a changed uplook. All about me were still the same sordidness and wretchedness, and up above me was still the same paradise waiting to be gained—but the ladder whereby to climb was a different one. It was now the ladder of business. Why save my earnings and invest in government bonds, when, by buying two newspapers for five cents, with a turn of the wrist I could sell them for ten cents and double my capital? The business ladder was the ladder for me, and I had a vision of myself becoming a bald headed and successful merchant prince.

Alas for visions! When I was sixteen, I had already earned the title of “prince.” But this title was given me by a gang of cut-throats and thieves, by whom I was called “The Prince of the Oyster Pirates.” And at that time, I had climbed the first rung of the business ladder. I was a capitalist. I owned a boat and a complete oyster-pirating outfit. I had begun to exploit my fellow creatures. I had a crew of one man. As captain and owner I took two-thirds of the spoils, and gave the crew one-third, though the crew worked just as hard as I did and risked just as much its life and liberty.

This one rung was the height I climbed up the business ladder. One night, I went on a raid among Chinese fishermen. Ropes and nets were worth dollars and cents. It was robbery, I grant, but it was precisely the spirit of capitalism. The capitalist takes away the possessions of his or her fellow creatures by means of a rebate, or of a betrayal of trust, or by the purchase of senators and supreme court judges. I was merely crude. That was the only difference. I used a gun.

But my crew that night was one of those inefficients against whom the capitalist is wont to fulminate, because, forsooth, such inefficients increase expenses and reduce dividends. My crew did both. What of his carelessness he set fire to the big mainsail and totally destroyed it. There were not any dividends that night, and the Chinese fishermen were richer by the nets and ropes we did not get. I was bankrupt, unable then to pay sixty-five dollars for a new mainsail. I left my boat at anchor and went off on a bay-pirate boat on a raid up the Sacramento River. While away on this trip, another gang of bay pirates raided my boat. They stole everything, even the anchors; and later on, when I recovered the drifting hulk, I sold it for twenty dollars. I had slipped back the one rung I had climbed, and never again did I attempt the business ladder.

From then on, I was mercilessly exploited by other capitalists. I had the muscle, and they made money out of it while I made but a very indifferent living out of it. I was a sailor before the mast, a longshoreman, a roustabout; I worked in canneries, factories, and laundries; I mowed lawns, and cleaned carpets, and washed windows. And I never got the full product of my toil. I looked at the daughter of the cannery owner, in her carriage, and knew that it was my muscle, in part, that helped drag along that carriage on its rubber tires. I looked at the son of the factory owner, going to college, and knew that it was my muscle that helped, in part, to pay for the wine and good fellowship he enjoyed.

But I did not resent this. It was all in the game. They were the strong. Very well, I was strong. I would carve my way to a place among them and make money out of the muscles of other men. I was not afraid of work. I loved hard work. I would pitch in and work harder than ever and eventually become a pillar of society.

And just then, as luck would have it, I found an employer that was of the same mind. I was willing to work, and he was more than willing that I should work. I thought I was learning a trade. In reality, I had displaced two men. I thought he was making an electrician out of me; as a matter of fact, he was making fifty dollars per month out of me. The two men I had displaced had received forty dollars each per month; I was doing the work of both for thirty dollars per month.

This employer worked me nearly to death. A man may love oysters, but too many oysters will disincline him toward that particular diet. And so with me. Too much work sickened me. I did not wish ever to see work again. I fled from work. I became a tramp, begging my way from door to door, wandering over the United States and sweating bloody sweats in slums and prisons.

I had been born in the working-class, and I was now, at the age of eighteen, beneath the point at which I had started. I was down in the cellar of society, down in the subterranean depths of misery about which it is neither nice nor proper to speak. I was in the pit, the abyss, the human cesspool, the shambles and the charnel-house of our civilization. This is the part of the edifice of society that society chooses to ignore. Lack of space compels me here to ignore it, and I will say only that the things I saw there gave me a terrible scare.

I was scared into thinking. I saw the naked simplicities of the complicated civilization in which I lived. Life was a matter of food and shelter. In order to get food and shelter, people sold things. The merchant sold shoes, the politician sold his manhood, and the representative of the people, with exceptions, of course, sold his trust—while nearly all sold their honor. Women, too, whether on the street or in the holy bond of wedlock, were prone to sell their flesh. All things were commodities, all people bought and sold. The one commodity that labor had to sell was muscle. The honor of labor had no price in the marketplace. Labor had muscle, and muscle alone, to sell.

But there was a difference, a vital difference. Shoes and trust and honor had a way of renewing themselves. They were imperishable stocks. Muscle, on the other hand, did not renew. As the shoe merchant sold shoes, he continued to replenish his stock. But there was no way of replenishing the laborer’s stock of muscle. The more he sold of his muscle, the less of it remained to him. It was his one commodity, and each day his stock of it diminished. In the end, if he did not die before, he sold out and put up his shutters. He was a muscle bankrupt, and nothing remained to him but to go down into the cellar of society and perish miserably.

I learned, further, that the brain was likewise a commodity. It, too, was different from muscle. A brain seller was only at his prime when he was fifty or sixty years old, and his wares were fetching higher prices than ever. But a laborer was worked out or broken down at forty-five or fifty. I had been in the cellar of society, and I did not like the place as a habitation. The pipes and drains were unsanitary, and the air was bad to breathe. If I could not live on the parlor floor of society, I could, at any rate, have a try at the attic. It was true, the diet there was slim, but the air at least was pure. So, I resolved to sell no more muscle, and to become a vender of brains.

Then began a frantic pursuit of knowledge. I returned to California and opened the books. While thus equipping myself to become a brain merchant, it was inevitable that I should delve into sociology. There I found, in a certain class of books, scientifically formulated, the simple sociological concepts I had already worked out for myself. Other and greater minds before I was born had worked out all that I had thought and a vast deal more. I discovered that I was a socialist.

The socialists were revolutionists, inasmuch as they struggled to overthrow the society of the present, and out of the material to build the society of the future. I, too, was a socialist and a revolutionist. I joined the groups of working-class and intellectual revolutionists, and for the first time came into intellectual living. Here I found keen-flashing intellects and brilliant wits; for here I met strong and alert-brained, withal horny-handed, members of the working-class; unfrocked preachers too wide in their Christianity for any congregation of Mammon-worshipers; professors broken on the wheel of university subservience to the ruling class and flung out because they were quick with knowledge which they strove to apply to the affairs of humankind.

Here I found, also, warm faith in the human, glowing idealism, the sweetness of unselfishness, renunciation, and martyrdom—all the splendid, stinging things of the spirit. Here life was clean, noble, and alive. Here life rehabilitated itself, became wonderful and glorious; and I was glad to be alive. I was in touch with great souls who exalted flesh and spirit over dollars and cents, and to whom the thin wail of the starved slum child meant more than all the pomp and circumstance of commercial expansion and world empire. All about me were nobleness of purpose and heroism of effort, and my days and nights were sunshine and starshine, all fire and dew, with before my eyes, ever burning and blazing, the Holy Grail, Christ’s own Grail, the warm human, long-suffering and maltreated, but to be rescued and saved at the last.

And I, poor foolish I, deemed all this to be a mere foretaste of the delights of living I should find higher above me in society. I had lost many illusions since the day I read “Seaside Library” novels on the California ranch. I was destined to lose many of the illusions I still retained.

As a brain merchant, I was a success. Society opened its portals to me. I entered right in on the parlor floor, and my disillusionment proceeded rapidly. I sat down to dinner with the masters of society, and with the wives and daughters of the masters of society. The women were gowned beautifully, I admit; but to my naive surprise, I discovered that they were of the same clay as all the rest of the women I had known down below in the cellar. “The colonel’s lady and Judy O’Grady were sisters under their skins”—and gowns.

It was not this, however, so much as their materialism, that shocked me. It is true, these beautifully gowned, beautiful women prattled sweet little ideals and dear little moralities; but in spite of their prattle, the dominant key of the life they lived was materialistic. And they were so sentimentally selfish! They assisted in all kinds of sweet little charities, and informed one of the fact, while all the time the food they ate and the beautiful clothes they wore were bought out of dividends stained with the blood of child labor, and sweated labor, and of prostitution itself. When I mentioned such facts, expecting in my innocence that these sisters of Judy O’Grady would at once strip off their blood-dyed silks and jewels, they became excited and angry, and read me preachment about the lack of thrift, the drink, and the innate depravity that caused all the misery in society’s cellar. When I mentioned that I could not quite see that it was the lack of thrift, the intemperance, and the depravity of a half-starved child of six that made it work twelve hours every night in a Southern cotton mill, these sisters of Judy O’Grady attacked my private life and called me an “agitator”—as though that, forsooth, settled the argument.

Nor did I fare better with the masters themselves. I had expected to find men who were clean, noble, and alive, whose ideals were clean, noble, and alive. I went about among the men who sat in the high places—the preachers, the politicians, the business men, the professors, and the editors. I ate meat with them, drank wine with them, automobiled with them, and studied them. It is true, I found many that were clean and noble; but with rare exceptions, they were not alive. I do verily believe I could count the exceptions on the fingers of my two hands. Where they were not alive with rottenness, quick with unclean life, they were merely the unburied dead—clean and noble, like well-preserved mummies, but not alive. In this connection, I may especially mention the professors I met, the men who live up to that decadent university ideal, “the passionless pursuit of passionless intelligence.”

I met men who invoked the name of the Prince of Peace in their diatribes against war, and who put rifles in the hands of Pinkertons with which to shoot down strikers in their own factories. I met men incoherent with indignation at the brutality of prize-fighting, and who, at the same time, were parties to the adulteration of food that killed each year more babies than even red-handed Herod had killed.

I talked in hotels and clubs and homes and Pullmans and steamer-chairs with captains of industry , and marveled at how little traveled they were in the realm of intellect. On the other hand, I discovered that their intellect, in the business sense, was abnormally developed. Also, I discovered that their morality, where business was concerned, was nil.

This delicate, aristocratic-featured gentleman, was a dummy director and a tool of corporations that secretly robbed widows and orphans. This gentleman, who collected fine editions and was an especial patron of literature, paid blackmail to a heavy-jowled, black-browed boss of a municipal machine. This editor, who published patent medicine advertisements and did not dare print the truth in his paper about said patent medicines for fear of losing the advertising, called me a scoundrelly demagogue because I told him that his political economy was antiquated and that his biology was contemporaneous with Pliny.

This senator was the tool and the slave, the little puppet of a gross, uneducated machine boss; so was this governor and this supreme court judge; and all three rode on railroad passes. This man, talking soberly and earnestly about the beauties of idealism and the goodness of God, had just betrayed his comrades in a business deal. This man, a pillar of the church and heavy contributor to foreign missions, worked his shop girls ten hours a day on a starvation wage and thereby directly encouraged prostitution. This man, who endowed chairs in universities, perjured himself in courts of law over a matter of dollars and cents. And this railroad magnate broke his word as a gentleman and a Christian when he granted a secret rebate to one of two captains of industry locked together in a struggle to the death.

It was the same everywhere, crime and betrayal, betrayal and crime—men who were alive, but who were neither clean nor noble, men who were clean and noble but who were not alive. Then there was a great, hopeless mass, neither noble nor alive, but merely clean. It did not sin positively nor deliberately, but it did sin passively and ignorantly by acquiescing in the current immorality and profiting by it. Had it been noble and alive it would not have been ignorant, and it would have refused to share in the profits of betrayal and crime.

I discovered that I did not like to live on the parlor floor of society. Intellectually, I was bored. Morally and spiritually I was sickened. I remembered my intellectuals and idealists, my unfrocked preachers, broken professors, and clean-minded, class-conscious workingmen. I remembered my days and nights of sunshine and starshine, where life was all a wild sweet wonder, a spiritual paradise of unselfish adventure and ethical romance. And I saw before me, ever blazing and burning, the Holy Grail.

So I went back to the working-class, in which I had been born and where I belonged. I care no longer to climb. The imposing edifice of society above my head holds no delights for me. It is the foundation of the edifice that interests me. There I am content to labor, crowbar in hand, shoulder to shoulder with intellectuals, idealists, and class-conscious workingmen, getting a solid pry now and again and setting the whole edifice rocking. Some day, when we get a few more hands and crowbars to work, we will topple it over, along with all its rotten life and unburied dead, its monstrous selfishness and sodden materialism. Then we will cleanse the cellar and build a new habitation for humankind, in which there will be no parlor floor, in which all the rooms will be bright and airy, and where the air that is breathed will be clean, noble, and alive.

Such is my outlook. I look forward to a time when humankind will progress upon something worthier and higher than its stomach, when there will be a finer incentive to impel people to action than the incentive of today, which is the incentive of the stomach. I retain my belief in the nobility and excellence of the human. I believe that spiritual sweetness and unselfishness will conquer the gross gluttony of today. And last of all, my faith is in the working-class. As some Frenchman has said, “The stairway of time is ever echoing with the wooden shoe going up, the polished boot descending.”

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Essay analysis: what Life Means to ME, Jack London

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Jack London and “What Life Means to Me”

Jack London and “What Life Means to Me” are interrelated as the former is the writer of this autobiographical essay in which he delves into existential questions and personal reflections.

Introduction : Jack London and “What Life Means to Me”

Table of Contents

Jack London and “What Life Means to Me” are interrelated as the former is the writer of this autobiographical essay in which he delves into existential questions and personal reflections. Jack London has been an excellent author and pioneer of science fiction. In his autobiographical essay, “What Life Means to Me,” he has beautifully built the argument of shunning materialism after finding that it is rotten to the core.

The essay starts with his argument that he has dreamed to go up the ladder of status and wealthy since his childhood. He starts his life seeing dreams of going at the top in the social hierarchy of classes to become a person having noble and glorious thoughts and deeds like that of the educated and upper class. However, he sees that his “ideals and illusions” about that upper class are his handicaps.

Money, Jack London and “What Life Means to Me”

Then he turns to the remarkable way of becoming rich by investing money in government bonds, but soon he discovers that it is actually a slow way of becoming a rich man. The real way is to start a business, as he experiences by selling newspapers and doubling his earnings at the same spot. This makes him sick of the working class who always use their muscles, which become weary and worn out with labor. Following this, he becomes “The Prince of the Oyster Pirates” and starts his piracy business but soon faces huge losses and leaves it. Finally, he hits upon the idea of using his mind to reach the top, and it works well. With a lot of reading and hard work, he becomes a socialist but finds that all the demagogues, politicians, and other professionals who seemed noble and glorious to him are materialistic, eating up the lower classes through exploitation.

Moreover, he finds the glorious ladies of the upper class very materialistic and “sentimentally selfish.” This leads to his disillusionment with this upper class. He engages in brawls with several people over their hypocrisy and their way of life exploiting the lower classes. By the end, he finds that it is “the same everywhere”: a pursuit of more money and more wealth, often achieved through “crime and betrayal” of other human beings.

Conclusion : Jack London and “What Life Means to Me”

Finally, he becomes so disenchanted with this life of artificiality, crime, and betrayal that he once again joins the working class, where he finds sincerity and faith. By the end, he declares that his faith lies with the working class. In fact, his conclusion is that the pursuit of wealth does not bode well for humanity, as his biographical details provide ample evidence of this.

The essay serves as a critique of capitalism. He posits that on the surface, becoming a rich man may seem glorious and noble, making others feel jealous or envious. However, it involves the exploitation of the lower working class. Even in socialism, the upper crust comprising professionals exploit the lower class by pretending to represent them. However, this is all “crime and betrayal,” prompting him to aspire to return to the same class he had left.

Works Cited: Jack London and “What Life Means to Me”

Williams, James. “The Composition of Jack London’s Writings.” American Literary Realism, 1870-1910 , vol. 23, no. 2, 1991, pp. 64–86. JSTOR , http://www.jstor.org/stable/27746444. Accessed 31 Jan. 2024 .

Relevant Questions about Jack London and “What Life Means to Me”

Jack London and “What Life Means to Me” illuminate the impact of personal experiences and struggles on the essay’s themes and perspectives. How do London’s own challenges shape the narrative within the text?
How does Jack London, in “What Life Means to Me,” skillfully navigate the complexities of nature and the human condition, utilizing literary devices to convey profound ideas and reflections?
In “What Life Means to Me,” Jack London’s exploration of the human condition is rooted in the socio-economic context of his time. How do the historical conditions of London’s era shape the essay’s themes, and how do these themes resonate with readers in the present day?

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What life means to me, sometimes it's the little things..

It’s one thing to be alive, but it’s another to actually be living. As humans, we have the choice to go through the motions, watching the days go by, or we can really embrace the life around us. It’s easier than you think to fall in the routine of the first option.

I’m not going to lie, I’ve lived a majority of my life that way. However recently I’ve been making a conscious effort to wake up each morning with a new goal: to actually live my life. I want to experience it all. I want to experience happiness from everything around me, big and small. However with this mindset, I have to expect to have my share of misfortune-- that is part of living. Something I’ve come to realize is that I cannot have the mindset that life is only full of happy things. The reality is, it isn’t. But this doesn’t mean I can’t live a happy life. It’s completely possible to live a happy life while dealing with problems. That’s one huge lesson I’ve learned.

So what exactly does life mean to me?

Life is the little things. There are so many things that we all experience. We all turn 18, we all go to college, we all get married, etc. These are big things. They don’t differentiate us, though. Some people, including myself once, mistakenly defined life by milestones. Granted, these milestones are very important. But what often gets forgotten are those little things. The things that make us who we are, the things that make those milestones all the more special.

To me, life is the “good morning” Snapchats I take when I just woke up on a Saturday morning. Life is the 24 hour Wawa runs where I pick up a BAI drink and three chicken strips with mashed potatoes/ mac n cheese. Life is that perfect feeling when you find a brand new song on Spotify that really resonates with you. Life is the unrealistic dreams that my friends and I dream of at 1 a.m. in my basement. Life is the hard conversations, the ones that take courage. Life is memorizing the lyrics to a difficult song.

Life is accepting that we can’t be perfect, and learning to accept and embrace our imperfections. Life is finding that perfect outfit that makes you feel so confident in your body. Life is that feeling you get after cleaning out your room to perfection. Life is realizing that not everyone in our lives is meant to stay, and understanding that the important ones will remain in the long run. Life is having a little bit of faith that everything has a purpose, and we will all be okay in the end. Life is those 75 degree and sunny days on the highway with all four windows down, blasting your favorite car playlist from Spotify so loud that you can’t even hear your own voice singing. Life is those weird sayings you use with your best friend that nobody else understands. Life is the books that you get lost in.

Life is the pictures that you take at the most serene places of your vacations. Life is your favorite character on your current TV show. Life is the smile on your friends and family’s faces when they open the gift you picked out especially for them. Life is that impressive grade you got on a test after studying your ass off. Life is seeing your best friend after months of being apart. Life is then laying on the floor with your best friend in silence, not needing any words to fill the space-- each other’s presence is enough. Life is the ability to laugh until your stomach hurts. Life is driving around your silent neighborhood for hours with your friends, just because you aren’t ready to go home. Life is taking risks, like having your friend cut your hair seven inches spontaneously. Life is stepping on the gas at that yellow light. Life is not caring what other’s think of you, but being content with who you have become as a person.

At the end of the day, what you have is yourself. The sooner we realize that and come to love ourselves, the sooner we will realize what life is really all about.

(I’d like to add that I am still a work in progress. There are definitely days when I wake up unhappy with myself, but that is something that I am trying to work on. Happiness comes from within.)

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Waitlisted for a college class here's what to do, dealing with the inevitable realities of college life..

Course registration at college can be a big hassle and is almost never talked about. Classes you want to take fill up before you get a chance to register. You might change your mind about a class you want to take and must struggle to find another class to fit in the same time period. You also have to make sure no classes clash by time. Like I said, it's a big hassle.

This semester, I was waitlisted for two classes. Most people in this situation, especially first years, freak out because they don't know what to do. Here is what you should do when this happens.

Don't freak out

This is a rule you should continue to follow no matter what you do in life, but is especially helpful in this situation.

Email the professor

Around this time, professors are getting flooded with requests from students wanting to get into full classes. This doesn't mean you shouldn't burden them with your email; it means they are expecting interested students to email them. Send a short, concise message telling them that you are interested in the class and ask if there would be any chance for you to get in.

Attend the first class

Often, the advice professors will give you when they reply to your email is to attend the first class. The first class isn't the most important class in terms of what will be taught. However, attending the first class means you are serious about taking the course and aren't going to give up on it.

Keep attending class

Every student is in the same position as you are. They registered for more classes than they want to take and are "shopping." For the first couple of weeks, you can drop or add classes as you please, which means that classes that were once full will have spaces. If you keep attending class and keep up with assignments, odds are that you will have priority. Professors give preference to people who need the class for a major and then from higher to lower class year (senior to freshman).

Have a backup plan

For two weeks, or until I find out whether I get into my waitlisted class, I will be attending more than the usual number of classes. This is so that if I don't get into my waitlisted class, I won't have a credit shortage and I won't have to fall back in my backup class. Chances are that enough people will drop the class, especially if it is very difficult like computer science, and you will have a chance. In popular classes like art and psychology, odds are you probably won't get in, so prepare for that.

Remember that everything works out at the end

Life is full of surprises. So what if you didn't get into the class you wanted? Your life obviously has something else in store for you. It's your job to make sure you make the best out of what you have.

Navigating the Talking Stage: 21 Essential Questions to Ask for Connection

It's mandatory to have these conversations..

Whether you met your new love interest online , through mutual friends, or another way entirely, you'll definitely want to know what you're getting into. I mean, really, what's the point in entering a relationship with someone if you don't know whether or not you're compatible on a very basic level?

Consider these 21 questions to ask in the talking stage when getting to know that new guy or girl you just started talking to:

1. What do you do for a living?

What someone does for a living can tell a lot about who they are and what they're interested in! Their career reveals a lot more about them than just where they spend their time to make some money.

2. What's your favorite color?

OK, I get it, this seems like something you would ask a Kindergarten class, but I feel like it's always good to know someone's favorite color . You could always send them that Snapchat featuring you in that cute shirt you have that just so happens to be in their favorite color!

3. Do you have any siblings?

This one is actually super important because it's totally true that people grow up with different roles and responsibilities based on where they fall in the order. You can tell a lot about someone just based on this seemingly simple question.

4. What's your favorite television show?

OK, maybe this isn't a super important question, but you have to know ASAP if you can quote Michael Scott or not. If not, he probably isn't the one. Sorry, girl.

5. When is your birthday?

You can then proceed to do the thing that every girl does without admitting it and see how compatible your zodiacs are.

6. What's your biggest goal in life?

If you're like me, you have big goals that you want to reach someday, and you want a man behind you who also has big goals and understands what it's like to chase after a dream. If his biggest goal is to see how quickly he can binge-watch " Grey's Anatomy " on Netflix , you may want to move on.

7. If you had three wishes granted to you by a genie, what would they be?

This is a go-to for an insight into their personality. Based on how they answer, you can tell if they're goofy, serious, or somewhere in between.

8. What's your favorite childhood memory?

For some, this may be a hard question if it involves a family member or friend who has since passed away . For others, it may revolve around a tradition that no longer happens. The answers to this question are almost endless!

9. If you could change one thing about your life, what would it be?

We all have parts of our lives and stories that we wish we could change. It's human nature to make mistakes. This question is a little bit more personal but can really build up the trust level.

10. Are you a cat or a dog person?

I mean, duh! If you're a dog person, and he is a cat person, it's not going to work out.

11. Do you believe in a religion or any sort of spiritual power?

Personally, I am a Christian, and as a result, I want to be with someone who shares those same values. I know some people will argue that this question is too much in the talking stage , but why go beyond the talking stage if your personal values will never line up?

12. If you could travel anywhere in the world, where would it be?

Even homebodies have a must visit place on their bucket list !

13. What is your ideal date night?

Hey, if you're going to go for it... go for it!

14. Who was/is your celebrity crush?

For me, it was hands-down Nick Jonas . This is always a fun question to ask!

15. What's a good way to cheer you up if you're having a bad day?

Let's be real, if you put a label on it, you're not going to see your significant other at their best 24/7.

16. Do you have any tattoos?

This can lead to some really good conversations, especially if they have a tattoo that has a lot of meaning to them!

17. Can you describe yourself in three words?

It's always interesting to see if how the person you're talking to views their personal traits lines ups with the vibes you're getting.

18. What makes you the most nervous in life?

This question can go multiple different directions, and it could also be a launching pad for other conversations.

19. What's the best gift you have ever received?

Admittedly, I have asked this question to friends as well, but it's neat to see what people value.

20. What do you do to relax/have fun?

Work hard, play hard, right?

21. What are your priorities at this phase of your life?

This is always interesting because no matter how compatible your personalities may be, if one of you wants to be serious and the other is looking for something casual, it's just not going to work.

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Challah vs. Easter Bread: A Delicious Dilemma

Is there really such a difference in challah bread or easter bread.

Ever since I could remember, it was a treat to receive Easter Bread made by my grandmother. We would only have it once a year and the wait was excruciating. Now that my grandmother has gotten older, she has stopped baking a lot of her recipes that require a lot of hand usage--her traditional Italian baking means no machines. So for the past few years, I have missed enjoying my Easter Bread.

A few weeks ago, I was given a loaf of bread called Challah (pronounced like holla), and upon my first bite, I realized it tasted just like Easter Bread. It was so delicious that I just had to make some of my own, which I did.

The recipe is as follows:

Ingredients

2 tsp active dry or instant yeast 1 cup lukewarm water 4 to 4 1/2 cups all-purpose flour 1/2 cup white granulated sugar 2 tsp salt 2 large eggs 1 large egg yolk (reserve the white for the egg wash) 1/4 cup neutral-flavored vegetable oil

Instructions

Combine yeast and a pinch of sugar in small bowl with the water and stir until you see a frothy layer across the top.
Whisk together 4 cups of the flour, sugar, and salt in a large bowl.
Make a well in the center of the flour and add in eggs, egg yolk, and oil. Whisk these together to form a slurry, pulling in a little flour from the sides of the bowl.
Pour the yeast mixture over the egg slurry and mix until difficult to move.
Turn out the dough onto a floured work surface and knead by hand for about 10 minutes. If the dough seems very sticky, add flour a teaspoon at a time until it feels tacky, but no longer like bubblegum. The dough has finished kneading when it is soft, smooth, and holds a ball-shape.
Place the dough in an oiled bowl, cover with plastic wrap, and place somewhere warm. Let the dough rise 1 1/2 to 2 hours.
Separate the dough into four pieces. Roll each piece of dough into a long rope roughly 1-inch thick and 16 inches long.
Gather the ropes and squeeze them together at the very top. Braid the pieces in the pattern of over, under, and over again. Pinch the pieces together again at the bottom.
Line a baking sheet with parchment and lift the loaf on top. Sprinkle the loaf with a little flour and drape it with a clean dishcloth. Place the pan somewhere warm and away from drafts and let it rise until puffed and pillowy, about an hour.
Heat the oven to 350°F. Whisk the reserved egg white with a tablespoon of water and brush it all over the challah. Be sure to get in the cracks and down the sides of the loaf.
Slide the challah on its baking sheet into the oven and bake for 30 to 35 minutes, rotating the pan halfway through cooking. The challah is done when it is deeply browned.

I kept wondering how these two breads could be so similar in taste. So I decided to look up a recipe for Easter Bread to make a comparison. The two are almost exactly the same! These recipes are similar because they come from religious backgrounds. The Jewish Challah bread is based on kosher dietary laws. The Christian Easter Bread comes from the Jewish tradition but was modified over time because they did not follow kosher dietary laws.

A recipe for Easter bread is as follows:

2 tsp active dry or instant yeast 2/3 cup milk 2 1/2 cups all-purpose flour 1/4 cup white granulated sugar 2 tbs butter 2 large eggs 2 tbs melted butter 1 tsp salt

In a large bowl, combine 1 cup flour, sugar, salt, and yeast; stir well. Combine milk and butter in a small saucepan; heat until milk is warm and butter is softened but not melted.
Gradually add the milk and butter to the flour mixture; stirring constantly. Add two eggs and 1/2 cup flour; beat well. Add the remaining flour, 1/2 cup at a time, stirring well after each addition. When the dough has pulled together, turn it out onto a lightly floured surface and knead until smooth and elastic, about 8 minutes.
Lightly oil a large bowl, place the dough in the bowl and turn to coat with oil. Cover with a damp cloth and let rise in a warm place until doubled in volume, about 1 hour.
Deflate the dough and turn it out onto a lightly floured surface. Divide the dough into two equal size rounds; cover and let rest for 10 minutes. Roll each round into a long roll about 36 inches long and 1 1/2 inches thick. Using the two long pieces of dough, form a loosely braided ring, leaving spaces for the five colored eggs. Seal the ends of the ring together and use your fingers to slide the eggs between the braids of dough.
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Place loaf on a buttered baking sheet and cover loosely with a damp towel. Place loaf in a warm place and let rise until doubled in bulk, about 45 minutes. Brush risen loaf with melted butter.
Bake in the preheated oven until golden brown, about 30 minutes.

Both of these recipes are really easy to make. While you might need to have a day set aside for this activity, you can do things while the dough is rising or in the oven. After only a few hours, you have a delicious loaf of bread that you made from scratch, so the time and effort is really worth it!

Unlocking Lake People's Secrets: 15 Must-Knows!

There's no other place you'd rather be in the summer..

The people that spend their summers at the lake are a unique group of people.

Whether you grew up going to the lake , have only recently started going, or have only been once or twice, you know it takes a certain kind of person to be a lake person. To the long-time lake people, the lake holds a special place in your heart , no matter how dirty the water may look.

Every year when summer rolls back around, you can't wait to fire up the boat and get back out there. Here is a list of things you can probably identify with as a fellow lake-goer.

A bad day at the lake is still better than a good day not at the lake.

It's your place of escape, where you can leave everything else behind and just enjoy the beautiful summer day. No matter what kind of week you had, being able to come and relax without having to worry about anything else is the best therapy there is. After all, there's nothing better than a day of hanging out in the hot sun, telling old funny stories and listening to your favorite music.

You know the best beaches and coves to go to.

Whether you want to just hang out and float or go walk around on a beach, you know the best spots. These often have to be based on the people you're with, given that some "party coves" can get a little too crazy for little kids on board. I still have vivid memories from when I was six that scared me when I saw the things drunk girls would do for beads.

You have no patience for the guy who can't back his trailer into the water right.

When there's a long line of trucks waiting to dump their boats in the water, there's always that one clueless guy who can't get it right, and takes 5 attempts and holds up the line. No one likes that guy. One time my dad got so fed up with a guy who was taking too long that he actually got out of the car and asked this guy if he could just do it for him. So he got into the guy's car, threw it in reverse, and got it backed in on the first try. True story.

Doing the friendly wave to every boat you pass.

Similar to the "jeep wave," almost everyone waves to other boats passing by. It's just what you do, and is seen as a normal thing by everyone.

The cooler is always packed, mostly with beer.

Alcohol seems to be a big part of the lake experience, but other drinks are squeezed into the room remaining in the cooler for the kids, not to mention the wide assortment of chips and other foods in the snack bag.

Giving the idiot who goes 30 in a "No Wake Zone" a piece of your mind.

There's nothing worse than floating in the water, all settled in and minding your business, when some idiot barrels through. Now your anchor is loose, and you're left jostled by the waves when it was nice and perfectly still before. This annoyance is typically answered by someone yelling some choice words to them that are probably accompanied by a middle finger in the air.

You have no problem with peeing in the water.

It's the lake, and some social expectations are a little different here, if not lowered quite a bit. When you have to go, you just go, and it's no big deal to anyone because they do it too.

You know the frustration of getting your anchor stuck.

The number of anchors you go through as a boat owner is likely a number that can be counted on two hands. Every once in a while, it gets stuck on something on the bottom of the lake, and the only way to fix the problem is to cut the rope, and you have to replace it.

Watching in awe at the bigger, better boats that pass by.

If you're the typical lake-goer, you likely might have an average-sized boat that you're perfectly happy with. However, that doesn't mean you don't stop and stare at the fast boats that loudly speed by, or at the obnoxiously huge yachts that pass.

Knowing any swimsuit that you own with white in it is best left for the pool or the ocean.

You've learned this the hard way, coming back from a day in the water and seeing the flowers on your bathing suit that were once white, are now a nice brownish hue.

The momentary fear for your life as you get launched from the tube.

If the driver knows how to give you a good ride, or just wants to specifically throw you off, you know you're done when you're speeding up and heading straight for a big wave. Suddenly you're airborne, knowing you're about to completely wipe out, and you eat pure wake. Then you get back on and do it all again.

You're able to go to the restaurants by the water wearing minimal clothing.

One of the many nice things about the life at the lake is that everybody cares about everything a little less. Rolling up to the place wearing only your swimsuit, a cover-up, and flip flops, you fit right in. After a long day when you're sunburned, a little buzzed, and hungry, you're served without any hesitation.

Having unexpected problems with your boat.

Every once in a while you're hit with technical difficulties, no matter what type of watercraft you have. This is one of the most annoying setbacks when you're looking forward to just having a carefree day on the water, but it's bound to happen. This is just one of the joys that come along with being a boat owner.

Having a name for your boat unique to you and your life.

One of the many interesting things that make up the lake culture is the fact that many people name their boats. They can range from basic to funny, but they are unique to each and every owner, and often have interesting and clever meanings behind them.

There's no better place you'd rather be in the summer.

Summer is your all-time favorite season, mostly because it's spent at the lake. Whether you're floating in the cool water under the sun, or taking a boat ride as the sun sets, you don't have a care in the world at that moment . The people that don't understand have probably never experienced it, but it's what keeps you coming back every year.

Top 10 Reasons My School Rocks!

Why i chose a small school over a big university..

I was asked so many times why I wanted to go to a small school when a big university is so much better. Don't get me wrong, I'm sure a big university is great but I absolutely love going to a small school. I know that I miss out on big sporting events and having people actually know where it is. I can't even count how many times I've been asked where it is and I know they won't know so I just say "somewhere in the middle of Wisconsin ." But, I get to know most people at my school and I know my professors very well. Not to mention, being able to walk to the other side of campus in 5 minutes at a casual walking pace. I am so happy I made the decision to go to school where I did. I love my school and these are just a few reasons why.

1. My school is incredibly unique.

There are so many different kinds of people that each bring something really special to contribute to the school which makes it so unique.

2. I am not just a number at my school.

I am a student that my professors know about and I like knowing that my professors can watch my progress.

3. I feel like I am contributing something to the community.

I like feeling like I can make a difference on my campus.

4. I really do feel like it is my home away from home.

It isn't just my school. It is absolutely my home away from home. I feel so comfortable there and it was as hard of an adjustment as I had thought it would be.

5. My professors know me and I feel that I can easily communicate with them.

I feel like they will do anything to help students succeed. I can always go to my professors. I like knowing that I have someone looking out for me.

6. The incredible people I've met

The people I have met at my school, even after my first year, have made such a huge impact on me. I know that these are people that I will stay friends with long after college is done.

7. Opportunities

My school offers so many different opportunities to get involved in things around campus. Even writing for the Odyssey was an opportunity offered to me by my school and I decided to challenge myself by writing an article. Turns out, I really enjoy writing. I might not have had this opportunity at a bigger school.

8. Students want to learn

I feel as though I am not just learning inside the classroom at my school. I am learning outside the classroom to from my fellow classmates who want to engage about the things we have learned.

9. Ability to join a sorority and have a house full of people I know I can talk to anytime I need to

I wasn't sure if being in a sorority was something I was interested in but when I met the amazing people in the sorority and how inclusive it was, I knew that it was going to be a good thing for me. The people I've met in my sorority have been so amazing.

10. I have figured out how I learn best because my school offers so many different ways of learning.

Because of the smaller class sizes, there is more flexibility in the way the class is taught. This was helpful because I was able to try out different ways of learning and figure out which way I learn best.

Top Creators

1. Brittany Morgan, National Writer's Society 2. Radhi, SUNY Stony Brook 3. Kristen Haddox , Penn State University 4. Jennifer Kustanovich , SUNY Stony Brook 5. Clare Regelbrugge , University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign

How to Write a Story About My Life Essay

Your life story is a unique tapestry of experiences, emotions, and milestones. Here's a guide on weaving these elements into a compelling narrative:

How do I write a story about my life essay? Writing about your life is an introspective journey. Reflect on milestones such as: "In 2005, my family embarked on a cross-country move from New York to California. This was not just a physical journey, but an emotional one as we navigated cultural shifts and personal growth."

How do you write a life story example? Narrative snippets can bring your essay to life. Consider: "Amid the aroma of my grandmother's kitchen, where the scent of fresh-baked bread intertwined with stories of her youth in Italy, I realized the importance of preserving family narratives."

How do you write a story essay? For instance: "As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden hue over our beach campfire, my friend Sarah started narrating her unexpected escapade in the jungles of Borneo. With every twist and turn, we were gripped, realizing that sometimes life's best stories are unplanned."

What is life simple essay? Life's moments can be captured in simple narratives. Reflect upon: "Last winter, while walking my dog Max, we came across a frozen pond. Watching children gleefully slide across it, I was reminded of life's fleeting moments of joy and the importance of seizing them."

How do you write a short life story about yourself? Begin with defining moments: "When I was ten, I found a wounded bird in our backyard. Nursing it back to health didn't just kindle my love for animals but taught me compassion and patience."

How can I write about myself example? Use varied experiences: "From scaling the rocky terrains of Colorado, immersing myself in the bustling streets of Tokyo, to teaching underprivileged kids in my hometown, each experience has crafted a chapter of my ever-evolving life story."

What is our story? "In college, Lisa and I teamed up for a project on Renaissance art. Not only did we ace it, but our shared admiration for art and culture fostered a bond that turned two classmates into lifelong friends."

How do you start an interesting story example? Set the scene vividly: "It was on a cold, foggy night in London when I stumbled upon an old bookstore. Little did I know, this store harbored secrets that would lead me on a whirlwind adventure."

How do you write a successful story? Use emotions to captivate: "As Maria gazed upon the old photograph, tears welled up in her eyes. It wasn't just an image; it was a time capsule transporting her back to summers spent at her grandparents' cottage."

How do you write an example essay? Support your arguments with real-life instances: "In arguing the importance of community, I often reflect on the time my neighbors came together post a hurricane, showcasing unity and resilience."

What life means to me example? "Life, for me, is a mosaic of memories – from the giggles shared over childhood pranks to the solace found in solitary walks during challenging times."

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Frequently Asked Questions

What makes a personal life story essay engaging? True stories resonate best. Pouring genuine emotions, raw experiences, and candid reflections into your narrative makes it universally relatable.
How can I avoid making my life story essay sound boastful? Maintain a balance. Celebrate achievements, but also shed light on challenges, lessons learned, and moments of vulnerability.
What tense should I use when writing my life story? Past tense is often used, but present tense can create immediacy when sharing thoughts.
How personal should I get in my life story essay? Authenticity is engaging, but set boundaries on details you share.
Is chronological order essential in a life essay? Not necessarily. Chronology provides clarity, but thematic or importance-based sequencing can be impactful.
Can I incorporate dialogues in my life story essay? Absolutely! Dialogues make moments come alive and give insights into character dynamics.
Should I conclude with a lesson in my life story? Ending with a reflection or lesson provides closure and a takeaway for readers.

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Jack London’s ”What Life Means To Me”

Word count: 1082
Category: Life Short Story

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Jack London was born in the late 1876, and he had written the essay, “What Life Means To Me” in the year 1905, when he was still about 29 years old— a testimony that the man had indeed endured much in his life, but also gained not just knowledge but also wisdom, as could be seen in his work. At this point, he had become the socialist who was more aware of the hierarchy and ills of society, opened to the reality of life in general which childhood naiveté and innate ignorance of a man born of the working-class shrouded in optimistic illusions.

To him there are two major social classes, these being the “working-class”, into which he was born, and the “upper-class”. The members of the working-class are of course the laborers, factory workers and such, or are, in short, poor. They were the men and women who made use primarily of their bodies in order to make a living, whether it was honest work, or somewhat “shady” (i.e. for prostitution). He said that in this social strata, everything was “crude and raw…[where] life offered nothing but sordidness and wretchedness, both of the flesh and the spirit” (London 392). On the one hand, the upper-class are the businessmen, the politicians, members of the academe, etc…people who made use more of their minds or brains in making profit, and did not deal with course work, entrusting the rough jobs to the working-class. They are the sort who have soft, white hands encased in gloves, and “men [who] wore black clothes and boiled shirts, and women [who] dressed in beautiful gowns” (London 392).

However, as he became more acquainted with society, he found that there was more to the working-class: among them were also some people who could have been members of the upper society, like professors who got kicked out of their profession, or chose to become part of the working-class because the “upper society” did not appeal to their radical ideas or thinking. The people then used to be highly conservative in their beliefs, and of course, the members of the “upper society” were content with their stable, rich lives, so much so that they chose not to entertain revolutionary thinking, or did not accept the change that it hinted upon. Revolution was a threat to their financial or status stability.

They did participate in intellectual discussions about politics and the like as Jack London mentioned, having dined with them at some point. But as he was soon to realize, they were not embodiments of his own pure ideals, and were against his own theories regarding the state of the poor. The women, for example, became “excited and angry”, and told him that they believed that the poor were to blame for their own misery, as they lacked thrift in money, investing much in drinking. But then we wonder, how could this be the case if the poor do not have any money to be thrifty with in the first place? The drink must have been a psychological salve or concoction for the depravity of the poor, which was, in Jack London’s opinion and mine, imposed on them by the selfish, spendthrift and corrupt members of the “upper society”.

In the last paragraphs of his essay, it is evident that London has more belief in the working-class’ ability to mold an ideal society than the men who have grown accustomed to riches and known no suffering. He seems to exalt the idealistic labourers who dreamt above the more fortunate but less moralistic and less appreciative of their lives and occupations. Also, London seems to say that “hope is among the masses”, the working ants of society, rather than in the men who simply make use of the products of labour and sweat of hard-working men.

“The stairway of time is ever echoing with the wooden shoe going up, the polished boot descending” (London 399). London has expressed his “faith in the working-class”, and by quoting the aforementioned statement, he means to say that they, as time passes, shall be able to transcend their decrepit or low class of living with their clean aspirations and innocent, if not ignorant, ideals, their “wooden shoes going up” towards greater heights and higher standards of living. “The polished boot”, or the men of society who belong to the upper social strata are bound for eventual downfall with their materialism, a lack for appreciation of the things they do and have, and their crimes and betrayals. In today’s society, there still exists the different economic strata which delineate one man from another—there are sill the rich and the poor. But there is also the middle-class, those who are neither too poor so much so that they live by the day (their daily wages are really for that day’s food only, etc…), nor rich enough so much so that they need not work, and only enjoy the products of others’ toil.

However, unlike the “poor”, working-class men and women that London described in his essay who were “neither noble nor alive”, the “poor” citizens of today seem to be less inclined to work themselves for 36 hours straight as those before them, and have the tendency to resort to immoral means of acquiring wealth, etc… As London said, when he talked about the materialism that was evident among the “upper society”, the women “became excited and angry…[reading him] preachments about the lack of thrift, the drink and the innate depravity that caused all the misery in society’s cellar”. The citizens of today have more benefits from the government, and there are open doors for employment everywhere; only, there seems to be a lethargy among the uneducated to better themselves, and therefore give what the women said some “weight”. Today’s society is better in that the class strata are no longer so obvious, there seems to be less discrimination, and more empathy (real or otherwise) from the “upper society”. But it is also worse in that the masses can no longer be relied upon for the betterment of the entire society.

Works Cited

London, Jack. “What Life Means To Me”. Revolution and Other Essays. [insert Place of publication]: Macmillan,1909. 392-399.

“What Life Means To Me by Jack London”. The Jack London Online Collection. Roy Tennant and Clarice Stasz, PhD. 25 July 2006. Sonoma State University. 28 November 2007 <http://london.sonoma.edu/>.

Jack London

Revolution and other essays, what life means to me.

I was born in the working-class. Early I discovered enthusiasm, ambition, and ideals; and to satisfy these became the problem of my child- life. My environment was crude and rough and raw. I had no outlook, but an uplook rather. My place in society was at the bottom. Here life offered nothing but sordidness and wretchedness, both of the flesh and the spirit; for here flesh and spirit were alike starved and tormented.

Above me towered the colossal edifice of society, and to my mind the only way out was up. Into this edifice I early resolved to climb. Up above, men wore black clothes and boiled shirts, and women dressed in beautiful gowns. Also, there were good things to eat, and there was plenty to eat. This much for the flesh. Then there were the things of the spirit. Up above me, I knew, were unselfishnesses of the spirit, clean and noble thinking, keen intellectual living. I knew all this because I read “Seaside Library” novels, in which, with the exception of the villains and adventuresses, all men and women thought beautiful thoughts, spoke a beautiful tongue, and performed glorious deeds. In short, as I accepted the rising of the sun, I accepted that up above me was all that was fine and noble and gracious, all that gave decency and dignity to life, all that made life worth living and that remunerated one for his travail and misery.

But it is not particularly easy for one to climb up out of the working- class—especially if he is handicapped by the possession of ideals and illusions. I lived on a ranch in California, and I was hard put to find the ladder whereby to climb. I early inquired the rate of interest on invested money, and worried my child's brain into an understanding of the virtues and excellencies of that remarkable invention of man, compound interest. Further, I ascertained the current rates of wages for workers of all ages, and the cost of living. From all this data I concluded that if I began immediately and worked and saved until I was fifty years of age, I could then stop working and enter into participation in a fair portion of the delights and goodnesses that would then be open to me higher up in society. Of course, I resolutely determined not to marry, while I quite forgot to consider at all that great rock of disaster in the working-class world—sickness.

But the life that was in me demanded more than. a meagre existence of scraping and scrimping. Also, at ten years of age, I became a newsboy on the streets of a city, and found myself with a changed uplook. All about me were still the same sordidness and wretchedness, and up above me was still the same paradise waiting to be gained; but the ladder whereby to climb was a different one. It was now the ladder of business. Why save my earnings and invest in government bonds, when, by buying two newspapers for five cents, with a turn of the wrist I could sell them for ten cents and double my capital—The business ladder was the ladder for me, and I had a vision of myself becoming a baldheaded and successful merchant prince.

Alas for visions! When I was sixteen I had already earned the title of “prince.” But this title was given me by a gang of cut-throats and thieves, by whom I was called “The Prince of the Oyster Pirates.” And at that time I had climbed the first rung of the business ladder. I was a capitalist. I owned a boat and a complete oyster-pirating outfit. I had begun to exploit my fellow-creatures. I had a crew of one man. As captain and owner I took two-thirds of the spoils, and gave the crew one-third, though the crew worked just as hard as I did and risked just as much his life and liberty.

This one rung was the height I climbed up the business ladder. One night I went on a raid amongst the Chinese fishermen. Ropes and nets were worth dollars and cents. It was robbery, I grant, but it was precisely the spirit of capitalism. The capitalist takes away the possessions of his fellow-creatures by means of a rebate, or of a betrayal of trust, or by the purchase of senators and supreme-court judges. I was merely crude. That was the only difference. I used a gun.

But my crew that night was one of those inefficients against whom the capitalist is wont to fulminate, because, forsooth, such inefficients increase expenses and reduce dividends. My crew did both. What of his carelessness he set fire to the big mainsail and totally destroyed it. There weren't any dividends that night, and the Chinese fishermen were richer by the nets and ropes we did' not get. I was bankrupt, unable just then to pay sixty-five dollars for a new mainsail. I left my boat at anchor and went off on a bay-pirate boat on a raid up the Sacramento River. While away on this trip, another gang of bay pirates raided my boat. They stole everything, even the anchors; and later on, when I recovered the drifting hulk, I sold it for twenty dollars. I had slipped back the one rung I had climbed, and never again did I attempt the business ladder.

From then on I was mercilessly exploited by other capitalists. I had the muscle, and they made money out of it while I made but a very indifferent living out of it. I was a sailor before the mast, a longshoreman, a roustabout; I worked in canneries, and factories, and laundries; I mowed lawns, and cleaned carpets, and washed windows. And I never got the full product of my toil. I looked at the daughter of the cannery owner, in her carriage, and knew that it was my muscle, in part, that helped drag along that carriage on its rubber tires. I looked at the son of the factory owner, going to college, and knew that it was my muscle that helped, in part, to pay for the wine and good fellowship he enjoyed.

But I did not resent this. It was all in the game. They were the strong. Very well, I was strong. I would carve my way to a place amongst them and make money out of the muscles of other men. I was not afraid of work. I loved hard- work. I would pitch in and work harder than ever and eventually become a pillar of society.

I had been born in the working-class, and I was now, at the age of eighteen, beneath the point at which I had started. I was down in the cellar of society, down in the subterranean depths of misery about which it is neither nice nor proper to speak. I was in the pit, the abyss, the human cesspool, the shambles and the charnel-house of our civilization. This is the part of the edifice of society that society chooses to ignore. Lack of space compels me here to ignore it, and I shall say only that the things I there saw gave me a terrible scare.

I was scared into thinking. I saw the naked simplicities of the complicated civilization in which I lived. Life was a matter of food and shelter. In order to get food and shelter men sold things. The merchant sold shoes, the politician sold his manhood, and the representative of the people, with exceptions, of course, sold his trust; while nearly all sold their honor. Women, too, whether on the street or in the holy bond of wedlock, were prone to sell their flesh. All things were commodities, all people bought and sold. The one commodity that labor had to sell was muscle. The honor of labor had no price in the market-place. Labor had muscle, and muscle alone, to sell.

But there was a difference, a vital difference. Shoes and trust and honor had a way of renewing themselves. They were imperishable stocks. Muscle, on the other hand, did not renew. As the shoe merchant sold shoes, he continued to replenish his stock. But there was no way of replenishing the laborer's stock of muscle. The more he sold of his muscle, the less of it remained to him. It was his one commodity, and each day his stock of it diminished. In the end, if he did not die before, he sold out and put up his shutters. He was a muscle bankrupt, and nothing remained to him but to go down into the cellar of society and perish miserably.

I learned, further, that brain was likewise a commodity. It, too, was different from muscle. A brain seller was only at his prime when he was fifty or sixty years old, and his wares were fetching higher prices than ever. But a laborer was worked out or broken down at forty-five or fifty. I had been in the cellar of society, and I did not like the place as a habitation. The pipes and drains were unsanitary, and the air was bad to breathe. If I could not live on the parlor floor of society, I could, at any rate, have a try at the attic. It was true, the diet there was slim, but the air at least was pure. So I resolved to sell no more muscle, and to become a vender of brains.

Then began a frantic pursuit of knowledge. I returned to California and opened the books. While thus equipping, myself to become a brain merchant, it was inevitable that I should delve into sociology. There I found, in a certain class of books, scientifically formulated, the simple sociological concepts I had already worked out for myself. Other and greater minds, before I was born, had worked out all that I had thought and a vast deal more. I discovered that I was a socialist.

The socialists were revolutionists, inasmuch as they struggled to overthrow the society of the present, and out of the material to build the society of the future. I, too, was a socialist and a revolutionist. I joined the groups of working-class and intellectual revolutionists, and for the first time came into intellectual living. Here I found keen-flashing intellects and brilliant wits; for here I met strong and alert-brained, withal horny- handed, members of the working-class; unfrocked preachers too wide in their Christianity for any congregation of Mammon-worshippers; professors broken on the wheel of university subservience to the ruling class and flung out because they were quick with knowledge which they strove to apply to the affairs of mankind.

Here I found, also, warm faith in the human, glowing idealism, sweetnesses of unselfishness, renunciation, and martyrdom—all the splendid, stinging things of the spirit. Here life was clean, noble, and alive. Here life rehabilitated itself, became wonderful and glorious; and I was glad to be alive. I was in touch with great souls who exalted flesh and spirit over dollars and cents, and to whom the thin wail of the starved slum child meant more than all the pomp and circumstance of commercial expansion and world empire. All about me were nobleness of purpose and heroism of effort, and my days and nights were sunshine and starshine, all fire and dew, with before my eyes, ever burning and blazing, the Holy Grail, Christ's own Grail, the warm human, long-suffering and maltreated, but to be rescued and saved at the last.

As a brain merchant I was a success. Society opened its portals to me. I entered right in on the parlor floor, and my disillusionment proceeded rapidly. I sat down to dinner with the masters of society, and with the wives and daughters of the masters of society. The women were gowned beautifully, I admit; but to my naive surprise I discovered that they were of the same clay as all the rest of the women I had known down below in the cellar. “The colonel's lady and Judy O'Grady were sisters under their skins”—and gowns.

It was not this, however, so much as their materialism, that shocked me. It is true, these beautifully gowned, beautiful women prattled sweet little ideals and dear little moralities; but in spite of their prattle the dominant key of the life they lived was materialistic. And they were so sentimentally selfish ! They assisted in all kinds of sweet little charities, and informed one of the fact, while all the time the food they ate and the beautiful clothes they wore were bought out of dividends stained with the blood of child labor, and sweated labor, and of prostitution itself. When I mentioned such facts, expecting in my innocence that these sisters of Judy O'Grady would at once strip off their blood-dyed silks and jewels, they became excited and angry, and read me preachments about the lack of thrift, the drink, and the innate depravity that caused all the misery in society's cellar. When I mentioned that I couldn't quite see that it was the lack of thrift, the intemperance, and the depravity of a half-starved child of six that made it work twelve hours every night in a Southern cotton mill, these sisters of Judy O'Grady attacked my private life and called me an “agitator”—as though that, forsooth, settled the argument.

Nor did I fare better with the masters themselves. I had expected to find men who were clean, noble, and alive, whose ideals were clean, noble, and alive. I went about amongst the men who sat in the high places—the preachers, the politicians, the business men, the professors, and the editors. I ate meat with them, drank wine with them, automobiled with them, and studied them. It is true, I found many that were clean and noble; but with rare exceptions, they were not alive. I do verily believe I could count the exceptions on the fingers of my two hands. Where they were not alive with rottenness, quick with unclean life, they were merely the unburied dead—clean and. noble, like well- preserved mummies, but not alive. In this connection I may especially mention the professors I met, the men who live up to that decadent university ideal, “the passionless pursuit of passionless intelligence."

I talked in hotels and clubs and homes and Pullmans and steamer- chairs with captains of industry, and marvelled at how little travelled they were in the realm of intellect. On the other hand, I discovered that their intellect, in the business sense, was abnormally developed. Also, I discovered that their morality, where business was concerned, was nil.

It was the same everywhere, crime and betrayal, betrayal and crime—men who were alive, but who were neither clean nor noble, men who were clean and noble but who were not alive. Then there was a great, hopeless mass, neither noble nor alive, but merely clean. It did not sin positively nor deliberately; but it did sin passively and ignorantly by acquiescing in the current immorality and profiting by it. Had it been noble and alive it would not have been ignorant, and it would have refused to share in the profits of betrayal and crime.

I discovered that I did not like to live on the parlor floor of society. Intellectually I was bored. Morally and spiritually I was sickened. I remembered my intellectuals and idealists, my unfrocked preachers, broken professors, and clean-minded, class-conscious workingmen. I remembered my days and nights of sunshine and starshine, where life was all a wild sweet wonder, a spiritual paradise of unselfish adventure and ethical romance. And I saw before me, ever blazing and burning, the Holy Grail.

So I went back to the working-class, in which I had been born and where I belonged. I care no longer to climb. The imposing edifice of society above my head holds no delights for me. It is the foundation of the edifice that interests me. There I am content to labor, crowbar in hand, shoulder to shoulder with intellectuals, idealists, and class-conscious workingmen, getting a solid pry now and again and setting the whole edifice rocking. Some day, when we get a few more hands and crowbars to work, we'll topple it over, along with all its rotten life and unburied dead, its monstrous selfishness and sodden materialism. Then we'll cleanse the cellar and build a new habitation for mankind, in which there will be no parlor floor, in which all the rooms will be bright and airy, and where the air that is breathed will be clean, noble, and alive.

Such is my outlook. I look forward to a time when man shall progress upon something worthier and higher than his stomach, when there will be a finer incentive to impel men to action than the incentive of to-day, which is the incentive of the stomach. I retain my belief in the nobility and excellence of the human. I believe that spiritual sweetness and unselfishness will conquer the gross gluttony of to-day. And last of all, my faith is in the working-class. As some Frenchman has said, “The stairway of time is ever echoing with the wooden shoe going up, the polished boot descending."

NEWTON, IOWA, November, 1905.

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Personal Narrative Essay: What Does Religion Mean to Me

We may be aware that religion refers to the cultural and belief system. It is also about how values, humanity, and spirituality relate to religion itself. However, have we already asked ourselves if what religion means to us?

I am a Roman Catholic. The family I came from, they are Catholic. Ever since I was a child, they made me understand the importance of having faith in God. I learned that 7- sacraments and 10-Commandments are significant. They are the ways to become closer to God. My family also taught me how to pray fervently every time. When I feel blissful about something that happened to me, I pray and tell God how grateful I am. If I know that I'm wrong, I will ask for forgiveness. When I feel so alone, burden, and weary, seek God; he will always listen. As I grow up, my understanding of the Catholic faith becomes deep. I learned that as we love ourselves, we should also love others. We should also care about the creations of God. And always be humble and respectful. They are some of the values and guiding principles that my family and environment instilled in me.

Religion means a lot to me. Having faith makes me feel even stronger, regardless of being tired physically and emotionally. It is one of the reasons why I always choose to stay in this world, no matter how chaotic it is. It made me believe in things that I am not aware of before. And we might experience trials that can hinder us from being happy and triumphant. But knowing that God is always here with us, I know that we will overcome them. It changed me into a better version of myself. Religion is about how we embrace and accept it in our hearts. It is an understanding that we openly and warmly welcome in ourselves. It should not be the reason for misunderstanding. Instead, it should be the instrument of loving and connecting. For me, that's religion.

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What Life Means To Me

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I fell in love. Then I found out he was a celebrity

When I first met my now-husband in 2019, I had no idea he was famous. He sure was handsome though, with an easy smile and nice teeth to match. I was fresh off the plane from New York when we sat next to each other at our University of Cambridge matriculation in England. Someone made a quip about rowing to him, which he laughed off. I asked him if he was an athlete. “Not really,” he replied in his British accent. I took him at face value, and we started talking about what we were studying.

We kept running into each other on campus, where we were both pursuing master’s degrees. I learned his name was James and that he was 46, compared to my 33, so we were considered mature students, though we were hardly out of place in Cambridge’s robust post-grad student body. I ended up tutoring him in stats after he asked me for help. It was during these study sessions that James told me he was known in the United Kingdom for winning two Olympic gold medals for rowing in 2000 and 2004. He mentioned that he had done an ad for a local eyeglasses store. Because I’m American and had just moved to the country, I didn’t realize the store was the U.K.’s largest eyeglasses chain. I assumed it was a mom-and-pop shop, given his nonchalance.

I also grew up in New York City, where everyone has a story, and everybody is somebody. I guess you could say I’m jaded, but I think this is also why I dismissed some of the clues of his celebrity for months. In our “Cambridge bubble,” we were always around the same group of people. When we started dating, it hardly caused a ripple in our circle. None of our friends ever asked him for a picture or an autograph. To me, he was nice, normal James Cracknell, who happened to have two gold medals. We loved spending time together going to the movies, out for drinks or going for walks to picturesque Grantchester. He was funny and wrote me the most beautiful letters.

In March 2019, James participated in the Oxford-Cambridge Boat Race, a rowing competition between the two prestigious British universities that dates back to 1829. He kept telling me it was a big thing, but it was in the weeks leading up to it that I realized just what he meant. Out one night at a cheesy bar, close to the day of the race, a bachelorette party came up to us. “Do you know who this man is?” one of the women demanded of me. “He is an asset to the United Kingdom.” I thought that was funny.

The week leading up to the Boat Race was nuts. The race is broadcast on the BBC and watched by millions. James was the oldest participant in the event’s history , which meant the media coverage was crazy. When Piers Morgan wanted to interview him, I finally put it together and realized I was dating a bonafide celebrity. I now had a deeper understanding of who James was, but it didn’t change what he meant to me.

The day of the race featured hours of coverage on him, and the next day he made the front pages of the national newspapers here. It turned out the man I was in love with was basically the Eli Manning of the U.K.

Our relationship was still quiet, which I was grateful for. It wasn’t until July of that year that the papers ran articles about the two of us. I was on the train and my mom texted, saying that there were pictures of me online. Of course the train had no Wi-Fi, so I had to wait an entire hour before I could see what she was talking about.

Initially, it was really weird and unnerving to see the press coverage. It is strange losing your privacy in such a public way, and having hundreds of people comment on your relationship, what you are wearing, or even your expression. James, who has had 20 years of experience with the British press, advised me to ignore it. That’s easier said than done, but it was a start. It helped that my family was highly supportive of our relationship. But having worked primarily in finance, where you’re judged on how long you can sit in front of multiple screens while speaking intelligently with investors and wearing a preponderance of navy blue suits, it was definitely a new world for me.

Since then, James has been on the U.K.’s version of “Dancing With the Stars” and “Celebrity SAS,” and now he’s running for political office in Colchester (to the east of London). It took me some time to adjust to this new normal, especially the press interest in our relationship. Reporters managed to track down my family in the U.S. and called them for information, while here in the U.K. they went knocking on friends’ doors. My brother found it hilarious, and my friends shut the door in their face. But once the initial interest died down, it became a lot easier to deal with.

Then, we got engaged. Our wedding details were leaked to the press, but I was more upset at the person who leaked the information than at the press themselves. In addition to a paparazzo at the front gates of the church, two other reporters wearing ill-fitting brown suits tried to crash the afterparty. I kicked them out when I found them waiting in line at the open bar.

Jordan and James Cracknell on their wedding day.

Now the press and fame are just part of my new normal. Having settled into life in the U.K., I have a better understanding of why James is famous here. His Olympic wins meant a lot to people in the U.K. This summer we will be in Paris for the Olympics , as James will be commentating on rowing as I watch beach volleyball and soccer.

Five years after we met, we live a happy life in London, and I’m now the stepmother to James’ three children. And at home, he’s not a celebrity — he’s just regular TV-watching, dog-walking, kind, funny James, and I love him for that.

Jordan Cracknell moved from New York to London in 2019 to study at the University of Cambridge, where she received her MBA. She has worked in finance since 2007 and also considers herself a film aficionado. Follow her on Twitter at @jordancnyc and Instagram at @msjordancracknell .

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Essay analysis: what Life Means to ME, Jack London

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Jack London and “What Life Means to Me”

Introduction : Jack London and “What Life Means to Me”

Money, Jack London and “What Life Means to Me”

Conclusion : Jack London and “What Life Means to Me”

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