Thirteen Tales of Terror by Jack London ed. by John Perry (review)

322 Western American Literature Thirteen Tales of Terror by Jack London. Edited and introduced by John Perry. (New York: Fawcett Popular Library, 1979. 255 pages, $2.25.) The purpose of this anthology is, simply stated, to shock. And that raises an interesting problem of editorial perspective and taste. Given the con­ temporary awakening of critical interest in London by scholars like Earle Labor and critical anthologists like Ray Wilson Ownbey, Jacqueline Tavernier -Courbin, and Earl Wilcox, it may no longer be enough for an editor merely to introduce London with a frothy wolf howl and declare that violence is London’s particular contribution to the American short story. Nor does Perry’s selection help matters. Thirteen Tales allegedly pre­ sents Jack London at the height of his powers. And yet the storyteller seems somewhat betrayed here. Are these really his best tales? Consider the fact that London wrote until 1916, but that most of the stories collected here date from the period 1898-1902, the years of his apprenticeship and first commer­ cial efforts. Why are we limited to the writer’s earliest (and not altogether best) work? Like many another quick-buck anthologist, Perry has given us pyrite and labelled it gold. What is truly offensive and foolish, however, is the way Thirteen Tales has been packaged. This, we are told, is “a volume uniquely designed for those who dare come nakedly face to face with the ultimate terror” — presumably, you are less than daring if you read this book fully clothed. As if the trashy “read this if you dare” come-on isn’t enough, London’s tales are given box-office respectability: “Before Jaws, before The Exorcist, before The Deep, there was Jack London.” “The trouble with Jack London,” Perry quotes someone named Sidney Alexander, “was that he wasn’t sure whether he was a man or a wolf.” Perry does his best to confirm the impression of London’s literary and personal lycanthropy. His sketch of the artist as homo lupus is capped by the astounding fact that London preferred his beef sandwiches raw. The stereotype is silly but effective. One has a mental image of “Wolf London” pacing back and forth in his cage, snapping at raw red meat and emitting guttural howls at his critics. Thirteen Tales is a tasteless travesty, but it is important in one sense. It reminds us that American writers and writing are still being packaged as “commodities” for popular consumption, and that whatever popular taste may be, editorial taste is often no better. This is one case in which consump­ tion will definitely provoke indigestion, and that is too bad, for Jack London at his best is certainly a readable and worthwhile writer, a writer worth reading and writing about. But John Perry has only managed to trivialize him, and that’s the pity of it. Whatever London’s faults as a young writer, whatever his virtues as a seasoned professional, you will not learn them here. HOWARD LACHTMAN University of the Pacific ...