Summer is almost gone. We're back at school (at least in the boreal emisphere).
Generally I prefer reading than writing, and so especially in the summer.
When I don't find good new books I go back to classic books. This summer I have read, between others, Jack London's "The call of the wild".
It's the story of Buck, a half breed dog, who by mean of a servant's treachery, is moved from his sunkissed masterhouse in Santa Monica to the icecold regions of the northlands, following the madness gold rush in the end of the XIX century.
So Buck is thrown from the leisure of his south life to the fighting hard life of the freezy north.
And it's a daily struggle for life. Buck has to fight against men, for they need led's dogs blindly devoted to their hard task, strong and obedient; and he has also to fight against the other dogs, for the struggle of the leadership is a natural, instinctual must in a harnessed sled score and even out of those laces.
Memorable are the pages on which London describes the duel and the rivalcy between Buck and Spitz the two dogs who want the supremacy over the other huskies. The story represents a great metaphore of human life and the struggle of the man against the elements, the savage habitat, the animals and the other men in order to survive.
The same daily struggle we assist nowdays, in the war time, as in peace time; workers against capitalists; men against women; good against evil; governements against financial powers all over the world: the eternal fight for primacy, for surviving. At last Buck, once rent all the ties with his masters, joins the wolves in the forest: and he's back at his natural feature, his real dimension. The call of the wild has won over all.
I think a good book is a good friend for ever.
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