But all this—the mysterious, far-reaching hair-line trail, the absence of sun from the sky, the tremendous cold, and the strangeness and weirdness of it all—made no impression on the man. It was not because he was long used to it. He was a newcomer in the land, a chechaquo, and this was his first winter. The trouble with him was that he was without imagination. He was quick and alert in the things of life, but only in the things, and not in the significances. Fifty degrees below zero meant eighty-odd degrees of frost. Such fact impressed him as being cold and uncomfortable, and that was all. It did not lead him to meditate upon his frailty as a creature of temperature, and upon man's frailty in general, able only to live within certain narrow limits of heat and cold; and from there on it did not lead him to the conjectural field of immortality and man's place in the universe. Fifty degrees below zero stood for a bite of frost that hurt and that must be guarded against by the use of mittens, ear-flaps, warm moccasins, and thick socks. Fifty degrees below zero was to him just precisely fifty degrees below zero. That there should be anything more to it than that was a thought that never entered his head.
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Jack London's To Build a Fire, 1st paragraph on page 2
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Shivers and chills went down my arms as I read the detailed description of the cold, and yet, Jack London's character was not bothered by it at all. Fifty degrees below zero! How could he not be cold? After I learned that, my immediate response to that was that he must be use to the cold, but right away, London explained that that was not so. I love it when the author thinks along the same page as me, and in this case, the same line. My second guess of why the cold does not bother him is probably because he is bundled up in so much clothing that he is warm. I personally hate being cold because I don't like being smashed in cloth of any sort, or having anything heavy on my shoulders. (That may explain why I don't like my shoulders being massaged)
From the description of the man, I think he must be depressed. He has no imagination, and where there is no imagination, what is the point of all that life? Imagination is something that ever human should have. It is a gift that humans have that animals don't. We can picture what the future may hold for us. Jack's character seems very flat and simple. What he sees in front of his face is exactly what he sees in front of his face, nothing more, nothing less. He doesn't care to have more or less. How can he not care? That's so boring! Poor Pack London was probably feeling very board and a lot like this man while he was up in the cold mountains.
From the description of the man, I think he must be depressed. He has no imagination, and where there is no imagination, what is the point of all that life? Imagination is something that ever human should have. It is a gift that humans have that animals don't. We can picture what the future may hold for us. Jack's character seems very flat and simple. What he sees in front of his face is exactly what he sees in front of his face, nothing more, nothing less. He doesn't care to have more or less. How can he not care? That's so boring! Poor Pack London was probably feeling very board and a lot like this man while he was up in the cold mountains.
~Alayna~
