First published in 1903; my 1912 edition is a reprint of the original
Buck did not read the newspapers,
or he would have known that trouble was brewing,
not alone for himself, but for every tidewater dog,
strong of muscle and with warm, long hair, from
Puget Sound to San Diego. Because men, groping in
the Arctic darkness, had found a yellow metal,
and because steamship and transportation companies
were booming the find, thousands of men were rushing
into the Northland. These men wanted dogs,
and the dogs they wanted were heavy dogs,
with strong muscles by which to toil,
and furry coats to protect them from the frost.
Splendid! Right?
Buck lived at a big house in the sun-kissed Santa Clara Valley. Judge Miller's place, it was called. It stood back from the road, half-hidden among the trees ... .
And over this great demesne Buck ruled.
Here he was born, and here he had lived the four years of his life.
It was true, there were other dogs. There could not but be other dogs
on so vast a place, but they did not count.
Let me repeat:
There were other dogs -- but they did not count.
Fiction workshoppers, aka "critters" because they actively critique (verb) each other, would likely flag the next paragraph with a red-inked dicate to Show, don't tell - but to me, this is sublime:
His father, Elmo, a huge St. Bernard, had been the Judge's inseparable companion, and Buck bid fair to follow in the way of his father. He was not so large--he weighed only one hundred and forty pounds--for his mother, Shep, had been a Scotch shepherd dog. Nevertheless, one hundred and forty pounds, to which was added the dignity that comes of good living and universal respect, enabled him to carry himself in right royal fashion. During the four years since his puppyhood he had lived the life of a sated aristocrat; he had a fine pride in himself, was even a trifle egotistical, as country gentlemen sometimes become because of their insular situation. But he had saved himself by not becoming a mere pampered house dog. Hunting and kindred outdoor delights had kept down the fat and hardened his muscles; and to him, as to the cold-tubbing races, the love of water had been a tonic and a health preserver.
Do you doubt me?
Students often turn to Spark Notes easy-read summaries, grammatically correct, simple, and to the point. The Call of the Wild is a short adventure novel, first published in 1903, set in the Yukon during the 1890s Klondike Gold Rush.
What is lost, however, is incalculable.
Buck, a large and handsome dog who is part St. Bernard and part Scotch sheep dog, lives on a sizable estate in California’s Santa Clara Valley. He is four years old and was born on the estate, which is owned by the wealthy Judge Miller. Buck is the undisputed master of Judge Miller’s place, as the locals call it, and is beloved by the Miller children and grandchildren. Buck has the run of the entire place, confident of his superiority to the pampered house pets and the fox terriers that live in the kennels. (http://www.sparknotes.com/lit/call/)
College students who read Spark Notes instead of the original are cheating themselves.
Aspiring writers who'd strip their prose of descriptive detail ("too many words") are cheating readers of the kind of world-building that makes historical fiction a cheaper, easier substitute for time travel.
More Spark Notes:
"But, unbeknownst to Buck, there is a shadow over his happy life. The year is 1897, and men from all over the world are traveling north for the gold rush that has hit the Klondike region of Canada, just east of Alaska. They need strong dogs to pull their sleds on the treacherous journey. Nor does Buck realize that Manuel, a gardener on Judge Miller’s estate, is an undesirable acquaintance. Manuel’s love of gambling in the Chinese lottery makes it difficult for him to support his wife and several children. One day, while the judge is away, Manuel takes Buck for a walk and leads him to a flag station where a stranger is waiting. Money changes hands, and Manuel ties a rope around Buck’s neck. When the rope is tightened, Buck attacks the stranger, but he finds it impossible to break free. The man fights him; Buck’s strength fails, and he blacks out and is thrown into the baggage car of the train."
Read the novel.
You'll learn so much more, not just about dogs and men and history, but how to write (if you're an aspiring writer).
Need I trot out examples of dry, dull, sanitized prose, just to illustrate what happens when we tone down and trim the prose of the 19th and 20th centuries?
Does anyone have any idea what I am lamenting here?
As a reader and editor, I'm prone to saying "Cut to the chase!" - but contemporary prose often reads like a book report, it's so stripped to the bone.
Jack London is one of 'those' writers who didn't study the craft in a college classroom. He was too busy living life. Critics panned him. He sold a lot of books anyway because millions of readers love Buck and White Fang. (Later novels, such as Captain Larson vs the journalist and the little lady in The Sea Wolf, not so much.) Only recently are scholars coming to appreciate the last-century prose of a 'common' laborer, the self-taught Jack London.
This is not to say the study of fiction, and how to write it, is futile.
I love the voice London captures. He is a born storyteller. London takes all the time he needs to paint a picture in our heads, and to hammer home the message with a feather, not a hammer, as workshoppers like to say.
And as John Gardner reminds us in "The Art of Fiction: Notes on Craft for Young Writers," Mastery is not something that strikes in an instant, like a thunderbolt, but a gathering power that moves steadily through time, like weather.
Gardner also reminds us that while university life rarely produces subject matter for really good fiction, failure to read good books is also unlikely to produce great writers. "No ignoramus--no writer who has kept himself innocent of education--has ever produced great art," Gardner writes in the above-mentioned book.
If I'm still not articulating my message here, let me reiterate: "Cut to the chase" is my first advice, but find your voice, use words to paint pictures in our heads, and polish your prose.
A great place to start that process is Fiction Workshop, the brainchild of 
