Ulas Akyildiz

“They sat on through the passing glory of the day, talking as lovers are prone to talk, marvelling at the wonder of love and at destiny that had flung them so strangely together, and dogmatically believing that they loved to a degree never attained by lovers before. And they returned insistently, again and again, to a rehearsal of their first impressions of each other and to hopeless attempts to analyze just precisely what they felt for each other and how much there was of it. The cloud–masses on the western horizon received the descending sun, and the circle of the sky turned to rose, while the zenith glowed with the same warm color. The rosy light was all about them, flooding over them, as she sang, "Good–by, Sweet Day." She sang softly, leaning in the cradle of his arm, her hands in his, their hearts in each other's hands.”
― Jack London, Martin Eden

“He couldn’t fake being their kind. The masquerade would fail, and besides, masquerade was foreign to his nature. There was no room in him for sham or artifice. Whatever happened, he must be real. He”
― Jack London, Martin Eden

“Editörlerin yüzde doksan dokuzunun başta gelen özelliği, başarısızlıkları. Yazar olmayı başaramamışlar. Sakın masabaşı işinin sıkıcılığını, satışların ve işletme müdürünün kölesi olmayı yazarlıktan daha çok istediklerini zannetme. Yazmaya çalışmış ve becerememişler. İşte lanetli paradoks da tam burada. Edebiyatta başarıya açılan her kapının önünde bekçi köpeği olarak onlar, yani edebiyatta başarıya ulaşamamışlar durur. Editörlerin, editör yardımcılarının ve dergilere, yayınevlerine dosya değerlendirmesi yapan danışmanların hepsi, yazar olmaya çalışmış ama bunu başaramamış kişilerden oluşuyor. Özgünlük ve deha konusunda yargı makamında oturup, matbaaya neyin gidip neyi gitmeyeceğine karar verenler, şu dünyada bu işi yapması gereken son kişiler, yani özgün bir yanlarının olmadığı kanıtlanmış, ilahi kıvılcımın yanlarına bile uğramadığı belli olmuş adamlar.”
― Jack London, Martin Eden

“He felt very old---centuries older than those careless, care-free young companions of his others [sic] days. He had traveled far, too far to go back. Their mode of life, which had once been his, was now distasteful to him. He was disappointed in it all. He had developed into an alien. As the steam beer had tasted raw, so their companionship seemed raw to him. He was too far removed. Too many thousands of opened books yawned between them and him. He had exiled himself. He had traveled in the vast realm of intellect until he could no longer return home.”
― Jack London, Martin Eden