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A review by insertsthwitty
The Iron Heel by Jack London
1.0
What the FUCK.
I am not sure what propelled Jack London to write a story about a man thinly veiled as himself, called him Ernest Everhard, and made him the man who was never wrong. I have grown up reading Jack London, and now I'm coming to realise he may just have been a bit of an asshole. (And to be fair, I may have grown up to be a bit of an asshole, too. Haven't we all.)
The Iron Heel is often proclaimed as a sort of predecessor of 1984, but that's very much not true, in a way that Jack London's version is depending on the charismatic and ultra-masculine saviour myth and on his own, admittedly hobbling, socialist polemic. In fact it feels more like Jack London has decided to push his own agenda in a book, make his main character ultra-hot, and have everyone agree with him. It's like when you prepare for an argument in your head, play it out and it all turns out perfect, and then you inevitably end up a stuttering idiot in front of everyone. I kinda like to think Jack London was just a loser like me and these books were his solace or something. He was more likely to be an entitled douche, sadly.
The whole idea is flawed, but I would imagine it worked at that time, which again makes me very sad for women who lived at the turn of the last century and had to deal with this douchebaggery. A man - a socialist hero - meets a professor and his daughter, stares at her like a pervert ("You pleased me ... And why should I not fill my eyes with that which pleases me", he explains) and acts like an asshole at dinner by insulting everyone. But it's okay, because he is, quote, "aflame with democracy".
He opens a whole new world of social inequality to his future wife; and this is worth mentioning: the whole book is written from her worshipful perspective, which might have been great but isn't, because Jack London was a bit of a condescending dick to women. He likes to put them on a pedestal in his novels (once having done so literally in The Valley of the Moon).
The whole book is lackluster - the plot would have been interesting, had it not been so transparently engineered; the resistance would have been so exciting but it sacrifices detail for Ernest's praise. So unfortunately I have to give it 1 star, despite the fact that it made me laugh a lot. And even now, I would rather just give it a facepalm emoji.
I am not sure what propelled Jack London to write a story about a man thinly veiled as himself, called him Ernest Everhard, and made him the man who was never wrong. I have grown up reading Jack London, and now I'm coming to realise he may just have been a bit of an asshole. (And to be fair, I may have grown up to be a bit of an asshole, too. Haven't we all.)
The Iron Heel is often proclaimed as a sort of predecessor of 1984, but that's very much not true, in a way that Jack London's version is depending on the charismatic and ultra-masculine saviour myth and on his own, admittedly hobbling, socialist polemic. In fact it feels more like Jack London has decided to push his own agenda in a book, make his main character ultra-hot, and have everyone agree with him. It's like when you prepare for an argument in your head, play it out and it all turns out perfect, and then you inevitably end up a stuttering idiot in front of everyone. I kinda like to think Jack London was just a loser like me and these books were his solace or something. He was more likely to be an entitled douche, sadly.
The whole idea is flawed, but I would imagine it worked at that time, which again makes me very sad for women who lived at the turn of the last century and had to deal with this douchebaggery. A man - a socialist hero - meets a professor and his daughter, stares at her like a pervert ("You pleased me ... And why should I not fill my eyes with that which pleases me", he explains) and acts like an asshole at dinner by insulting everyone. But it's okay, because he is, quote, "aflame with democracy".
He opens a whole new world of social inequality to his future wife; and this is worth mentioning: the whole book is written from her worshipful perspective, which might have been great but isn't, because Jack London was a bit of a condescending dick to women. He likes to put them on a pedestal in his novels (once having done so literally in The Valley of the Moon).
The whole book is lackluster - the plot would have been interesting, had it not been so transparently engineered; the resistance would have been so exciting but it sacrifices detail for Ernest's praise. So unfortunately I have to give it 1 star, despite the fact that it made me laugh a lot. And even now, I would rather just give it a facepalm emoji.