"Darn the wheel of the world! Why must it continually turn over? Where is the reverse gear?"
About this Quote
Jack London’s complaint isn’t really about physics; it’s about the cruelty of momentum. “The wheel of the world” is progress as a machine: impersonal, grinding, always moving, indifferent to who gets caught under it. The profane little “Darn” is doing double duty. It’s comic relief and a pressure valve, the kind of blunt, workingman’s curse that keeps the sentiment from turning precious. London wants the line to sound like someone snapping in real time, not composing an aphorism.
The key move is the shift from cosmic metaphor to garage-language: “reverse gear.” That anachronistic, mechanical wish punctures any romantic idea that history naturally improves. If the world is a vehicle, then someone should be able to throw it into reverse, return to the moment before a mistake calcified into destiny. The subtext is exhaustion with inevitability: modern life accelerates, empires expand, markets churn, bodies age, and none of it asks permission. London, a novelist of labor, survival, and social struggle, repeatedly stages humans as organisms forced to adapt to conditions they didn’t choose. Here he’s not celebrating struggle; he’s resenting the rulebook.
It also hints at a political ache. A socialist who watched inequality harden during industrial capitalism’s rise, London had reason to doubt that “forward” meant “better.” The line’s bite comes from admitting a forbidden desire: not to win the race, but to stop the race from happening at all, to reclaim a lost fork in the road before the wheel rolls on.
The key move is the shift from cosmic metaphor to garage-language: “reverse gear.” That anachronistic, mechanical wish punctures any romantic idea that history naturally improves. If the world is a vehicle, then someone should be able to throw it into reverse, return to the moment before a mistake calcified into destiny. The subtext is exhaustion with inevitability: modern life accelerates, empires expand, markets churn, bodies age, and none of it asks permission. London, a novelist of labor, survival, and social struggle, repeatedly stages humans as organisms forced to adapt to conditions they didn’t choose. Here he’s not celebrating struggle; he’s resenting the rulebook.
It also hints at a political ache. A socialist who watched inequality harden during industrial capitalism’s rise, London had reason to doubt that “forward” meant “better.” The line’s bite comes from admitting a forbidden desire: not to win the race, but to stop the race from happening at all, to reclaim a lost fork in the road before the wheel rolls on.
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