The Jungle: The Uncensored Original Edition

The Jungle: The Uncensored Original Edition

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by Upton Sinclair
     
 

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For nearly a century, the original version of Upton Sinclair's classic novel has remained almost entirely unknown. When it was published in serial form in 1905, it was a full third longer than the censored, commercial edition published in book form the following year. That expurgated commercial edition edited out much of the ethnic flavor of the original, as well as

Overview

For nearly a century, the original version of Upton Sinclair's classic novel has remained almost entirely unknown. When it was published in serial form in 1905, it was a full third longer than the censored, commercial edition published in book form the following year. That expurgated commercial edition edited out much of the ethnic flavor of the original, as well as some of the goriest descriptions of the meat-packing industry and much of Sinclair's most pointed social and political commentary. The text of this new edition is as it appeared in the original uncensored edition of 1905. It contains the full 36 chapters as originally published, rather than the 31 of the expurgated edition. A new foreword describes the discovery in the 1980s of the original edition and its subsequent suppression, and a new introduction places the novel in historical context by explaining the pattern of censorship in the shorter commercial edition.

Author Biography: Upton Sinclair was a journalist and the author of over two dozen books, including Oil!, King Coal, and The Brass Check. He was a prominent social and political activist who narrowly missed being elected governor of California in 1934.

Editorial Reviews

Library Journal
Desperate to secure a publisher, Sinclair reluctantly edited down the original manuscript for this book. See Sharp's edition is the first to reinsert five whole chapters and additional missing passages to present the 1906 masterpiece as intended. (LJ 4/15/03) Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
From the Publisher

"This See Sharp reprint presents the whole text . . . essential for all libraries, especially at this affordable price."  —Library Journal 
 

"A must read. Recommended for all public, academic and junior through senior high schools."  —Kansas Libraries

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9781884365577
Publisher:
See Sharp Press
Publication date:
04/01/2003
Sold by:
Barnes & Noble
Format:
NOOK Book
Pages:
352
Sales rank:
979,974
File size:
2 MB

Read an Excerpt

The Jungle

The Uncensored Original Edition


By Upton Sinclair

See Sharp Press

Copyright © 2003 Kathleen De Grave
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-884365-57-7


CHAPTER 1

IT WAS four o'clock when the ceremony was over and the carriages began to arrive. There had been a crowd following all the way, owing to the exuberance of Marija Biarczynskas. The occasion rested heavily upon Marija's broad shoulders — it was her task to see that all things went in due form, and after the best home traditions; and, flying wildly hither and thither, bowling everyone out of the way, and scolding and exhorting all day with her tremendous voice, Marija was too eager to see that others conformed to the proprieties to consider them herself. She had left the church last of all, and, desiring to arrive first at the hall, had issued orders to the coachman to drive faster. When that personage had developed a will of his own in the matter, Marija had flung up the window of the carriage, and, leaning out, proceeded to tell him her opinion of him, first in Lithuanian, which he did not understand, and then in Polish, which he did. Having the advantage of her in altitude, the driver had stood his ground and even ventured to attempt to speak; and the result had been a furious altercation, which, continuing all the way down Ashland avenue, had added a new swarm of urchins to the cortege at each side street for half a mile.

This was unfortunate, for already there was a throng before the door. The music had started up, and half a block away you could hear the dull "broom, broom" of a 'cello, with the squeaking of two fiddles which vied with each other in intricate and altitudinous gymnastics. Seeing the throng, Marija abandoned precipitately the debate concerning the ancestors of her coachman, and, springing from the moving carriage, plunged in and proceeded to clear a way to the hall. Once within, she turned and began to push the other way, roaring, meantime, "Eik! Eik Uzdarekdurys!" in tones which made the orchestral uproar sound like fairy music.

"Z. Grajczunas, Pasilinksminimams darzas. Vynas. Sznapsas. Wines and Liquors. Union Headquarters" — that was the way the signs ran. The reader, who perhaps has never held much converse in the language of far-off Lithuania, will be glad for the explanation that the place was the rear room of a saloon in that part of Chicago known as "back of the yards." This information is definite and suited to the matter of fact — but how pitifully inadequate it would have seemed to one who understood that it was also the hour and place of the apotheosis of one of God's gentlest creatures, of the wedding feast and the joy-transfiguration of little Ona Lukoszis!

She stood in the doorway, shepherded by Cousin Marija, breathless from pushing through the crowd, and in her happiness painful to look upon. There was a light of wonder in her eyes and her lids trembled, and her otherwise wan little face was flushed. She wore a muslin dress, conspicuously white, and a stiff little veil coming to her shoulders. There were five pink paper roses twisted in the veil, and eleven bright green rose-leaves. There were new white cotton gloves upon her hands, and as she stood staring about her she twisted them together feverishly. It was almost too much for her — you could see the pain of too great emotion in her face, and all the tremor of her form. She was so young — not quite sixteen — and small for her age, a mere child; and she had just been married — and married to Jurgis, of all men, to Jurgis Rudkos, he with the white flower in the button-hole of his new black suit, he with the mighty shoulders and the giant hands.

Ona was blue-eyed and fair, while Jurgis had great black eyes, with beetling brows and thick black hair that curled in waves about his ears — in short, they were one of those incongruous and impossible married couples with which Mother Nature so often wills to confound all prophets, before and after. Jurgis could take up a two hundred and fifty pound quarter of beef and carry it into a car without a stagger, or even a thought; and now he stood in a far corner, frightened as a hunted animal, and obliged to moisten his lips with his tongue each time before he could answer the congratulations of his friends.

Gradually there was effected a separation between the spectators and the guests — a separation at least sufficiently complete for working purposes. There was no time during the festivities which ensued when there were not groups of onlookers in the doorways and the corners; and if any one of these onlookers came sufficiently close, or looked sufficiently hungry, a chair was offered him and he was invited to the feast. It was one of the laws of the veselija that no one goes hungry; and, while a rule made in the forests of Lithuania is hard to apply in the stock-yards district of Chicago, with its quarter of a million inhabitants, still they did their best, and the children who ran in from the street, and even the dogs, went out again happier. A charming informality was one of the characteristics of this celebration. The men wore their hats, or, if they wished they took them off, and their coats with them; they ate when and where they pleased, and moved as often as they pleased. There were to be speeches and singing, but no one had to listen who did not care to; if he wished, meantime, to speak or sing himself, he was perfectly free. The resulting medley of sound distracted no one, save possibly alone the babies, of which there were present a number equal to the total possessed by all the guests invited. There was no place for the babies to be, and so part of the preparations for the evening consisted of a collection of cribs and carriages in one corner. In these the babies slept three or four together — or wakened together, as the case might be. Those which were still older and could reach the tables, marched about munching contentedly at meat-bones, and bologna sausages.

The room is about thirty feet square, with white-washed walls, bare save for a calendar, a picture of a race-horse, and a family tree in a gilded frame. To the right there is a door from the saloon, with a few loafers in the doorway, and in the corner beyond it a bar, with a presiding genius clad in soiled white, with waxed black mustaches and a carefully oiled curl plastered against one side of his forehead. In the opposite corner are two tables, filling a third of the room and laden with dishes and cold viands, which a few of the hungrier guests are already munching. At the head, where sits the bride, is a snow-white cake, with an Eiffel tower of constructed decorations, with sugar roses and two angels upon it, and a generous sprinkling of pink and green and yellow candles. Beyond opens a door into the kitchen, where there is a glimpse to be had of a range with much steam ascending from it, and many women, old and young, rushing hither and thither. In the corner to the left are the three musicians, upon a little platform, toiling heroically to make some impression upon the hubbub; also the babies, similarly occupied, and an open window whence the populace imbibes the sights and sounds and odors.

Suddenly some of the steam begins to advance, and peering through it you discern Aunt Elizabeth, Ona's stepmother — Teta Elzbieta, as they call her — bearing aloft a great platter of stewed duck. Behind her is little Kotrina, one of Ona's unnumbered step-sisters, staggering beneath a similar burden; and half a minute later there appears old Grandmother Majauszkis, with a big yellow bowl of smoking potatoes, nearly as fat and as round as herself. So, bit by bit, the feast takes form — there a ham and a dish of sauerkraut, boiled rice, macaroni, bologna sausages, great piles of penny buns, bowls of milk, and foaming pitchers of beer. There is also, not six feet from your back, the bar, where you may order all you please and do not have to pay for it. "Eiksz! Graicziau!" screams Marija Biarczynskas, and falls to work herself — for there is more upon the stove inside that will be spoiled if it be not eaten.

So, with laughter and shouts and endless badinage and merriment, the guests take their places. The young men, who for the most part have been huddled near the door, summon their resolution and advance, and the shrinking Jurgis is poked and scolded by the old folks until he consents to seat himself at the right hand of the bride. The two bridesmaids, whose insignia of office are paper wreaths, come next, and after them the rest of the guests, old and young, boys and girls. The spirit of the occasion takes hold of the stately bartender, who condescends to a plate of stewed duck; even the fat policeman — whose duty it will be, later in the evening, to break up the fights — draws up a chair to the foot of the table. And the children shout and the babies yell, and everyone laughs and sings and chatters — while above all the deafening clamor Cousin Marija shouts orders to the musicians.

The musicians — how shall one begin to describe them? All this time they have been there, playing in a mad frenzy — all of this scene must be read, or said, or sung, to music. It is the music which makes it what it is — it is the music which changes the place from the rear room of a saloon in back of the yards to a fairy place, a wonderland, a little corner of the high mansions of the sky.

The little person who leads this trio is an inspired man. His fiddle is out of tune, and there is no rosin on his bow, but still he is an inspired man — the hands of the muses have been laid upon him. He plays like one possessed by a demon, by a whole horde of demons. You can feel them in the air round about him, capering frenetically; with their invisible feet they set the pace, and the hair of the leader of the orchestra rises on end, and his eyeballs start from their sockets, as he toils to keep up with them.

Tamoszius Kuszlejka is his name, and he has taught himself to play the violin by practicing all night, after working all day on the killing floor. He is in his shirt-sleeves, with a vest figured with faded gold horse-shoes, and a pink-striped shirt, suggestive of peppermint candy. A pair of military trousers, light blue with yellow stripe, serve to give that suggestion of authority proper to the leader of a band. He is only about five feet high, but even so these trousers are about eight inches short of the ground. You wonder where he can have gotten them — or rather you would wonder, if the excitement of being in his presence left you time to think of such things.

For he is an inspired man. Every inch of him is inspired — you might almost say inspired separately. He stamps with his feet, he tosses his head, he sways and swings to and fro; he has a wizened-up little face, irresistibly comical; and, when he executes a turn or a flourish, his brows knit and his lips work and his eyelids wink — the very ends of his necktie bristle out. And every now and then he turns upon his companions, nodding, signaling, beckoning frantically — with every inch of him appealing, imploring, in behalf of the muses and their call.

For they are hardly worthy of Tamoszius, the other two members of the orchestra. The second violin is a Slovak, a tall, gaunt man with black-rimmed spectacles and the mute and patient look of an overdriven mule; he responds to the whip but feebly, and then always falls back into his old rut. The third man is very fat, with a round, red, sentimental nose, and he plays with his eyes turned up to the sky and a look of infinite yearning. He is playing a bass part upon his 'cello, and so the excitement is nothing to him; no matter what happens in the treble, it is his task to saw out one long-drawn and lugubrious note after another, from four o'clock in the afternoon until nearly the same hour next morning, for his third of the total income of one dollar per hour.

Before the feast has been five minutes under way, Tamoszius Kuszlejka has risen in his excitement; a minute or two more and you see that he is beginning to edge over towards the tables. His nostrils are dilated and his breath comes fast — his demons are driving him. He nods and shakes his head at his companions, jerking at them with his violin — until at last the long form of the second violinist also rises up. In the end all three of them begin advancing, step by step, upon the banqueters, Valentynaicza, the 'cellist, bumping along with his instrument between notes. Finally all three are gathered at the foot of the tables, and there Tamoszius mounts upon a stool.

Now he is in his glory, dominating the scene. Some of the people are eating, some are laughing and talking — but you will make a great mistake if you think there is one of them who does not hear him. His notes are never true, and his fiddle buzzes on the low ones and squeaks and scratches on the high; but these things they heed no more than they heed the dirt and noise and squalor about them — it is out of this material that they have to build their lives, and with it that they have to utter their souls. And this is their utterance; merry and boisterous, or mournful and wailing, or passionate and rebellious, this music is their music, music of home. It stretches out its arms to them, they have only to give themselves up. Chicago and its saloons and its slums fade away — there are green meadows and sunlit rivers, mighty forests and snow-clad hills. They behold home-landscapes and childhood scenes re-turning; old loves and friendships begin to waken, old joys and griefs to laugh and weep. Some fall back and close their eyes, some beat upon the table. Now and them one leaps up with a cry and calls for this song or that; and then the fire leaps brighter in Tamoszius' eyes, and he flings up his fiddle and shouts to his companions, and away they go in mad career. The company take up the choruses, and men and women shout like all possessed; some leap to their feet and stamp upon the floor, lifting their glasses and pledging each other. Before long it occurs to some one to demand an old wedding song, which celebrates the beauty of the bride and the joys of love. In the excitement of this masterpiece Tamoszius Kuszlejka begins to edge in between the tables, making his way towards the head, where sits the bride. There is not a foot of space between the chairs of the guests, and Tamoszius is so short that he pokes them with his bow whenever he reaches over for the low notes; but still he presses in, and insists relentlessly that his companions must follow. During their progress, needless to say, the sounds of the 'cello are pretty well extinguished — but at last the three are at the head, and Tamoszius takes his station at the right hand of the bride and begins to pour out his soul in melting strains.

Little Ona is too excited to eat. Once in a while she tastes a little something, when Cousin Marija pinches her elbow and reminds her; but for the most part she sits gazing, with the same fearful eyes of wonder. Teta Elzbieta is all in a flutter, like a humming -bird; her sisters, too, keep running up behind her, whispering, breathless. But Ona seems scarcely to hear them — the music keeps calling, and the far-off look comes back, and she sits with her hands pressed together over her heart. Then the tears begin to come into her eyes; and as she is ashamed to wipe them away, and ashamed to let them run down her cheeks, she turns and shakes her head a little, and then flushes red when she sees that Jurgis is watching her. When in the end Tamoszius Kuszlejika has reached her side, and is waving his magic wand above her, Ona's cheeks are scarlet, and she looks as if she would have to get up and run away. In this crisis, however, she is saved by Marija Biarczynskas, whom the muses suddenly visit. Marija is fond of a song, a song of lovers' parting; she wishes to hear it, and as the musicians do not know it she has risen and is proceeding to teach them. Marija is short, but powerful in build. She works in Smith's canning factory, and all day long she handles cans of beef that weigh fourteen pounds. She has a broad Slavic face, with prominent red cheeks. When she opens her mouth it is tragical, but you cannot help thinking of a horse. She wears a blue flannel shirt -waist, which is now rolled up at the sleeves, disclosing her brawny arms; she has a carving-fork in her hand with which she pounds on the table to mark the time. As she roars her song, in a voice of which it is enough to say that it leaves no portion of the room vacant, the three musicians follow her, laboriously and note by note, but averaging one note behind; thus they toil through stanza after stanza of a lovesick swain's lamentation:


"Sudiev' kvietkeli, tu brongiausis;

Sudiev' ir laime, man biednam,

Matau — paskyre teip Aukszcziausis,

Jog vargt ant svieto reik vienam!"


When the song is over it is time for the speech, and old Diedas Antanas rises to his feet. Grandfather Anthony, Jurgis's father, is not more than sixty years of age, but you would think that he was eighty. He has been only six months in America, and the change has not done him good. In his manhood he worked in a cotton mill, but then a coughing fell upon him, and he had to leave; out in the country the trouble disappeared, but he has been working in the pickle-room at Anderson's and the breathing of the cold, damp air all day has brought it back. Now as he rises he is seized with a coughing fit, and holds himself by his chair and turns away his wan and battered face until it passes.


(Continues...)

Excerpted from The Jungle by Upton Sinclair. Copyright © 2003 Kathleen De Grave. Excerpted by permission of See Sharp Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Meet the Author

Upton Sinclair was a journalist and the author of over two dozen books, including The Brass Check, King Coal, and Oil!. He was a prominent social and political activist who narrowly missed being elected governor of California in 1934.

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The Jungle 3.7 out of 5 based on 1 ratings. 199 reviews.
Joshua Lenon More than 1 year ago
Unreadable due to bad scanning
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This book is missing segments. Don't waste your money!
pf3855 More than 1 year ago
Bad ebook version. Do not purchase
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
DO NOT BUY unless "unabridged" doesn't mean anything to you. Sinclair's original text had 36 chapters, this book has the more commonly released 31 chapters. Shame on B&N!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I love this book, but this version starts in the middle of chapter 9. Very unhappy!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
My profession is in the field of food safety. I have been both and government inspector and now work in industry training people who handle our food every day. It is my professional interest which originally drove me to read this book years ago. I recommend this book to students in my advanced food safety certification classes. The public outcry from the publication of this book actually caused the federal government to do something about the safety of the food supply, and the results of which have led to our current system of food safety regulations and inspections. Food safety is not the only relevant topic from this book. Although considered muckracking journalism, it is also one of the original examples of investigative journalism. The author originally intended this book to promote socialism, but instead it led to reform of our food regulatory system. The narrative story of the book may not be a gripping tale, but it is used well as a device to help the reader understand what was happening in the food packing industry at the time, as well as the politics and economic realities of the times.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
The print was entirely too small. I purchased it, but was unable to read it. I tried changing the letter size (Aa), pinch and zoom nothing worked.
kymafia More than 1 year ago
I would recommend this book to anyone who is interested in history, social living, or ethics. Great book, fairly easy to read save for a few words that I needed to look up. It went fast and it really pulls you into the lives of the people.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Loved the book until the end. Loved the meat-packing industry outings and characters. Truely disliked the end. Polical ending was out of place and unnecessary and killed the book for me.
Anonymous 7 months ago
Here
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This is a book not to be missed. It is timeless in its message-- there are so many similarities between what Sinclair was writing about and how things operate today.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
My clan: quakefoot Westfog Elfheart Redwar Talloak Youngsoul Igloomound Opalpear Princewood Amberdust Secretpaw Diamondpearl Figdew Glaciertoe Hollowmap Jetyear Koalason Largefang Violetblurr Nightomen Mustlelight Me-Pheonixdream R.I.P Riverdrop
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Keep writting.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Rossie opened his cage and flew around the house, waiting, for three days, to see if anyone would save him. Finally, Carrie, the neighboor's cat, showwed up. <p> "Oh," she meowed, "look what we have here." <br> "Just get me out!" <br> "Fine, but you'll owe me your life." <br> "Ok, ok! Anything, PLEASE." <br> Carrie leapt through the window, breaking it. Her collar was ripped off by the glass. <br> Rossie flew down to her. <br> "Get the chihuahua puppy from my house and meet me at the treehouse in your yard." Carrie said. <br> "Ok." Rossie said. <p> He flew to the McGuyre house and snatched the tiny puppy up in his talons. He started to fly, startled by the sudden change in weight. The puppy, Joejo, started to protest. <br> "Hey! What're you doing? Where are you going? Why are you taking me?" <br> "Carrie told me to," Rossie awnsered simply. <p> Rossie landed with the puppy. "So, what now?" <br> "We are going to start a revolution." <br> "WHAT?" Both Rossie and Joejo said at the same time. <br> Carrie dropped a map of the world, and she even had a map of each country, each continent, and each city! "We are going to get all the animals of the world to join together. Humans keep us as slaves. They ki<_>ll us! Bacon, beef, steak, fried chicken, all the skins and animals they hang on the walls, zoos, pets, and in the massive animal shelters, they mur<_>der us when we don't get adopted!" <br> Rossie squacked. "I never though of it that way...." <br> Joejo yipped. "HOW ARE WE GOING TO CROSS THE OCEAN!" <br> "First, we'll start with our town. Then, we'll get the nearest farms. Then, we'll take the cities. Once we own our state, we will get the nearest states. Finally, we will own america! And eventually, we will have the world. Remember not to get shot." <br> "No way. You can't take the world! You're just a cat!" <br> "I may be a cat, Rossie, but I know a certain parot who can speak people." <br> "UUGH. I don't speak people very well!" <br> "How are we going to do this?" Joejo bu<_>tted in. <br> "It doesn't matter how well, just as long as you can," Carrie snapped at Rossie. She then turned to Joejo. "We will convince every animal." <p> (Get a notepad and start writing down names and whatnot. You'll need it. Three reveiws and I continue!)
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Many errors, unable to read.
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Dont rp here in warroirs books
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Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I work in a meat plant, so thats why i read this