Jungle / Edition 1

Jungle / Edition 1

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Jungle / Edition 1

“Practically alone among the American writers of his generation,” wrote Edmund Wilson, “[Sinclair] put to the American public the fundamental questions raised by capitalism in such a way that they could not escape them.” When it was first published in 1906, The Jungle exposed the inhumane conditions of Chicago’s stockyards and the laborer’s struggle against industry and “wage slavery.” It was an immediate bestseller and led to new regulations that forever changed workers’ rights and the meatpacking industry. A direct descendant of Dickens’s Hard Times, it remains the most influential workingman’s novel in American literature.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780312400378
Publisher: Bedford/St. Martin's
Publication date: 02/28/2005
Series: Bedford Cultural Editions Series
Edition description: First Edition
Pages: 200
Sales rank: 597,146
Product dimensions: 6.04(w) x 8.15(h) x 0.66(d)

About the Author

Upton Sinclair was a prolific author, committed socialist, and political activist who gained enormous popularity when his 1906 novel The Jungle exposed conditions in the U.S. meat-packing industry. In 1943, he earned a Pulitzer Prize for his series tale, Dragon's Teeth.

Read an Excerpt

Chapter I

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 Berczynskas. 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 every one 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 cortège 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 themoving 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! Uzdaryk-duris!” in tones which made the orchestral uproar sound like fairy music.

“Z. Graiczunas, 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 of 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 supreme hour of ecstasy in the life of one of God’s gentlest creatures, the scene of the wedding-feast and the joy-transfiguration of little Ona Lukoszaite!

She stood in the doorway, shepherded by Cousin Marija, breath- less 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,1 of all men, to Jurgis Rudkus, he with the white flower in the buttonhole of his new black suit, he with the mighty shoulders and the giant hands.

1. Pronounced Yoorghis.

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 impos- sible 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 stockyards district of Chicago, with its quarter of a million inhabi- tants, 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 other 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 who 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 whitewashed 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 decoration, with sugar roses and two angels upon it, and a generous sprinkling of pink and green and yellow candies. 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 Kotrina, making her way cautiously, staggering beneath a similar burden; and half a minute later there appears old Grandmother Majauszkiene, with a big yellow bowl of smoking potatoes, nearly as big as herself. So, bit by bit, the feast takes form—there is 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 Berczynskas, 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 every one 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 Kuszleika is his name, and he has taught himself to play the violin by practising all night, after working all day on the “killing beds.” He is in his shirt sleeves, with a vest figured with faded gold horseshoes, and a pink-striped shirt, suggestive of peppermint candy. A pair of military trousers, light blue with a 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, signalling, 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 Kuszleika has risen in his excitement; a minute or two more and you see that he is beginning to edge over toward 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, Valentinavyczia, 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.

Copyright 2002 by Upton Sinclair Introduction by Jane Jacobs

Table of Contents


A Note about the Text


Introduction: Upton Sinclair and the Social Novel

Into The Jungle

Muckraking and Reform in the Progressive Era

The Politics of Socialism and Labor

The Novel as Social History: Immigration, Ethnicity, Gender,

and Race in The Jungle

The Jungle as Literature

Upton Sinclair and the Legacy of The Jungle

Is It Still True?


The Jungle


Related Document
Charles P. Neill and James Bronson Reynolds, Conditions

in Chicago Stock Yards, June 4, 1906

An Upton Sinclair Chronology (1878–1968)
Questions for Consideration
Selected Bibliography

What People are Saying About This

From the Publisher

“When people ask me what has happened in my long lifetime I do not refer them to the newspaper files and to the authorities, but to [Sinclair’s] novels.” —George Bernard Shaw

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The Jungle 3.6 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 196 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 More than 1 year ago
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
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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Anonymous More than 1 year ago
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
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I remember learning about this book in middle school. and I finally got to read it. This book became infamous because of its muck raking having to do with treatment of animals and workers in the meat industry, but it's funny this book really is not about the slaughterhouses. great story, a classic that everyone should read at least once