Fantastic! And thoughts on pastiches

More witches! Art by Jones.

Recently I picked up seven issues of Fantastic. This former digest-sized magazine ran from 1952-1980 before folding. During that time it published many fine stories and authors, covering a wide, eclectic swath of fantasy, science fiction, and horror—including sword-and-sorcery. A lot of the history I covered in Flame and Crimson appeared in the pages of this now defunct publication.

Anyway, I got to reading these old back issues and that led me where my reading inevitably does—to thinking, and writing. I sent a lengthy article about S&S in Fantastic, including the four L. Sprague de Camp/Lin Carter Conan pastiches that appeared between 1972-75, over to Dave Ritzlin at DMR Books the other day. I expect that to appear on his website next week.

Speaking of pastiches, I recently started reading The Goddess of Ganymede (excellent thus far) and author Michael D. Resnick leads off the volume with this:

To Edgar Rice Burroughs Fans Everywhere

I hope you enjoy reading this Burroughs pastiche as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Finally, I see that we now have a cover of the new Conan novel by S.M. Stirling, Blood of the Serpent. I join a chorus of others in wishing the cover was more classic S&S, a Frazetta-esque painting of the Cimmerian perhaps, but hey, it’s clean, it works, there is a sword on it, and a snake. Two S’s, now that I think of it (too clever by half)? But now this new and latest Conan pastiche feels a lot more tangible.

I tie all of these experiences with pastiches into Deuce Richardson’s recent piece over at DMR Books and it’s got me thinking about this practice as well. 

I have mixed feelings on pastiches, and likewise think we need some better-defined terms. Resnick is here using “pastiche” in its original definition, as Deuce lays out “A literary, artistic, musical, or architectural work that imitates the style of previous work.” The Goddess of Ganymede is the story of American soldier of fortune, Adam Thane, on a mission to Jupiter. His spacecraft loses contact with earth and is forced to land on its satellite moon, Ganymede, where Thane is embroiled in swashbuckling adventure. Thane finds he can take huge jumps due to the weaker gravitational pull of the planet, encounters red-skinned inhabitants of the planet, etc. In other words, a transparent Burroughs homage/imitation/pastiche.

De Camp meanwhile used “pastiche” as the continued stories of an established literary character by a new author. That term became synonymous with what he and Carter did with the likes of the Conan story “The Witch of the Mists” (August 1972 Fantastic). This is sort of how we all think of “pastiche” today.

My current stance on (De Campian-style) pastiche is: I enjoy them (when done well) and have no problem with others continuing to write new stories of beloved characters. I do think fidelity to the original character/world/lore should be a very high priority. And I’m also of the belief that pastiches should contain a short introduction to the original series or other clear indicator that these are imitations, not the real McCoy, to prevent any confusion with new readers and point them in the direction of the source material. But if you want to write them (and have the rights), have at it. If it's good, I might read it.

Robert E. Howard Changed My Life

A window into the soul.

I'm glad I’m not the only one. 

I knew I wasn’t, of course, but it was nice hearing the voices of so many other passionate souls for whom the Texas writer made an impact, either on their reading habits, their journeys as writers, or in some cases, a decision to press on in dire personal circumstances.

Robert E. Howard Changed My Life (Rogue Blades Foundation, 2021) collects 33 essays, with additional foreword/afterword/and a fun “Appendix REH” for further reading. It has been nominated for The Atlantean (best book about the life and works of Robert E. Howard) by the Robert E. Howard Foundation and is deserving of the honor. I found it to be thoroughly enjoyable.

An essay by Charles Saunders is particularly poignant as it is likely the last published piece he ever wrote, prior to his death in early 2020. Several other “name” writers have contributed pieces, including the likes of Michael Moorcock, Joe Lansdale, Keith Taylor, Steven Erikson, Howard Andrew Jones, and Mark Finn. Some heavy hitters here.

Many of the essays were excellent, but I think the most powerful may have been Scott Oden’s (author of Men of Bronze and Twilight of the Gods). Certainly it was the most personal, along with Bill Cavalier’s, from whose 2018 Howard Days address the project was launched. Oden lays out his early failures as a writer, his bouts with self-doubt, heavy personal blows including an eviction and a divorce, and finally, after decades of struggle, breaking through with the publication of Men of Bronze. Only to have his career halted as he became caretaker with a father with dementia and a mother with Parkinson’s disease. His insights on Caregiver Stress Syndrome offer a glimpse into Howard’s well-documented struggles caring for a terminally ill mother. Years later Oden’s imagination and pen were rekindled after drawing inspiration from the Howard hero Turlogh Dubh, in the story “The Grey God Passes.”

Robert E. Howard certainly changed my life as well. I’ve documented my discovery of Howard here on the blog and in the introduction to Flame and Crimson. I discovered Howard in the pages of The Savage Sword of Conan in the early 80s and that cemented my love of this weirder, wilder, more muscular brand of fantasy fiction that I would later come to know as sword-and-sorcery. That led me to branch out to other like writers such as Fritz Leiber, Michael Moorcock, and Poul Anderson, write more about the subgenre here and in places like The Cimmerian, and finally decided to offer a full treatment in my book. Howard was a blessed refuge for me, who endured the usual maladies of a suburban kid (alienation, self-doubt, rejection, etc.)

It's a marvel, isn’t it? How did a pulp writer from rural Texas working largely in the pages of a defunct pulp magazine nearly a century ago alter the future courses of so many? The answer is the power of stirring writing, and the force of imagination of a writer who, as Patrice Louinet notes in his essay, is a true American original, “the definer of American fantasy.” I have not heard Howard’s case quite made like that, but, if you consider J.R.R. Tolkien the architect of British fantasy, Howard arguably deserves that moniker on this side of the Atlantic.

So too does Edgar Rice Burroughs. It struck me how many of the essay authors came to Burroughs first, pre-Howard, during the Burroughs Boom of the early 60s, before discovering REH in the purple-edged pages of the Lancer paperbacks. One essayist after the next—Cavalier, Jason Durall, Lansdale, Adrian Cole, on and on—all thrilled to the adventures of Burroughs first, Tarzan and John Carter of Mars, before finding REH. I think we need a companion volume on ERB.

In short, this one is worth picking up.

Remembering the life of Edgar Rice Burroughs

Edgar Rice Burroughs (1875-1950) was born on Sept. 1, and as this coincides with my current read: Edgar Rice Burroughs: The Man who Created Tarzan, a massive two-volume biography by Irwin Porges, I thought it was time for a post in honor of ERB, albeit a couple days late.

I now consider ERB one of the holy trinity of speculative fiction, along with Howard and Tolkien. He’s right up there with those two in influence and imagination. Your mileage may vary but that’s my power trio, with H.P. Lovecraft coming up close in the rear-view mirror.

Sometimes you can find clues of what makes a great writer by analyzing the facts of his or her life. From a young age ERB was a restless, free spirit. He was highly imaginative, and playful, but he was also relentless. He didn’t stay at any one job for long as he was always searching for the next move, the next scheme, or the career that would lend his life meaning. The string of low-paying jobs he held did not.

These traits often got him into trouble as a youth and resulted in financial woes as a young man. He preferred the outdoors to studying in class. In the army, his nonconformist streak caused him to get busted down in rank and never made him a great fit for the discipline of the armed services. Upon discharge in 1897 he had to overcome a number of struggles all the way to early middle age. These were often of his own making. At several junctures he could have settled for a life of normalcy, but time and again opted out. At one point he was on his way to financial security with a great job at Sears, and senior leadership loved him, but he quit, abruptly.

I know I could not have made the choices he did, which often left he and his young wife penniless. But, his choices ultimately gave us worlds beyond worlds.

ERB finally broke through as a writer in 1912 with “Under the Moons of Mars,” and later that same year “Tarzan of the Apes,” both published as serials in The All-Story. That’s a hell of an opening combination right there. By then he was in his late 30s, a relatively late start for a writer, but the stage was set for a torrent of production. He had lived a life of scarcity and brushes with poverty, and when he finally found his calling the creativity rushed from his pen.

ERB famously wrote that “entertainment is fiction’s purpose,” and his stories are entertainment first, of the highest order. But they weren’t just that. He explored themes of nature vs. nurture, and the evils and depravity of civilization vs. the (harsh) purity of nature. Destructive man with all his vices is contrasted with the beasts of the jungle, who kill and eat but not out of malice or wanton destruction. ERB was also a skilled satirist, critiquing organized religion for example in “The Gods of Mars.” His stories offer a coherent and compelling worldview and a richness deeper than just story.

ERB was influenced by H. Rider Haggard, the grandfather of adventure fiction. Tarzan was derived from the Romulus/Remus myth in which the two founders of Rome were raised by wolves, and to a lesser degree Kipling. But by his own admission ERB was not a big reader of fiction; these were childhood reads. Perhaps as a result, stylistically he is probably the weakest of the major fantasists mentioned above. But his stories are propulsive, and his ideas and storytelling and creativity are on another level. He was doing things no one else was, breaking away from the more formal Victorianism of Haggard et al and writing stuff the people of the age could not put down.

More than 100 years later, they still can’t.

It’s a shame that ERB did not live a bit longer to see the resurgence in interest in his works in the Burroughs Boom of the 1960s. Like REH I’m not sure how widely read he is these days. But both men’s creations are immortal. Just like we’ll always have Conan, John Carter and Tarzan are with us to stay.

Porges’ bio starts slow, 170-odd pages of military and schooling detail that run a bit tedious. But once “Under the Moons of Mars” is out, it hits its stride. In my reading it’s currently October 1912 and Burroughs is finally meeting with success. He’s just completed “The Gods of Mars” for All-Story editor Thomas Metcalf, reader demand for more is huge, and although he has not yet landed a book deal his fortunes are about to dramatically shift.

It’s like I’m reading one of his stories, and I can’t wait to see what dramatic twists and turns come next.

Boris Vallejo at 80

My first post of 2021 is up on the blog of DMR publishing. Check it out here: https://dmrbooks.com/test-blog/2021/1/8/boris-vallejo-at-80

Boris Vallejo is not my favorite artist of all time, but he's produced some amazing pieces over his eight decades on the planet. I share some of them in the essay. 

And he's damned prolific and continues to work to this day.

(Closing in on) 100 years of Tarzan of the Apes

Edgar Rice Burroughs’ Tarzan of the Apes was first published in All-Story Magazine in 1912, which means that we’re closing in on 100 years of the iconic jungle hero (wow!). Tarzan of the Apes proved so popular among All-Story’s readers that it spawned two dozen sequels, several movies, and stacks of comic books.

Yet somehow I’ve managed to avoid reading the original story that started it all—until now.

Shame on me, because was I missing out. Tarzan of the Apes is a lot of fun and I highly recommend it. It’s a lean novel but packs a big story into its 245 pages (paperback—I own the Ballantine Books authorized edition, pictured here). It’s chock-full of action and violence, the clash of animal vs. animal, man vs. animal, and man vs. man in the savage jungles of darkest Africa. There’s some really manly, barbaric stuff going on in here, like Tarzan’s battle with the great ape Kerchak for possession of Jane in a clash with prehistoric echoes:

Jane—her lithe, young form flattened against the trunk of a great tree, her hands tight pressed against her rising and falling bosom, and her eyes wide with mingled horror, fascination, fear, and admiration—watched the primordial ape battle with the primeval man for possession of a woman—for her.

As the great muscles of the man’s back and shoulders knotted beneath the tension of his efforts, and the huge biceps and forearm held at bay those mighty tusks, the veil of centuries of civilization and culture was swept from the blurred vision of the Baltimore girl.

Although I hadn’t read Tarzan of the Apes previously I knew the story well enough through exposure to movies and the comics. Aristocratic English couple John and Alice Clayton, the Lord and Lady Greystoke, are marooned in western Africa following a violent mutiny aboard their ship. Alice’s delicate constitution can’t handle the shock of the jungle and its terrible denizens and she dies after giving birth to a son. Her husband is mauled to death by a great ape shortly thereafter. A female member of the ape tribe, Kala, takes the then six-month old infant John to her breast and raises him as a member of the tribe.

Named Tarzan (which means “White Skin” in the language of the apes), the young Lord Greystoke attains near-superhuman levels of agility and strength through his rough upbringing among the great apes. Though he never attains the full strength the bull males possess, Tarzan is more agile, smarter, and equipped with a hunting knife and rope which he uses as an accurately thrown noose from the treetops. Soon he becomes the fiercest beast in the jungle, rising to the top of his tribe. Eventually Tarzan finds his parents’ abandoned cottage and manages to teach himself to read. Through the printed word and encounters with civilized visitors he discovers his humanity and his ancestry and finally returns to England.

Like A Princess of Mars which I recently re-read after a span of many years Tarzan of the Apes is not without its flaws. Edgar Rice Burroughs has been described as a great writer of ideas, but not necessarily great in the execution of said ideas. I tend to agree. A more patient, careful writer than Burroughs might have turned the transformation of savage into man into something even more powerful and beautiful than we see in Tarzan of the Apes, and ultimately, in a more believable fashion (in the novel Tarzan transforms from savage ape-man to courteous, timid love interest in a span of a few pages, which I found hard to swallow). Burroughs is a writer of boundless imagination and energy but I think he suffered from turning out his stories at a white-hot pace.

But these criticisms are ultimately minor. As I said before I enjoyed Tarzan of the Apes a lot, even more than A Princess of Mars. More than just action, Tarzan of the Apes offers a thoughtful, multi-faceted view on the nature of civilization. In general it’s roughly equivalent though slightly more positive than we find in Robert E. Howard’s Conan stories. Howard wrote in “Beyond the Black River” that “Barbarism is the natural state of mankind. Civilization is unnatural. It is a whim of circumstance. And barbarism must always ultimately triumph.” Likewise, in Burroughs’ universe being raised among the animals in the wild seems to trump city life. Tarzan is not only far physically superior to civilized men, but he’s morally and spiritually superior as well. Tarzan views black cannibals and white murdering pirates with an equal degree of disgust. Back in England he’s able to see through the schemes of the gentleman Robert Canler, who is little more than a finely mannered animal. He judges with clarity man’s capacity for not just sub-human, but sub-animal behavior (“for it has remained for man alone among all creatures to kill senselessly and wantonly for the pleasure of inflicting suffering and death.”)

But again the novel is not that black and white. Too much city life may make us weak and dissolute, but living in the jungle isn’t fit for a man. Education and civility are a good thing and man (or more accurately, cultured, aristocratic man) is more than animal, a superior creation. Though he’s lived among brutes and feasted on raw flesh, Tarzan still treats Jane with a natural sense of chivalry. But unlike a gentleman his attitude is unfeigned and not a scheme to maneuver her into bed.

Yet Jane, though attracted to Tarzan’s vitality and stunningly good looks, is simultaneously repelled by this man-ape. She’s reluctant to marry him and risk severing her place in the social order. I found the Tarzan-Jane dynamic to be one of the book’s chief strengths.

“Could she find anything in common with a husband whose life had been spent in the treetops of an African wilderness, frolicking and fighting with fierce anthropoids; tearing food from the quivering flank of fresh-killed prey, sinking his strong teeth into raw flesh, and tearing away his portion while his mates growled and fought about him for their share?

Could he ever rise to her social sphere? Could she bear to think of sinking to his? Would either be happy in such a horrible misalliance?

Read Tarzan of the Apes to find out.

A Princess of Mars, a review

A Princess of Mars
Edgar Rice Burroughs

In 1917 World War I was in the midst of its savage throes, and suspended over its torn battlefields like a bloody pendant hung Mars. Fertile ground enough for Edgar Rice Burroughs to pen A Princess of Mars, his first novel of earthman John Carter’s violent adventures on the red planet.

Thanks to the wonders of Librivox.org I was recently able to enjoy A Princess of Mars while driving to work (Librivox is to audio books what Project Gutenberg is to the printed word, providing public domain works, read by volunteer narrators, freely to the general public).

A Princess of Mars begins on earth in the decade following the Civil War. Carter, an ageless/seemingly immortal (for reasons puzzlingly left unexplained in A Princess of Mars) veteran of the Confederate army, is prospecting for gold in Arizona. A group of Apaches kill his friend and pursue Carter to a cave high in the mountains. Exhausted, Carter lies down and is mysteriously transported via astral projection to Mars.

Named after the ancient Roman god of war, Mars (called Barsoom by its native inhabitants) lives up to its violent appellation. It’s populated by monstrous beasts and alien races in a state of continual conflict. These include the green skinned, four armed Tharks, whose male members tower some dozen feet in height, and the more civilized Martians, human-like in appearance save for their red skin. Resources are scarce on Mars. Its waterless canals are cracked and dry and its air is kept breathable only through a massive atmosphere generator.

Carter’s first run-in on the planet is with the Tharks. Though he’s a stranger in a strange land and only half their size, Carter has several advantages that make him a formidable warrior. With a body used to earths’ stronger gravitational pull, Carter is able to make 50 foot leaps in the thin Mars atmosphere and is also equal in strength to the mightiest of the Tharks. Everyone on Mars has telepathy and can read one another’s thoughts, as can Carter, but he is immune to mind-probing and so is at a distinct advantage, able to anticipate their attacks in the duels to which he is frequently challenged.

Mars is a cruel planet and the Tharks exhibit no mercy. They are a race born into conflict, whose imperfect young are ruthlessly weeded out and murdered to create a physically strong, loveless race (“Tears are a strange sight upon Barsoom,” says a female Thark named Sola). But with his physical skills and easily assimiliation of the Tharks’ language and customs, Carter quickly rises in their ranks and reaches the status of minor chieftain. But he eventually finds himself at odds with the green men after the latter capture the beautiful red skinned Dejah Thoris, daughter of Mors Kajak, jed of Lesser Helium and granddaughter of Tardos Mors, jeddak of the capital Martian city of Helium (one of Burroughs’ strengths as a writer is his creation of evocative, otherwordly names).

Carter is not what I would consider a fleshed-out, three dimensional character, but Burroughs provides a few tantalizing details in A Princess of Mars that elevate him into something more than a mindless action hero. In addition to his agelessness, Carter is a lonely soul who despite his long years on earth has never experienced true love. When he falls for Dejah, the sensation strikes him like a thunderbolt. He realizes that he does not want to return to earth, for on Mars he knows the fullness of love. His life now has a purpose.

The remainder of the book revolves around Carter’s attempt to rescue Dejah from the clutches of the Tharks. If you like non-stop action in your reading then A Princess of Mars is for you—it’s literally one epic battle or chase scene after another. It’s also a moving love story as Carter pursues Dejah Thoris to the ends of Mars, risking life and limb to win her affections.

What I find most interesting about the book are its contrasts with another pulp fiction writer and contemporary of Burroughs, one Robert E. Howard. In many ways Burroughs’ world-view was diametrically opposed to Howard’s own: Throughout A Princess of Mars civilization triumphs over barbarism, such as when Carter trains his thoat (an eight-legged creature that serves as a mount for the Tharks) using love and patience instead of brutality. Carter’s methods prove so superior to the Tharks’ brutal techniques that they have no choice but to emulate his methods. Also, the Martian races are portrayed as corrupted, fallen from their formerly peaceful ways. Mars had once been home to a highly cultivated and literary race, but wars with the green men and the changing climate resulted in the loss of all their archives, records, and literature (note that Howard did not acknowledge barbarism as superior to civilization in all respects, simply an inevitable state of mankind).

That said, Burroughs in my opinion is a notch below Howard as a writer. While he’s a great storyteller, Burroughs lacks Howard’s poetry and brilliant peaks of action, and his dialogue resembles stiff speeches rather than actual conversation. I was also left with unanswered questions about Burroughs’ pseudo-science and its ramifications (note that I’m not someone who picks at these kind of things, but a few of Burroughs’ oversights seemed rather egregious). For example, the telepathy issue was not well thought-out. It’s hard to grasp the ramifications of knowing everyone’s true thoughts and Burroughs doesn’t bother to try to explain it, only bringing up the issue when he needs to advance the plot. Carter should have been able to use this ability to his advantage at every turn (and why for that matter was Carter shocked when Dejah admitted she loved him—shouldn’t he have already known?)

Those criticisms aside, Burroughs is a wonderful storyteller and it’s impossible not to get caught up in the savage beauty of Mars. Burroughs even slips in some good lawyer humor (“In one respect at least the Martians are a happy people; they have no lawyers”) and a good deal of titillation: Everyone in the book is nude. I’m not sure how the forthcoming film plans to handle this; My guess is with some well-placed silks and loincloths.

A Princess of Mars was followed by ten more novels set on the red planet, most starring Carter. So if you enjoyed the book you're assured of many more Barsoomian adventures to come.

Because it’s in the public domain A Princess of Mars is quite easy to obtain. You can download the Librivox audio files (three Barsoomian cheers!) here: http://librivox.org/a-princess-of-mars-by-edgar-rice-burroughs-2/. Or you can read the entire text of the story here: http://www.erbzine.com/craft/m1pm.html

The Land that Time Forgot: A tale best left forgotten

Repeat after me: Pulp is a great genre, but not all pulp is great. And some of it isn't very good at all, I'm afraid.

I lead with this because I've noticed that pulp often gets a free pass from its advocates. Fans will leap to the defense of poorly plotted, boring, or otherwise not well-written stories and pulp-inspired films with a simple, "well, it's pulp"--as if this fact somehow makes the genre above criticism.

Now, I happen to be a big fan of pulp, but I can also recognize a flawed example when I see it. Even when its written by Edgar Rice Burroughs, one of pulp's grand masters (see many of his wonderful Tarzan and John Carter stories).

I'm sorry to say that Burroughs' The Land that Time Forgot is not very good. It's not as bad as, say, Magic Kingdom for Sale: Sold , and I've read worse, but when compared to the best pulp has to offer--i.e., almost anything written by Robert E. Howard--The Land that Time Forgot simply does not measure up.

Part of my problem with this book may be the fact that I listened to an audio recording produced by Audio Realms, delivered in uninspired fashion by narrator Brian Holsopple. Audio Realms is also responsible for producing the fantastic series The Dark Worlds of H.P. Lovecraft, read by Wayne June (who is a terrific narrator), but I found this particular entry in their catalogue rather poor.

To be fair, Holsopple doesn't exactly have Lovecraft at the top of his game to work with. Some of the dialogue in The Land that Time Forgot is so stilted and cornball that I found myself literally cringing behind the steering wheel while driving into work. Here's one less-than-stellar example:

"You have evolved a beautiful philosophy," I said. "It fills such a longing in the human breast. It is full, it is satisfying, it is ennobling. What wonderous strides toward perfection the human race might have made if the first man had evolved it and it had persisted until now as the creed of humanity."

"I don't like irony," she said; "it indicates a small soul."

"What other sort of soul, then, would you expect from 'a comic little figure hopping from the cradle to the grave'?" I inquired. "And what difference does it make, anyway, what you like and what you don't like? You are here for but an instant, and you mustn't take yourself too seriously."

She looked up at me with a smile. "I imagine that I am frightened and blue," she said, "and I know that I am very, very homesick and lonely." There was almost a sob in her voice as she concluded. It was the first time that she had spoken thus to me. Involuntarily, I laid my hand upon hers where it rested on the rail.

I mean, this stuff makes the lines delivered in Days of Our Lives seem like John Keats in comparison.

The Land that Time Forgot tells the tale of Tyler Bowen, an American on a merchant vessel whose ship is attacked by a World War I German U-boat. Bowen survives and with the help of some British sailors manages to overpower the U-boat's crew. Bowen is eventually betrayed by one of his own men who smashes the U-boat's instruments in an attempt to doom the ship's crew. When Bowen finally learns who his betrayer is, the man on his deathbed reveals his secrets like an unmasked villain from Scooby-Doo:

"I did it alone," he said. "I did it because I hate you--I hate all your kind. I was kicked out of your shipyard at Santa Monica. I was locked out of California. I am an I. W. W. I became a German agent--not because I love them, for I hate them too--but because I wanted to injure Americans, whom I hated more. I threw the wireless apparatus overboard. I destroyed the chronometer and the sextant. I devised a scheme for varying the compass to suit my wishes. I told Wilson that I had seen the girl talking with von Schoenvorts, and I made the poor egg think he had seen her doing the same thing. I am sorry--sorry that my plans failed. I hate you."

And he would have succeeded if it wasn't for you meddling kids.

Lost at sea and low on food and water, Bowen and his men land on the island of Caprona, a literal island that time forgot. It's inhabited by dinosaurs of every age as well as ice-age beasts and men in various stages of evolution. Bowen then spends the rest of the book rescuing a stranded damosel from the hands of lustful Neanderthal men and hungry dinosaurs, as well as kicking the crap out of primitive men. Oh, I didn't mention that Bowen happens to be a physical specimen and a master of judo? Here's my favorite passage:

Three of the warriors were sitting upon me, trying to hold me down by main strength and awkwardness, and they were having their hands full in the doing, I can tell you. I don't like to appear conceited, but I may as well admit that I am proud of my strength and the science that I have acquired and developed in the directing of it--that and my horsemanship I always have been proud of.

And now, that day, all the long hours that I had put into careful study, practice and training brought me in two or three minutes a full return upon my investment. Californians, as a rule, are familiar with ju-jutsu, and I especially had made a study of it for several years, both at school and in the gym of the Los Angeles Athletic Club, while recently I had had, in my employ, a Jap who was a wonder at the art. It took me just about thirty seconds to break the elbow of one of my assailants, trip another and send him stumbling backward among his fellows, and throw the third completely over my head in such a way that when he fell his neck was broken.

"Californians as a rule are familiar with ju-jutsu?" "I am proud of my strength and the science that I have acquired and developed in the directing of it?" "A Jap who was a wonder at the art?" Man, if this isn't Mystery Science Theatre 3000 material than I don't know what is.

About the only thing that The Land the Time Forgot has going for it is that it isn't entirely boring, if you like one mindless action scene strung together after the next. But, in summation, if you're looking for a good representative of the pulp genre, look elsewhere.

Note: The Land that Time Forgot is now in the public domain, and if you're so inclined you can read it in its entirety at Project Gutenberg, here: http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/551

Addendum: This review also appears at SFFaudio.com: http://www.sffaudio.com/?p=3572