The First Men in the Moon

( 27 )

Overview

In this 1901 classic, Wells's 'first men in the moon' practice lunar locomotion, get lost in a moon jungle, and confront intelligent life in lunar caverns. Through the adventures of these two earthlings, the author is able to burlesque the effects of specialization. The result is a delightful tale filled with adventure, romance, and fantasy that still stirs the imagination.
Read More Show Less
... See more details below
Available through our Marketplace sellers.
Other sellers (Paperback)
  • All (16) from $1.99   
  • New (1) from $65.00   
  • Used (15) from $1.99   
Close
Sort by
Page 1 of 1
Showing All
Note: Marketplace items are not eligible for any BN.com coupons and promotions
$65.00
Seller since 2014

Feedback rating:

(148)

Condition:

New — never opened or used in original packaging.

Like New — packaging may have been opened. A "Like New" item is suitable to give as a gift.

Very Good — may have minor signs of wear on packaging but item works perfectly and has no damage.

Good — item is in good condition but packaging may have signs of shelf wear/aging or torn packaging. All specific defects should be noted in the Comments section associated with each item.

Acceptable — item is in working order but may show signs of wear such as scratches or torn packaging. All specific defects should be noted in the Comments section associated with each item.

Used — An item that has been opened and may show signs of wear. All specific defects should be noted in the Comments section associated with each item.

Refurbished — A used item that has been renewed or updated and verified to be in proper working condition. Not necessarily completed by the original manufacturer.

New
Brand new.

Ships from: acton, MA

Usually ships in 1-2 business days

  • Standard, 48 States
  • Standard (AK, HI)
Page 1 of 1
Showing All
Close
Sort by
First Men in the Moon

Available on NOOK devices and apps  
  • NOOK Devices
  • NOOK HD/HD+ Tablet
  • NOOK
  • NOOK Color
  • NOOK Tablet
  • Tablet/Phone
  • NOOK for Windows 8 Tablet
  • NOOK for iOS
  • NOOK for Android
  • NOOK Kids for iPad
  • PC/Mac
  • NOOK for Windows 8
  • NOOK for PC
  • NOOK for Mac
  • NOOK Study
  • NOOK for Web

Want a NOOK? Explore Now

NOOK Book (eBook)
$6.99
BN.com price
This digital version does not exactly match the physical book displayed here.
Marketplace
BN.com

All Available Formats & Editions

Overview

In this 1901 classic, Wells's 'first men in the moon' practice lunar locomotion, get lost in a moon jungle, and confront intelligent life in lunar caverns. Through the adventures of these two earthlings, the author is able to burlesque the effects of specialization. The result is a delightful tale filled with adventure, romance, and fantasy that still stirs the imagination.
Read More Show Less

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
“Written with astonishing animation and lucidity.” —G. K. Chesterton
Read More Show Less

Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780898657852
  • Publisher: Donning Company Publishers
  • Publication date: 9/1/1989
  • Series: Starblaze Classics Series
  • Pages: 164

Meet the Author

H. G. Wells
Ursula K. Le Guin is one of the greatest living writers of science fiction. Author of the bestselling Earthsea series, she lives in Oregon.

Biography

Social philosopher, utopian, novelist, and "father" of science fiction and science fantasy, Herbert George Wells was born on September 21, 1866, in Bromley, Kent. His father was a poor businessman, and young Bertie's mother had to work as a lady's maid. Living "below stairs" with his mother at an estate called Uppark, Bertie would sneak into the grand library to read Plato, Swift, and Voltaire, authors who deeply influenced his later works. He shoed literary and artistic talent in his early stories and paintings, but the family had limited means, and when he was fourteen years old, Bertie was sent as an apprentice to a dealer in cloth and dry goods, work he disliked.

He held jobs in other trades before winning a scholarship to study biology at the Normal School of Science in London. The eminent biologist T. H. Huxley, a friend and proponent of Darwin, was his teacher; about him Wells later said, "I believed then he was the greatest man I was ever likely to meet." Under Huxley's influence, Wells learned the science that would inspire many of his creative works and cultivated the skepticism about the likelihood of human progress that would infuse his writing.

Teaching, textbook writing, and journalism occupied Wells until 1895, when he made his literary debut with the now-legendary novel The Time Machine, which was followed before the end of the century by The Island of Dr. Moreau, The Invisible Man, and The War of the Worlds, books that established him as a major writer. Fiercely critical of Victorian mores, he published voluminously, in fiction and nonfiction, on the subject of politics and social philosophy. Biological evolution does not ensure moral progress, as Wells would repeat throughout his life, during which he witnessed two world wars and the debasement of science for military and political ends.

In addition to social commentary presented in the guise of science fiction, Wells authored comic novels like Love and Mrs. Lewisham, Kipps, and The History of Mister Polly that are Dickensian in their scope and feeling, and a feminist novel, Ann Veronica. He wrote specific social commentary in The New Machiavelli, an attack on the socialist Fabian Society, which he had joined and then rejected, and literary parody (of Henry James) in Boon. He wrote textbooks of biology, and his massive The Outline of History was a major international bestseller.

By the time Wells reached middle age, he was admired around the world, and he used his fame to promote his utopian vision, warning that the future promised "Knowledge or extinction." He met with such preeminent political figures as Lenin, Roosevelt, and Stalin, and continued to publish, travel, and educate during his final years. Herbert George Wells died in London on August 13, 1946.

Author biography from the Barnes & Noble Classics edition of The War of the Worlds.

Good To Know

In 1891, Wells married his cousin Isabel. However, he eventually left her for one of his brightest students, Amy Catherine, whom he married in 1895.

Wells was once interviewed on the radio by an extremely nervous Orson Welles. The two are unrelated, of course.

Many of Wells's novels became film adaptations, including The Island of Dr. Moreau, filmed in 1996 by Richard Stanley and John Frankenheimer, and The Time Machine, filmed in 2002 by Wells's great-grandson, Simon Wells.

Read More Show Less
    1. Also Known As:
      Herbert George Wells (full name)
    1. Date of Birth:
      September 21, 1866
    2. Place of Birth:
      Bromley, Kent, England
    1. Date of Death:
      August 13, 1946
    2. Place of Death:
      London, England

Read an Excerpt

I
Mr. Bedford Meets Mr. Cavor at Lympne

As I sit down to write here amidst the shadows of vine-leaves under the blue sky of southern Italy, it comes to me with a certain quality of astonishment that my participation in these amazing adventures of Mr. Cavor was, after all, the outcome of the purest accident. It might have been any one. I fell into these things at a time when I thought myself removed from the slightest possibility of disturbing experiences. I had gone to Lympne because I had imagined it the most uneventful place in the world. “Here, at any rate,” said I, “I shall find peace and a chance to work!”
And this book is the sequel. So utterly at variance is Destiny with all the little plans of men.
I may perhaps mention here that very recently I had come an ugly cropper in certain business enterprises. Sitting now surrounded by all the circumstances of wealth, there is a luxury in admitting my extremity. I can admit, even, that to a certain extent my disasters were conceivably of my own making. It may be there are directions in which I have some capacity, but the conduct of business operations is not among these. But in those days I was young, and my youth among other objectionable forms took that of a pride in my capacity for affairs. I am young still in years, but the things that have happened to me have rubbed something of the youth from my mind. Whether they have brought any wisdom to light below it is a more doubtful matter.
It is scarcely necessary to go into the details of the speculations that landed me at Lympne, in Kent. Nowadays even about business transactions there is a strong spice of adventure. I took risks. In thesethings there is invariably a certain amount of give and take, and it fell to me finally to do the giving. Reluctantly enough. Even when I had got out of everything, one cantankerous creditor saw fit to be malignant. Perhaps you have met that flaming sense of outraged virtue, or perhaps you have only felt it. He ran me hard. It seemed to me, at last, that there was nothing for it but to write a play, unless I wanted to drudge for my living as a clerk. I have a certain imagination, and luxurious tastes, and I meant to make a vigorous fight for it before that fate overtook me. In addition to my belief in my powers as a business man, I had always in those days had an idea that I was equal to writing a very good play. It is not, I believe, a very uncommon persuasion. I knew there is nothing a man can do outside legitimate business transactions that has such opulent possibilities, and very probably that biased my opinion. I had, indeed, got into the habit of regarding this unwritten drama as a convenient little reserve put by for a rainy day. That rainy day had come and I set to work.
I soon discovered that writing a play was a longer business than I had supposed; at first I had reckoned ten days for it, and it was to have a pied-à-terre while it was in hand that I came to Lympne. I reckoned myself lucky in getting that little bungalow. I got it on a three years agreement. I put in a few sticks of furniture, and while the play was in hand I did my own cooking. My cooking would have shocked Mrs. Bond. And yet, you know, it had flavour. I had a coffee-pot, a sauce-pan for eggs, and one for potatoes, and a frying-pan for sausages and bacon—such was the simple apparatus of my comfort. One cannot always be magnificent, but simplicity is always a possible alternative. For the rest I laid in an eighteen-gallon cask of beer on credit, and a trustful baker came each day. It was not, perhaps, in the style of Sybaris, but I have had worse times. I was a little sorry for the baker, who was a very decent man indeed, but even for him I hoped.
Certainly if any one wants solitude, the place is Lympne. It is in the clay part of Kent, and my bungalow stood on the edge of an old sea cliff and stared across the flats of Romney Marsh at the sea. In very wet weather the place is almost inaccessible, and I have heard that at times the postman used to traverse the more succulent portions of his route with boards upon his feet. I never saw him doing so, but I can quite imagine it. Outside the doors of the few cottages and houses that make up the present village big birch besoms are stuck, to wipe off the worst of the clay, which will give some idea of the texture of the district. I doubt if the place would be there at all, if it were not a fading memory of things gone for ever. It was the big port of England in Roman times, Portus Lemanus, and now the sea is four miles away. All down the steep hill are boulders and masses of Roman brickwork, and from it old Watling Street, still paved in places, starts like an arrow to the north. I used to stand on the hill and think of it all, the galleys and legions, the captives and officials, the women and traders, the speculators like myself, all the swarm and tumult that came clanking in and out of the harbour. And now just a few lumps of rubble on a grassy slope, and a sheep or two—and me! And where the port had been were the levels of the marsh, sweeping round in a broad curve to distant Dungeness, and dotted here and there with tree clumps and the church towers of old mediæval towns that are following Lemanus now towards extinction.
That outlook on the marsh was, indeed, one of the finest views I have ever seen. I suppose Dungeness was fifteen miles away; it lay like a raft on the sea, and further westward were the hills by Hastings under the setting sun. Sometimes they hung close and clear, sometimes they were faded and low, and often the drift of the weather took them clean out of sight. And all the nearer parts of the marsh were laced and lit by ditches and canals.
The window at which I worked looked over the skyline of this crest, and it was from this window that I first set eyes on Cavor. It was just as I was struggling with my scenario, holding down my mind to the sheer hard work of it, and naturally enough he arrested my attention.
The sun had set, the sky was a vivid tranquillity of green and yellow, and against that he came out black—the oddest little figure.
He was a short, round-bodied, thin-legged little man, with a jerky quality in his motions; he had seen fit to clothe his extraordinary mind in a cricket cap, an overcoat, and cycling knickerbockers and stockings. Why he did so I do not know, for he never cycled and he never played cricket. It was a fortuitous concurrence of garments, arising I know not how. He gesticulated with his hands and arms, and jerked his head about and buzzed. He buzzed like something electric. You never heard such buzzing. And ever and again he cleared his throat with a most extraordinary noise.
There had been rain, and that spasmodic walk of his was enhanced by the extreme slipperiness of the footpath. Exactly as he came against the sun he stopped, pulled out a watch, hesitated. Then with a sort of convulsive gesture he turned and retreated with every manifestation of haste, no longer gesticulating, but going with ample strides that showed the relatively large size of his feet—they were, I remember, grotesquely exaggerated in size by adhesive clay—to the best possible advantage.
This occurred on the first day of my sojourn, when my play-writing energy was at its height, and I regarded the incident simply as an annoying distraction—the waste of five minutes. I returned to my scenario. But when next evening the apparition was repeated with remarkable precision, and again the next evening, and indeed every evening when rain was not falling, concentration upon the scenario became a considerable effort. “Confound the man,” said I, “one would think he was learning to be a marionette!” and for several evenings I cursed him pretty heartily.
Then my annoyance gave way to amazement and curiosity. Why on earth should a man do this thing? On the fourteenth evening I could stand it no longer, and so soon as he appeared I opened the French window, crossed the verandah, and directed myself to the point where he invariably stopped.
He had his watch out as I came up to him. He had a chubby, rubicund face with reddish brown eyes—previously I had seen him only against the light. “One moment, sir,” said I as he turned.
He stared. “One moment,” he said, “certainly. Or if you wish to speak to me for longer, and it is not asking too much—your moment is up—would it trouble you to accompany me?”
“Not in the least,” said I, placing myself beside him.
“My habits are regular. My time for intercourse—limited.”
“This, I presume, is your time for exercise?”
“It is. I come here to enjoy the sunset.”
“You don’t.”
“Sir?”
“You never look at it.”
“Never look at it?”
“No. I’ve watched you thirteen nights, and not once have you looked at the sunset—not once.”
He knitted his brows like one who encounters a problem.
“Well, I enjoy the sunlight—the atmosphere—I go along this path, through that gate”—he jerked his head over his shoulder—“and round——”
“You don’t. You never have been. It’s all nonsense. There isn’t a way. To-night, for instance——”
“Oh! to-night! Let me see. Ah! I just glanced at my watch, saw that I had already been out just three minutes over the precise half-hour, decided there was not time to go round, turned——”
“You always do.”
He looked at me—reflected. “Perhaps I do, now I come to think of it. But what was it you wanted to speak to me about?”
“Why, this!”
“This?”
“Yes. Why do you do it? Every night you come making a noise——”
“Making a noise?”
“Like this”—I imitated his buzzing noise.
He looked at me, and it was evident the buzzing awakened distaste. “Do I do that?” he asked.
“Every blessed evening.”
“I had no idea.”
He stopped dead. He regarded me gravely. “Can it be,” he said, “that I have formed a Habit?”
“Well, it looks like it. Doesn’t it?”
He pulled down his lower lip between finger and thumb. He regarded a puddle at his feet.
“My mind is much occupied,” he said. “And you want to know why! Well, sir, I can assure you that not only do I not know why I do these things, but I did not even know I did them. Come to think, it is just as you say; I never have been beyond that field . . . And these things annoy you?”
For some reason I was beginning to relent towards him. “Not annoy,” I said. “But—imagine yourself writing a play!”
“I couldn’t.”
“Well, anything that needs concentration.”
“Ah!” he said, “of course,” and meditated. His expression became so eloquent of distress, that I relented still more. After all, there is a touch of aggression in demanding of a man you don’t know why he hums on a public footpath.
“You see,” he said weakly, “it’s a habit.”
“Oh, I recognise that.”
“I must stop it.”
“But not if it puts you out. After all, I had no business—it’s something of a liberty.”
“Not at all, sir,” he said, “not at all. I am greatly indebted to you. I should guard myself against these things. In future I will. Could I trouble you—once again? That noise?”
“Something like this,” I said. “Zuzzoo, zuzzoo. But really, you know——”
“I am greatly obliged to you. In fact, I know I am getting absurdly absent-minded. You are quite justified, sir—perfectly justified. Indeed, I am indebted to you. The thing shall end. And now, sir, I have already brought you further than I should have done.”
“I do hope my impertinence——”
“Not at all, sir, not at all.”
We regarded each other for a moment. I raised my hat and wished him a good evening. He responded convulsively, and so we went our ways.
At the stile I looked back at his receding figure. His bearing had changed remarkably, he seemed limp, shrunken. The contrast with his former gesticulating, zuzzoing self took me in some absurd way as pathetic. I watched him out of sight. Then wishing very heartily I had kept to my own business, I returned to my bungalow and my play.
The next evening I saw nothing of him, nor the next. But he was very much in my mind, and it had occurred to me that as a sentimental comic character he might serve a useful purpose in the development of my plot. The third day he called upon me.
For a time I was puzzled to think what had brought him. He made indifferent conversation in the most formal way, then abruptly he came to business. He wanted to buy me out of my bungalow.
“You see,” he said, “I don’t blame you in the least, but you’ve destroyed a habit, and it disorganises my day. I’ve walked past here for years—years. No doubt I’ve hummed . . . You’ve made all that impossible!”
I suggested he might try some other direction.
“No. There is no other direction. This is the only one. I’ve inquired. And now—every afternoon at four—I come to a dead wall.”
“But, my dear sir, if the thing is so important to you——”
“It’s vital. You see, I’m—I’m an investigator—I am engaged in a scientific research. I live—” he paused and seemed to think. “Just over there,” he said, and pointed suddenly dangerously near my eye. “The house with white chimneys you see just over the trees. And my circumstances are abnormal—abnormal. I am on the point of completing one of the most important demonstrations—I can assure you one of the most important demonstrations that have ever been made. It requires constant thought, constant mental ease and activity. And the afternoon was my brightest time!—effervescing with new ideas—new points of view.”
“But why not come by still?”
“It would be all different. I should be self-conscious. I should think of you at your play—watching me irritated—instead of thinking of my work. No! I must have the bungalow.”
I meditated. Naturally, I wanted to think the matter over thoroughly before anything decisive was said. I was generally ready enough for business in those days, and selling always attracted me; but in the first place it was not my bungalow, and even if I sold it to him at a good price I might get inconvenienced in the delivery of goods if the current owner got wind of the transaction, and in the second I was, well—undischarged. It was clearly a business that required delicate handling. Moreover, the possibility of his being in pursuit of some valuable invention also interested me. It occurred to me that I would like to know more of this research, not with any dishonest intention, but simply with an idea that to know what it was would be a relief from play-writing. I threw out feelers.
He was quite willing to supply information. Indeed, once he was fairly under way the conversation became a monologue. He talked like a man long pent up, who has had it over with himself again and again. He talked for nearly an hour, and I must confess I found it a pretty stiff bit of listening. But through it all there was the undertone of satisfaction one feels when one is neglecting work one has set oneself. During that first interview I gathered very little of the drift of his work. Half his words were technicalities entirely strange to me, and he illustrated one or two points with what he was pleased to call elementary mathematics, computing on an envelope with a copying-ink pencil, in a manner that made it hard even to seem to understand. “Yes,” I said; “yes. Go on!” Nevertheless I made out enough to convince me that he was no mere crank playing at discoveries. In spite of his crank-like appearance there was a force about him that made that impossible. Whatever it was, it was a thing with mechanical possibilities. He told me of a work-shed he had, and of three assistants—originally jobbing carpenters—whom he had trained. Now, from the work-shed to the patent office is clearly only one step. He invited me to see those things. I accepted readily, and took care, by a remark or so, to underline that. The proposed transfer of the bungalow remained very conveniently in suspense.
At last he rose to depart, with an apology for the length of his call. Talking over his work was, he said, a pleasure enjoyed only too rarely. It was not often he found such an intelligent listener as myself, he mingled very little with professional scientific men.
“So much pettiness,” he explained; “so much intrigue! And really, when one has an idea—a novel, fertilising idea— I don’t want to be uncharitable, but——”
I am a man who believes in impulses. I made what was perhaps a rash proposition. But you must remember that I had been alone, play-writing in Lympne, for fourteen days, and my compunction for his ruined walk still hung about me. “Why not,” said I, “make this your new habit? In the place of the one I spoilt? At least, until we can settle about the bungalow. What you want is to turn over your work in your mind. That you have always done during your afternoon walk. Unfortunately that’s over—you can’t get things back as they were. But why not come and talk about your work to me; use me as a sort of wall against which you may throw your thoughts and catch them again? It’s certain I don’t know enough to steal your ideas myself—and I know no scientific men——”
I stopped. He was considering. Evidently the thing attracted him. “But I’m afraid I should bore you,” he said.
“You think I’m too dull?”
“Oh no; but technicalities——”
“Anyhow, you’ve interested me immensely this afternoon.”
“Of course it would be a great help to me. Nothing clears up one’s ideas so much as explaining them. Hitherto——”
“My dear sir, say no more.”
“But really can you spare the time?”
“There is no rest like change of occupation,” I said, with profound conviction.
The affair was over. On my verandah steps he turned. “I am already greatly indebted to you,” he said.
I made an interrogative noise.
“You have completely cured me of that ridiculous habit of humming,” he explained.
I think I said I was glad to be of any service to him, and he turned away.
Immediately the train of thought that our conversation had suggested must have resumed its sway. His arms began to wave in their former fashion. The faint echo of “zuzzoo” came back to me on the breeze. . . .
Well, after all, that was not my affair. . . .

Copyright© 2003 by H. G. Wells
Read More Show Less

Table of Contents

Preface
Introduction 1
The First Men in the Moon (1901) 33
(Annotated text of the first London edition) 36
App. I Review by Arnold Bennett (1902) 264
App. II "An Age of Specialisation," 274
App. III "About Sir Thomas More," 278
App. IV Verne on Wells and Vice Versa 282
App. V "Is the Moon Inhabited?" 286
App. VI Excerpt from "Recent Studies in Gravitation," 306
Bibliography 309
Index 319
Read More Show Less

Reading Group Guide

“Why do people read science fiction? In hopes of receiving such writing as this—a ravishingly accurate vision of things unseen; an utterly unexpected yet necessary beauty.” So says Ursula K. Le Guin in her Introduction to The First Men in the Moon, H. G. Wells's 1901 tale of space travel. Heavily criticized upon publication for its fantastic ideas, it is now justly considered a science fiction classic.

Cavor, a brilliant scientist who accidentally produces a gravity-defying substance, builds a spaceship and, along with the materialistic Bedford, travels to the moon. The coldly intellectual Cavor seeks knowledge, while Bedford seeks fortune. Instead of insight and gold they encounter the Selenites, a horrifying race of biologically engineered creatures who viciously, and successfully, defend their home.

1. In the essay “Wells as the Turning Point of the SF Tradition” Darko Suvin asks if Wells dislikes Imperialism in general or simply dislikes being on the receiving end of it. What do you think?

2. Wells's description of the moon is startlingly accurate; a barren planet with a thin atmosphere, sub-freezing nights, and very little gravity. Do you think this was strictly his imagination or was he working with specific scientific theories?

3. Jules Verne, a contemporary of Wells, criticized The First Men in the Moon for the “mythical” creation of Cavorite, saying that the space gun he had written of in his From the Earth to the Moon was based on true scientific principles. What scientific theory could Verne be speaking of? Is any part of The First Men in the Moon based on scientific theory available in Wells's day?

4. Many of Wells's contemporaries considered him a fanciful children's writer wasting time on space travel, aliens, monsters, and the like. It wasn't until George Orwell's time that Wells was recognized as one of the writers that launched the science-fiction genre. Why the change in opinion?

5. In her introduction Ursula K. Le Guin states “Wells was the first writer of real note to write as a scientist, from within science, rather than as an outsider looking on with excitement or complacency or horror at the revelations and implications of the scientific revolution of the nineteenth century.” Do you agree with her assessment?

6. In Wells's previous novels his themes and outcomes are rather obvious — The Time Machine was a play on the hierarchy of social class, The Island of Dr. Moreau was a comment on the possible pitfalls of bio-engineering. What is the theme of this book? Is it ambiguous? If yes, did Wells intend for the theme to be ambiguous?

7. Cavor and Bedford are more caricatures than characters; Bedford is selfish, vain, and brute while Cavor is the typical mindless professor. Why did Wells choose to one-dimensional characters to drive his story? Was it easier or harder to feel sympathy for these static characters?

8. Wells once wrote that his method was to trick his “reader into an unwary concession to some plausible assumption.” Did Wells “trick” his contemporary audience? Does he trick readers today? If not, why do people still read his novels?

Read More Show Less

Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4
( 27 )
Rating Distribution

5 Star

(9)

4 Star

(10)

3 Star

(4)

2 Star

(1)

1 Star

(3)

Your Rating:

Your Name: Create a Pen Name or

Barnes & Noble.com Review Rules

Our reader reviews allow you to share your comments on titles you liked, or didn't, with others. By submitting an online review, you are representing to Barnes & Noble.com that all information contained in your review is original and accurate in all respects, and that the submission of such content by you and the posting of such content by Barnes & Noble.com does not and will not violate the rights of any third party. Please follow the rules below to help ensure that your review can be posted.

Reviews by Our Customers Under the Age of 13

We highly value and respect everyone's opinion concerning the titles we offer. However, we cannot allow persons under the age of 13 to have accounts at BN.com or to post customer reviews. Please see our Terms of Use for more details.

What to exclude from your review:

Please do not write about reviews, commentary, or information posted on the product page. If you see any errors in the information on the product page, please send us an email.

Reviews should not contain any of the following:

  • - HTML tags, profanity, obscenities, vulgarities, or comments that defame anyone
  • - Time-sensitive information such as tour dates, signings, lectures, etc.
  • - Single-word reviews. Other people will read your review to discover why you liked or didn't like the title. Be descriptive.
  • - Comments focusing on the author or that may ruin the ending for others
  • - Phone numbers, addresses, URLs
  • - Pricing and availability information or alternative ordering information
  • - Advertisements or commercial solicitation

Reminder:

  • - By submitting a review, you grant to Barnes & Noble.com and its sublicensees the royalty-free, perpetual, irrevocable right and license to use the review in accordance with the Barnes & Noble.com Terms of Use.
  • - Barnes & Noble.com reserves the right not to post any review -- particularly those that do not follow the terms and conditions of these Rules. Barnes & Noble.com also reserves the right to remove any review at any time without notice.
  • - See Terms of Use for other conditions and disclaimers.
Search for Products You'd Like to Recommend

Recommend other products that relate to your review. Just search for them below and share!

Create a Pen Name

Your Pen Name is your unique identity on BN.com. It will appear on the reviews you write and other website activities. Your Pen Name cannot be edited, changed or deleted once submitted.

 
Your Pen Name can be any combination of alphanumeric characters (plus - and _), and must be at least two characters long.

Continue Anonymously
See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 27 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted September 5, 2012

    I am a great fan of science fiction and writers like H.G. Wells

    I am a great fan of science fiction and writers like H.G. Wells and Jules Verne in particular. I purchased this volume, published by 1st World Library Literary Society, because "THE FIRST MEN IN THE MOON" is such a great read, a really wonderful story. I give Mr. Wells and this story Five Stars. Unfortunately, I must give this particular volume one and a half stars. The reason? There are numerous errors in spelling and punctuation. VERY distracting when one is trying to read such an interesting tale. My guess is that the text was scanned electronically from another volume. Sadly, it appears that no one ever bothered to either spell check the work or have a proof reader sit down and go over it to insure accuracy. It is ironic that a society that advocates literacy would release a book filled with misspelled words and mistakes in punctuation. I completely endorse the stories of H.G. Wells and his story "THE FIRST MEN IN THE MOON". But unless this company publishes an updated and corrected copy of the present volume, you will need to buy it from someone else!

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted April 30, 2006

    Cavorite: better than warp-drive

    Herbert George Wells wrote his first book, The Time Machine, in 1895. As a student I was introduced to his eighth book, A History of Mr Polly, and strangely seem to have taken on this character¿s story and role in life although he, Mr Polly, never turned out to be, like myself or his author, a Science Fiction writer. The Cephae, in my book, The Trouble with Cephae, are not unlike the Selenites found on Mr Wells¿ moon which is reminiscent of Gruyere cheese, which of course we had always know until the Apollo moon landings told us otherwise. Personally I prefer Well¿s Cavorite, for space travel, to the Warp Drive of today¿s SF space ships. Well written and fun to read.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted January 2, 2003

    An unfortunatly unknown classic

    This, like all Well's books is an extremely entertaining story about the fantasticly improbable. Sadly, at least with the people i talk to, it's almost completely unknown. I think it relates very well to the general story of The Time Machine with explorers traveling to an unknown world and excapeing the dangers they find. If you liked that book i'm sure you well enjoy this one.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted June 28, 2014

    Nice,,,, Great...!

    Nice,,,, Great...!

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted December 19, 2013

    To outdated but still classic

    That's mean!!! Love this book. Read

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted August 10, 2012

    more from this reviewer

    Very Imaginative

    The First Men in the Moon by H.G. Wells is another clas­sic book by the famous Eng­lish author writ­ten in 1901. At the time the novel was ridiculed, how­ever it stood the test of time for over more than a Century.

    Mr. Bed­ford lost his for­tune and goes to Ken to write a play. By chance he meeds Dr. Cavor, a bril­liant sci­en­tist who is devel­op­ing an anti-gravity mate­r­ial. Soon after Cavor man­ages to cre­ate such a mate­r­ial and sug­gests to go on an adven­ture to the moon with his new friend.

    Cavor, moti­vated by sci­ence, and Bed­ford, moti­vated by money embark on their jour­ney to moon where they find a harsh world of freez­ing nights, hot days and not-so-friendly aliens.
    Worst - it seems that the two explor­ers are trapped forever.

    The First Men in the Moon by H.G. Wells is a very imag­i­na­tive book which, in the con­text of what we know now, is an amaz­ing tes­ta­ment to Mr. Wells' imag­i­na­tion, logic and fore­sight. In this book objects float in space, weight­less­ness is applic­a­ble, humans are able to cover large dis­tances on the moon due to low grav­ity and space­ships gen­er­ate an immense amount of heat return­ing to earth.

    The story also has sev­eral philo­soph­i­cal tones. The two main char­ac­ters, Cavor and Bed­ford are at odds with one another through­out. Cavor, the man of sci­ence, is a paci­fist who works for the ben­e­fit of mankind. Bed­ford on the other hand is not a very nice guy, how­ever prac­ti­cal, who is look­ing at sci­ence for pure finan­cial gain.

    I did not enjoy this book as much as I thought I would, the begin­ning was very slow and I actu­ally only found the last part inter­est­ing where the emo­tional con­flict becomes promi­nent. The moon dwellers, who are sup­posed to be the bad guys, aren't very inter­est­ing nor did I have any emo­tions vested in the adven­tures of our two protagonists.

    The last chap­ter I thought was the best, if you haven't read the book stop read­ing as I'm going to give the end­ing away. Even though it seems that the chap­ter is dis­con­nected from the rest of the book, I felt it gave the book the emo­tional punch it needed.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted February 8, 2012

    Outdated but still classic.

    For today's world, this book is VERY outdated, but in spite of the campiness, it was enjoyable. Read it if you can't find anything else.

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted February 4, 2012

    I highly recommend this

    If you love science fiction books, this is the book for you. A normal guy named Bedford meets a scientist named Cavor and together they build a space shzip in the shape of a sphere. Then they meet these insect-like aliens and get drunk on a lunar weed. They are captured and escape. Beford is forced t leave Cavord behind. The rest you will have to read for yourself.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted July 11, 2011

    Seems like a good book

    I will soon buy it

    0 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted January 14, 2010

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted January 8, 2010

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted June 3, 2011

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted February 13, 2011

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted July 2, 2009

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted January 24, 2011

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted March 17, 2009

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted October 29, 2010

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted September 27, 2010

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted August 26, 2010

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted October 3, 2010

    No text was provided for this review.

See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 27 Customer Reviews

If you find inappropriate content, please report it to Barnes & Noble
Why is this product inappropriate?
Comments (optional)