The Land That Time Forgot

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Overview

Torpedoed by a German U-boat in the South Pacific during World War I, a group of adventurers find themselves marooned on Caprona, a hidden and impregnable island seemingly suspended in time, inhabited by dinosaurs, Neanderthals, scattered bands of humans, and cities of fierce humanoids. As they explore this otherworldly place, the protagonists struggle to unlock the fabulous secret at its heart. Originally published in three installments in Blue Book magazine, Burroughs's ...
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The Land that Time Forgot (Barnes & Noble Library of Essential Reading)

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Overview

Torpedoed by a German U-boat in the South Pacific during World War I, a group of adventurers find themselves marooned on Caprona, a hidden and impregnable island seemingly suspended in time, inhabited by dinosaurs, Neanderthals, scattered bands of humans, and cities of fierce humanoids. As they explore this otherworldly place, the protagonists struggle to unlock the fabulous secret at its heart. Originally published in three installments in Blue Book magazine, Burroughs's trilogy is presented here in its entirety.
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Editorial Reviews

Times Literary Supplement
"Students of early science fiction will welcome the University of Nebraska Press's series Bison Frontiers of Imagination."—Times Literary Supplement
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781592249947
  • Publisher: Wildside Press
  • Publication date: 12/28/2002
  • Series: Land that Time Forgot Series , #1
  • Pages: 132
  • Product dimensions: 6.40 (w) x 9.34 (h) x 0.58 (d)

Meet the Author

Edgar Rice Burroughs was born on September 1, 1875 in Chicago, Illinois, the fourth son in the family. He attended schools in Illinois, but spent six months on a ranch in Idaho during the 1891 flu epidemic. He tried to get into West Point, but failed the entrance exam in 1895, becoming a member of the U. S. Cavalry in Arizona. After developing a heart problem two years later, he was discharged.

Edgar married Emma Hulbert in 1900 while working on his father's farm. They had three children. In 1911, he was selling pencil sharpeners and began writing fiction. By 1912, he had written several novels including the first in the "Tarzan" series.

Burroughs became one of the first authors to cash in on merchandising, capitalizing on Tarzan's success in every conceivable fashion. In 1915, he bought a ranch in California, calling it "Tarzana." After a while, the town of Tarzana, California sprang up. In 1923, Edgar started his own company, printing his own works.

He divorced Emma in 1934 and married Florence Gilbert Dearholt in 1935. They divorced in 1942. During World War II, he became a war correspondent for America. Burroughs died of a heart attack on March 19, 1950 in Encino, California. He wrote nearly 70 books during his career, many of which became movies.

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Read an Excerpt

Chapter I

It must have been a little after three o’clock in the afternoon that it happened—the afternoon of June 3rd, 1916. It seems incredible that all that I have passed through—all those weird and terrifying experiences—should have been encompassed within so short a span as three brief months. Rather might I have experienced a cosmic cycle, with all its changes and evolutions for that which I have seen with my own eyes in this brief interval of time—things that no other mortal eye had seen before, glimpses of a world past, a world dead, a world so long dead that even in the lowest Cambrian stratum no trace of it remains. Fused with the melting inner crust, it has passed forever beyond the ken of man other than in that lost pocket of the earth whither fate has borne me and where my doom is sealed. I am here and here I must remain.

After reading this far, my interest, which already had been stimulated by the finding of the manuscript, was approaching the boiling-point. I had come to Greenland for the summer, on the advice of my physician, and was slowly being bored to extinction, as I had thoughtlessly neglected to bring sufficient reading-matter. Being an indifferent fisherman, my enthusiasm for this form of sport soon waned; yet in the absence of other forms of recreation I was now risking my life in an entirely inadequate boat off Cape Farewell at the southernmost extremity of Greenland.

Greenland! As a descriptive appellation, it is a sorry joke—but my story has nothing to do with Greenland, nothing to do with me; so I shall get through with the one and the other as rapidly as possible.

The inadequate boatfinally arrived at a precarious landing, the natives, waist-deep in the surf, assisting. I was carried ashore, and while the evening meal was being prepared, I wandered to and fro along the rocky, shattered shore. Bits of surf-harried beach clove the worn granite, or whatever the rocks of Cape Farewell may be composed of, and as I followed the ebbing tide down one of these soft stretches, I saw the thing. Were one to bump into a Bengal tiger in the ravine behind the Bimini Baths, one could be no more surprised than was I to see a perfectly good quart thermos-bottle turning and twisting in the surf of Cape Farewell at the southern extremity of Greenland. I rescued it, but I was soaked above the knees doing it; and then I sat down in the sand and opened it, and in the long twilight read the manuscript, neatly written and tightly folded, which was its contents.

You have read the opening paragraph, and if you are an imaginative idiot like myself, you will want to read the rest of it; so I shall give it to you here, omitting quotation marks—which are difficult of remembrance. In two minutes you will forget me.

My home is in Santa Monica. I am, or was, junior member of my father’s firm. We are shipbuilders. Of recent years we have specialized on submarines, which we have built for Germany, England, France and the United States. I know a sub as a mother knows her baby’s face, and have commanded a score of them on their trial runs. Yet my inclinations were all toward aviation. I graduated under Curtiss, and after a long siege with my father obtained his permission to try for the Lafayette Escadrille. As a stepping-stone I obtained an appointment in the American ambulance service and was on my way to France when three shrill whistles altered, in as many seconds, my entire scheme of life.

I was sitting on deck with some of the fellows who were go- ing into the American ambulance service with me, my Airedale, Crown Prince Nobbler, asleep at my feet, when the first blast of the whistle shattered the peace and security of the ship. Ever since entering the U-boat zone we had been on the lookout for periscopes, and children that we were, bemoaning the unkind fate that was to see us safely into France on the morrow without a glimpse of the dread marauders. We were young; we craved thrills, and God knows we got them that day; yet by comparison with that through which I have since passed they were as tame as a Punch-and-Judy show.

I shall never forget the ashy faces of the passengers as they stampeded for their life-belts, though there was no panic. Nobs rose with a low growl. I rose, also, and over the ship’s side I saw not two hundred yards distant the periscope of a submarine, while racing toward the liner the wake of a torpedo was distinctly visible. We were aboard an American ship—which, of course, was not armed. We were entirely defenseless; yet without warning, we were being torpedoed.

I stood rigid, spellbound, watching the white wake of the torpedo. It struck us on the starboard side almost amidships. The vessel rocked as though the sea beneath it had been uptorn by a mighty volcano. We were thrown to the decks, bruised and stunned, and then above the ship, carrying with it fragments of steel and wood and dismembered human bodies, rose a column of water hundreds of feet into the air.

The silence which followed the detonation of the exploding torpedo was almost equally horrifying. It lasted for perhaps two seconds, to be followed by the screams and moans of the wounded, the cursing of the men and the hoarse commands of the ship’s officers. They were splendid—they and their crew. Never before had I been so proud of my nationality as I was that moment. In all the chaos which followed the torpedoing of the liner no officer or member of the crew lost his head or showed in the slightest any degree of panic or fear.

While we were attempting to lower boats, the submarine emerged and trained guns on us. The officer in command ordered us to lower our flag, but this the captain of the liner refused to do. The ship was listing frightfully to starboard, rendering the port boats useless, while half the starboard boats had been demolished by the explosion. Even while the passengers were crowding the starboard rail and scrambling into the few boats left to us, the submarine commenced shelling the ship. I saw one shell burst in a group of women and children, and then I turned my head and covered my eyes.

When I looked again to horror was added chagrin, for with the emerging of the U-boat I had recognized her as a product of our own shipyard. I knew her to a rivet. I had superintended her construction. I had sat in that very conning-tower and directed the efforts of the sweating crew below when first her prow clove the sunny summer waters of the Pacific; and now this creature of my brain and hand had turned Frankenstein, bent upon pursuing me to my death.

A second shell exploded upon the deck. One of the lifeboats, frightfully overcrowded, swung at a dangerous angle from its davits. A fragment of the shell shattered the bow tackle, and I saw the women and children and the men vomited into the sea beneath, while the boat dangled stern up for a moment from its single davit, and at last with increasing momentum dived into the midst of the struggling victims screaming upon the face of the waters.

Now I saw men spring to the rail and leap into the ocean. The deck was tilting to an impossible angle. Nobs braced himself with all four feet to keep from slipping into the scuppers and looked up into my face with a questioning whine. I stooped and stroked his head.

“Come on, boy!” I cried, and running to the side of the ship, dived headforemost over the rail. When I came up, the first thing I saw was Nobs swimming about in a bewildered sort of way a few yards from me. At sight of me his ears went flat, and his lips parted in a characteristic grin.

The submarine was withdrawing toward the north, but all the time it was shelling the open boats, three of them, loaded to the gunwales with survivors. Fortunately the small boats presented a rather poor target, which, combined with the bad marksmanship of the Germans preserved their occupants from harm; and after a few minutes a blotch of smoke appeared upon the eastern horizon and the U-boat submerged and disappeared.

All the time the lifeboats had been pulling away from the danger of the sinking liner, and now, though I yelled at the top of my lungs, they either did not hear my appeals for help or else did not dare return to succor me. Nobs and I had gained some little distance from the ship when it rolled completely over and sank. We were caught in the suction only enough to be drawn backward a few yards, neither of us being carried beneath the surface. I glanced hurriedly about for something to which to cling. My eyes were directed toward the point at which the liner had disappeared when there came from the depths of the ocean the muffled reverberation of an explosion, and almost simultaneously a geyser of water in which were shattered lifeboats, human bodies, steam, coal, oil, and the flotsam of a liner’s deck leaped high above the surface of the sea—a watery column momentarily marking the grave of another ship in this greatest cemetery of the seas.

Copyright 2002 by Edgar Rice Burroughs
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Reading Group Guide

Torpedoed by a German U-boat in the South Pacific during World War I, a group of adventurers find themselves marooned on Caprona, a hidden and impregnable island seemingly suspended in time, inhabited by dinosaurs, Neanderthals, scattered bands of humans, and cities of fierce humanoids. As they explore this otherworldly place, the protagonists struggle to unlock the fabulous secret at its heart. A fantasy classic, The Land That Time Forgot remains a fast-paced adventure impossible to put down. Originally published in three installments in Blue Book magazine, Burroughs’s trilogy is presented here in its entirety.
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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4.5
( 8 )
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Sort by: Showing all of 8 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted September 24, 2008

    Daring Adventure

    I love Edgar Rice Burroughs. Having lived 1875 - 1950, he pioneered the way for many writers today. This trilogy ranks right up there with Jules Verne. The ending is slightly corny with the 'lives happily ever after' kind of theme, but it is a great story and should be enjoyed as such.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 7, 2014

    Avril

    "Hi."

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