When I was a kid, I found a box in my mother’s closet that was full of books. She loved to read. Most of them were gothic romances, the kind that always had a picture of a woman in a negligee running away from a castle at night. What really caught my eye, though, were her Tarzan books. She had about 25 of them.
There were other serieses about Mars, Venus, and a few stray science fiction works. Edgar Rice Burroughs was a prolific writer of the kinds of books that kids from my and previous generations loved. I asked if I could read them and my mother seemed excited that I would enjoy them.
I read and read and read them. Back then, if you could read 20 books in a year and do a report on them, you’d get a certificate. I had no problem getting that certificate. I read all of my mother’s Burroughs collection but Tarzan was my favorite.
His life among the fierce apes had been happy; for his recollection held no other life, nor did he know that there existed in the universe aught else than his little forest and the wild jungle animals with which he was familiar.
Did anyone else enjoy these?