I am
agog. Edgar Rice Burroughs' 1912 A Princess of Mars is a book I’d never
read, that is, until turning the last page today—and I am agog. Like a genre rosetta stone, I now understand
the root of America’s pulp science fiction and fantasy tradition. Purple prose, heroes of a larger-than-life
variety, a plot that continually expands its extent of incredulity, science fiction
cum fantasy cum science fantasy—all the pulpy pieces are in place in one big,
mythically maudlin male fantasy of the finest, squishiest cheese. And the blazing sexism, disguised racism, undoubted ethnocentrism—everything WASP-ish, I’m just agog…
A Princess of Mars is the story of John
Carter, a man who comes to be the greatest hero Mars has even known. An officer in the Confederacy, after the
Civil War he goes west seeking a fortune in gold in Arizona. Finding a rich vein, he and a colleague head
to civilization to get the equipment and laborers they will need to mine
it. But a tragedy occurs, and Carter is
forced to defend himself. Finding a cave
to hide out, strange forces take over, and before he knows it, he lies naked in
the middle of the Martian wilderness.
