I didn’t care about Tarzan a year ago. He seemed infinitely uninteresting to me. Some savage who swung through the jungle beating his chest and yelling? That’s the reason I never joined a frat. Why would I want to read about it? I had though picked up The Big Book Of Adventure stories, almost 900 pages of pure pulpy goodness. Mainly in the form of short stories, it also reprinted the entire Tarzan the Terrible novel by Edgar Rice Burroughs. After doing some research I found out that it was the 8th book in the Tarzan series. I was intrigued enough to want to look into it, but didn’t feel right starting that far into it. So of course I went back to the start.