One fragment at a time

From Tarzan to pirates, these famous novels were serial stories first

Back in the day, fiction wasn’t pre-ordered online and launched in bookstores with shiny, colorful covers. Instead, many of the titles we call literature classics were first printed in cheap paper magazines that flocks of readers returned weekly or monthly to: That was the only way to know how Sherlock Holmes solved complicated mysteries, or whether Jim Hawkins survived the pirates in Treasure Island. Here are 10 stories behind novels that made audiences fall in love, one chapter at a time.

The book that hooked young readers with the pirates’ genre flopped initially. When Robert Louis Stevenson's tale of seafarers and buried gold began running in the children's weekly Young Folks in 1881, it didn’t garner many fans. The story was printed under the pseudonym "Captain George North," and went out in seventeen installments spread across four months.

Even Stevenson's own wife, Fanny, disliked it enough that she argued against its ever becoming a book. But Stevenson pressed on and wrote a famous introduction charmingly defending the genre. The book was published by Cassell & Co. two years later, this time under his real name. The response was immediate: a bestseller, plus the template for how the world would picture pirates ever after.

Sherlock Holmes never wore a deerstalker cap in Arthur Conan Doyle's original text. That image came from illustrator Sidney Paget, hired to accompany the twelve stories that ran monthly in The Strand Magazine from July 1891 to June 1892.

The format itself was the real innovation: rather than one long serialized novel, readers got a complete, satisfying mystery every month, always featuring the same detective and his loyal Dr. Watson.

It worked very well. Subscriptions to The Strand climbed so sharply that Doyle was able to demand a raise before writing his next batch of cases. When George Newnes published the stories together as a book later that year, Holmes was already a household name.

Writer Jack London needed money fast, so in January 1903 he mailed off a manuscript about a dog named Buck to The Saturday Evening Post. The idea had come from the year he had spent in the Yukon. The editor liked it, but asked London to trim five thousand words.

He agreed, priced his labor at three cents a word, and cashed a check for $750 (roughly $28,000 today). The story ran over a summer across several issues of the Post, a magazine better known for genteel fiction than tales of sled dogs clawing their way back to savagery in the Klondike. Just twenty-two days after that first payment, the Macmillan publishing house bought the book rights for $2,000 (roughly $76,000 today). When the novel appeared that August, its first printing of 10,000 copies sold out immediately.

Tarzan's debut wasn't serialized the way most magazine fiction of 1912 was. Editor Thomas Metcalf ran the entire novel, uncut, in one issue of the pulp All-Story that October, an almost unheard-of gamble.

Edgar Rice Burroughs, a failed soldier and failed businessman turned struggling writer, received $700 (roughly $24,000 today) for it, enough to convince him he could write for a living. But when he brought Metcalf a sequel the following year, Metcalf turned it down, twice.

Burroughs took The Return of Tarzan to a rival pulp instead, which ran it as a conventional seven-part serial and paid him even more money than before: $1,000. Every Tarzan novel that followed stuck to that same magazine-first formula. The books didn’t arrive until 1914.

H. G. Wells spent seven years failing to get this story right. It began as a college magazine serial in 1888, and resurfaced incomplete in a newspaper called the National Observer in 1894. But it didn't find its final shape until editor William Henley asked Wells to expand it into a five-part serial. Wells agreed, was paid £100 (around $23,000 today), and watched the story run over 5 months in 1895. Readers liked it.

When book publications soon followed on both sides of the Atlantic, the American edition misprinted the author's name as "H. S. Wells," an error they had time to correct, since it has never been out of print.

The idea of a Martian invasion was handed to H. G. Wells by his brother Frank. During a walk through the English countryside, Frank idly wondered aloud what would happen if beings from another planet suddenly dropped out of the sky. Wells took it upon himself to imagine the answer and wrote it down.

For the story, the British magazine Pearson's paid him the current equivalent of $45,200, though the editor insisted on knowing how it ended before agreeing to run it. It simultaneously ran in Cosmopolitan in America, from April to December 1897.

It proved so popular that unauthorized versions soon popped up in American newspapers, including one from William Randolph Hearst. The authorized book followed in 1898.

In 1851, the abolitionist newspaper The National Era paid Harriet Beecher Stowe, a 40-year-old mother of six, the equivalent of $13,000 today) for a short antislavery narrative in three parts.

She kept writing and writing. It stretched into forty weekly installments over ten months, with readers so invested that they wrote in to protest whenever she missed a week. By the time the serial ended in 1852, publisher John P. Jewett had already arranged to release it as a book.

It sold 10,000 copies in its first week alone, 300,000 within the year in the U.S., and 1.5 million more across England.

Ray Bradbury didn't set out to write The Martian Chronicles. He'd simply been publishing Mars stories in pulp magazines throughout the 1940s, one after another, with no grand plan connecting them.

Then, on his last night in New York in 1949, a Doubleday editor coincidentally named Walter Bradbury asked what he intended to do with all those Martian tales. Could they be stitched into something resembling a novel? They reached an agreement, and Walter offered Ray $750 for the Mars book (roughly $10,500 today) as part of a two-book, $1,500 deal. Bradbury went home to Los Angeles, revised his old stories, and wrote new bridging chapters inspired by Steinbeck.

Leo Tolstoy never got to finish telling his own story, at least not in the pages where readers had been following it. Serialized in The Russian Messenger from 1875 to 1877, Anna Karenina earned Tolstoy an extraordinary sum of more than $300,000 today. That was more per printed page than rivals like Turgenev or Dostoevsky.

Then, just as the story was reaching its final chapters, editor Mikhail Katkov refused to print the eighth and last part. Tolstoy had written unflattering things about Russian volunteers rushing off to fight in the Balkans, and Katkov wanted no part of it. Tolstoy published the ending separately, as its own pamphlet, before the complete novel finally appeared as a book in 1878.

Virtually every major and minor novel by Charles Dickens was originally published in serialized form. While he was still serializing The Pickwick Papers, the book that made him famous, he was already contracted to deliver another novel entirely. Publisher Richard Bentley paid him £500 (roughly $97,400 today) for the rights to Oliver Twist, plus a monthly salary to edit Bentley's own new magazine, where the novel would run.

Between 1837 and 1839, readers got two or three chapters of Oliver's grim childhood each month, even as Dickens juggled a second serialized story on the side. Bentley published the complete novel in three volumes months before the magazine version had even finished.

LUNAR LORE

To The Moon and Back: The Stories Behind 10 Sayings Involving The Moon

Image: Mark Tegethoff

Romance, delusions, and time measurements. All of these loom behind the idioms involving the Earth’s natural satellite. The moon has been a source of inspiration for poems, stories, and songs since ancestral times, its image recurring in our language as a symbol of beauty, grandeur, and ambition. Why have we attributed so many different meanings to it? In this article, we’ll explore some well-known and some more obscure idioms involving the moon, shedding light on how they came to be and why they have persisted.

Image: Kiel Salazar

We all know that this phrase is used to describe events that happen very rarely. But what is a "Blue Moon"? Nowadays, we use the term to refer to the second full moon that we can see within a calendar month. Since moon cycles last about 29.5 days and months last around 30, it is unusual for a month to include two full moons. According to NASA, this phenomenon occurs once every two to three years.

The line was first used metaphorically in 1821, in Pierce Egan’s play called Real Life in London. However, this first use might have been referring to the more literal phenomenon of the moon appearing visibly blue because of atmospheric events, like fires or volcanic emissions.

Image: Javier Allegue Barros

If some of these idioms sound like they belong in an illustrated nursery book, it’s because they do. Describing someone in a state of delight as being "over the moon" began in the nursery rhyme "Hey Diddle Diddle," which first appeared in records in the 16th century.

The rhyme’s brief lyrics are cryptic, and historians can’t agree on their meaning. But the image it features of a cow jumping over the moon was memorable enough to give birth to the idiom. It became widespread in the 20th century, often used in British English to express giddy happiness or joy.

Image: Rakicevic Nenad

It is unclear how or when this expression originated. But we know it gained popularity in the mid-20th century, that is, during the space race era. Some believe that the saying gained momentum after the successful Apollo moon landings, as it served as a motivational slogan. The phrase is used to encourage others to accomplish great things, or to describe someone's ambition of "reaching for the moon."

A sibling expression is "shoot the moon," or "hit the moon," which refers to achieving a challenging feat. In card games, "shooting the moon" describes strategies by which players aim for high or low scores.

Image: spoot

Beware of someone who promises you the moon, be it a partner, a salesman, or a politician. The expression serves as an accusation of a charlatan or a liar pledging to accomplish extravagant or impossible acts. The use of the line dates back to at least the early 20th century, when, again, influenced by the space race, many began fantasizing about reaching the moon, exploring it, and harnessing it. Alternatives to this saying are "promising the Earth," "the world," or "the stars," each one as unattainable as the last one.

Image: Mark Zamora

This one too originated in children’s literature. Born from the habit of competing for hyperbolic measurements to express the size of one’s love. "I love you to (name of a far-off place)" was already a popular construction before Sam McBratney’s book solidified this particular line.

Guess How Much I Love You was published in 1994. In it, a little hare and his parent take turns stretching their arms wider and wider to show their love for each other. Eventually, the distances start measuring from "I love you all the way down the lane as far as the river" to the little hare’s "I love you right up to the moon." After he falls asleep, the parent whispers, "I love you right up to the moon… and back."

Image: Brody Childs

The expression might be old-fashioned or theatrical, but we all understand it. As a synonym for a "long time ago," it can either refer to a daily moon or moon cycles. In either case, the expression is usually chosen to dramatically refer to a time many years in the past.

We know that, for millennia, the appearances of the moon have been used to track time. In fact, the words "moon" and "month" share very similar roots; in Proto-Germanic language, they were menon and menoth, respectively. Tracking a full moon cycle thus came to mark a full month. "Many moons ago" is a reference to an ancient way of counting days and weeks.

Image: pics4cwolfe

This construction might be the opposite of "promising the moon." When someone is "asking for the moon," they are demanding an unachievable or some unreasonable, high-value goal. It’s used to describe impractical fantasies or whims.

Just like "promising the moon," it is a hyperbolic idiom. It might have been born in the 1800s, with slight variations. Its use can be found in Charles Dickens’ 1852 Bleak House as "crying for the moon" and in William Makepeace Thackeray’s 1860 Lovell the Widower as "wishing for the moon."

Image: Valery Sysoev

Believing that someone "hung the moon" means to see them as impressive or godlike, capable of superhuman feats, like having been the one to hang the moon. This is an expression used to describe great admiration, believing a person can do no wrong. It’s an exaggerated way of expressing high regard.

Unusual or outdated as it is, the idiom caught on in the U.S. during the 20th century. Its origin is unclear, but it was first recorded in Randolph & Wilson’s gallery of folk speech called Down in the Holler. In it, they compare the expression "she thinks he hung the moon" to "she thinks he’s God’s own cousin."

Image: Elio Santos

The resemblance between a full moon and a cheese wheel is not something that modern cartoonists invented. It’s an image that has lived in the collective unconscious for centuries, at least. The comparison was already mentioned in The Proverbs of John Heywood, dated from 1546. There, Heywood wrote the expression "to make one believe the Moon is made of green cheese." Since then, the saying has been used to accuse blatant lies or deceptions, often said with sarcasm to point out that the truth is far from what was just said.

Image: Federico Di Dio photography

It’s also known as "howling at the moon." In both cases, it implies that some complaint or discussion is futile. The origin of the phrase is linked to folklore and the belief farmers developed that wolves and dogs tended to bark at the moon. In reality, the reason why a dog might be more likely to howl during a full moon is simply that there is more light outside, which can trigger their excitement. The expression became popular to describe the efforts of someone wasting their energy on attempts to change someone’s mind or revert a situation through words.