The book sat on the shelf of the third-grade classroom. I wasn’t supposed to be there. I was a second-grader, and I’d been herded into the room along with the rest of my class for some reason I don’t remember anymore.
But I still remember the book. The title was “The Freckled Shark.” There was a huge man in a torn shirt holding what could only be described as a ray-gun, against the background of some kind of animal skin.
I was always ready to read about another superhero or spaceman. But the man on the cover didn’t exactly look like a good guy. And his name, in big letters above his head, didn’t sound like a good guy’s name either: Doc Savage.
“To the world at large, Doc Savage is a strange, mysterious figure . . . he is a man of superhuman strength and protean genius . . . In his most exotic adventure, the Man of Bronze encounters the insane money lust of Señor Steel, president-dictator of Blanca Grande (a very unfortunate South American republic); decodes the awful secret of Matacumbe; and sinks — for what may be the last time — into the muddy horror of the primitive jungle.”
For a brief moment, I didn’t know if this Doc Savage was an actual person or not. (In my defense, I was 7 years old.) I didn’t know then that the book was a reprint of an old pulp-magazine story from the 1930s. Or anything about the pulps, which were filled with lurid, sensational stories written fast and cheap by a small army of house authors. I didn’t know then that heroes like Doc Savage and the Shadow were the forerunners of my beloved Superman and Batman. This was the pre-Google era, so information came only in fragments, on paper.

