Saturday Night Serial - HG Wells - The Time Machine - Epilogue

The Time Machine is an 1895 dystopian post-apocalyptic science fiction novella by H. G. Wells about a Victorian scientist known as the Time Traveller who travels to the year 802,701. The work is generally credited with the popularization of the concept of time travel by using a vehicle or device to travel purposely and selectively forward or backward through time. The term "time machine", coined by Wells, is now almost universally used to refer to such a vehicle or device.

Chapter One 
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen


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Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
The Time Machine by h Ye Wells epilogue. One cannot choose,
but wonder will he ever return? It may be that
he swept back into the past and fell among the
blood drinking, hairy savages of the age of unpolished stone,
or into the abysses of the Cretaceous Sea, or among

(00:21):
the grotesque saurians the huge reptilian roots of the Jurassic times.
He may even now, for I may use a phrase,
be wondering on some plesiosaurus hunted or lithic coral reef,
or beside the lonely saline seas of the Triassic age.
Or did he go forward into one of the nearer ages,

(00:43):
in which men are still men, but with the riddles
of our own time answered and its weirdisome problems solved,
into the manhood of the race. For I, for my
own part, cannot think these latter days of weak experiment
and fragmentary theory in mutual discourse are indeed man's culminating time.

(01:05):
I say, for my own part, he I know that
the question had been discussed among us long before the
time machine was made, and he thought cheerlessly of the
advancement of mankind, and saw the growing pile of civilization
on the foolish heaping that must inevitably fall back and
destroy its makers in the end. If that is so,

(01:29):
it remains for us to live as though it were
not so. But to me the future is still black
and blank, as a vast ignorance, lit by a few
casual places in the memory of his story. And I
have by me for my comfort two strange white flowers,

(01:51):
shriveled now and brown and flat and brittle. And they
witnessed that even when mind and strength had gone, gratitude
and mutual tenderness still lived on in the heart of man.