Robert E. Howard's masterpiece: Conan of Cimmeria

"But not all men seek rest and peace; some are born with the spirit of the storm in their blood, restless harbingers of violence and bloodshed, knowing no other path."
Robert E. Howard



One fateful night, Robert E. Howard created the character of Conan, a barbarian, a wonderer, a thief, a pirate, a mercenary, and finally king of Aquilonia. He is a hulk of a man, armed with sword or axe or both, battling ravenous demons, aliens from other worlds, witches, vampires, sorcerers, all to retrieve some rare potion or medicine having peculiar magical powers. The women are scantily clad and mostly slaves, and there is always a bratty princess who gives the barbarian his marching orders. And lets not forget the legions and legions of bloodthirsty barbarians that populate Howard’s mythical world, which rivals Middle-Earth in its detail and scope.



This is Conan. King Conan. Conan the Barbarian. This is a character born and created during The Depression, in the early 30’s. Since the publishing of the books, we’ve seen him in comic books, two films (Schwarzenegger), and the recent graphic novel. But go back to the covers of the books. A half-naked, muscle-bound savage stands atop a giant mound of slain bodies, and two voluptuous maidens wrap their arms around his thigh.

This begs an important question: who are these stories for? Who is the audience here? Is this supposed to be the prepubescent’s fantasy? Is this for guys with too much testosterone? Is it lurid, shoddy crap trying to pass itself off as solid literature? Is it a subtle appeal to sadism or masochism or rape or lesbianism? The short answer is: Yep. But the longer answer is that there’s bit more to it than that.

Consider when Conan confesses to his comrade Prospero:

“"These matters of statecraft weary me as all the fighting I have done never did. . . . In the old free days all I wanted was a sharp sword and a straight path to my enemies. Now no paths are straight and my sword is useless."

As far as his nature, Howard compared Conan to a tiger or a wolf. He was simple; he used instinct; he was not a thinker. He did not ponder. He was a man of action. He is undomesticated. There is no red tape. There is no negotiation. He doesn’t play chess with all the intricacies of political drama. His sword slashes through all that bureaucratic twaddle. He doesn’t get depressed. He doesn’t have any fear. He doesn’t doubt. He does the bidding of Crom and that is that. The only thing that changes is what he does with his women and wine afterwards.

This is the fictive Hyborian age, which means “the barbaric dweller beyond the north wind”, some time before 10,000 B.C. Conan is my guilty pleasure. If you like sword and sorcery, this is it. It doesn’t get any better. The skeleton of every story is a quest for a treasure or a magic talisman or vengeance, and the enemy is always a demon or a witch or a sorcerer or a wizard, and there is always a collapsing palace or temple or a hidden tunnel or room or underwater passage. Magic is everywhere. We have delicious passages like:

"Ships did not put unasked into this port, where dusky sorcerers wove awful spells in the murk of sacrificial smoke mounting eternally from blood-stained altars where naked women screamed, and where Set, the Old Serpent, archdemon of the Hyborians but god of the Stygians, was said to writhe his shining coils among his worshippers."

No matter what the task, Conan finds a way and never surrenders. Remember in the movie when he was crucified? Read this:

“Conan drew his head back as far as he could, waiting, watching with the terrible patience of the wilderness and its children. The vulture swept in with a swift roar of wings. Its beak flashed down, ripping the skin on Conan's chin as he jerked aside his head, then before the bird could flash away, Conan's head lunged forward on his mighty neck muscles and his teeth, snapping like those of a wolf, locked on the bare, wattled neck. . . . Grimly he hung on, the muscles starting out in lumps on his jaws. And the scavenger's neck bones crunched between those powerful teeth. With a spasmodic flutter the bird hung limp. Conan let go, spat blood from his mouth."

Or this:

"But the proudest kingdom of the world was Aquilonia, reigning supreme in the dreaming west. Hither came Conan, the Cimmerian, black-haired, sullen-eyed, sword in hand, a thief, a reaver, a slayer, with gigantic melancholies and gigantic mirth, to tread the jeweled thrones of the Earth under his sandalled feet."



Howard is a master of pulp. His popular fiction was groundbreaking. This myth is topnotch. Conan is a character hacked out of the very sinews of saga, epic, or legend. He is less a person than a force of nature. Imitated much, but rarely equaled: Conan is a staggering character and Howard, a pioneer.