To Leave A Warrior Behind by Jon Tattrie, a review

“What blazed in Charles’s eyes? What was at his core? I think he planted it deep in his books, liberating himself. Readers purify their own emotions and memories in the refining fire of his words.”

--Jon Tattrie, To Leave a Warrior Behind

A talented author working in the second wave of sword-and-sorcery, Charles Saunders twice had his Imaro books under contract and in print by a publishing house … and twice had the series yanked from under his feet.

Partially as a result of these and other ill fortunes including shuttering of the newspaper on which he worked, Saunders died alone, near penniless. Worse, without family to claim his body he was buried in an unmarked grave.

That’s hard.

If that was your end, would you consider your life a success? Do you consider Saunders’ life a success?

You might not… unless you were to read To Leave a Warrior Behind (2026, McClelland & Stewart).

After which you’d answer that question quite differently. With a hell yeah. Saunders’ life might not look anything like the “success” you see on Instagram, but it was, nonetheless. Why?

He wrote some kick-ass S&S that we still read today.

He created a new (sub) sub-genre of fiction, sword-and-soul. 

He had hundreds of admirers with whom he corresponded. Many friends, and as all fans of “It’s a Wonderful Life” know, no man is a failure who has friends.

And he will continue to be remembered thanks to this new biography.

Biography is what’s on the cover but probably the wrong word to describe To Leave A Warrior Behind. Biography often brings to mind dry text, heavily footnoted and indexed, the plain recitation of the facts of a life. To Leave a Warrior Behind is part compelling story of a fatherless boy, just like his greatest creation, Imaro, “son-of-no-father.” It’s part literary analysis of Saunders’ works. Part detective novel, from the search for an unclaimed body to the search for a missing past in the pages of hand-written letters. Part funeral dirge for the dying newspaper industry. And above all it honors Saunders the man, his unique life and literary and human legacy.

I don’t want to spoil all of that story here, as the book’s revelations keep coming, building chapter by chapter to a satisfying finish. By the end you will meet a Saunders you probably did not know. 

But I do need to review it and so will reveal some of its contents here. You’ve been warned.

***

Tattrie knew Saunders, as the two worked together for years as newsmen at the Halifax Daily News. So the work includes a fair deal of self-biographical/emotional/personal reflections from the author, which I enjoyed.

Shuttering the newsroom at the Daily News hit close to home. I was fortunate in 2004 when I quit my full-time job at a newspaper whose best days were behind, but one I loved and for which I felt survivors’ guilt. Tattrie observes that leaving journalism for greener, safer, corporate pastures can feel like a sellout, and as an ex-journalist I agree. I admire people who stuck out the profession for the love of the game. People like Saunders.

Saunders never wanted to do anything with his life but tell stories, and that’s what he did, even when there was no money to be made.

This book is worth a small fortune.

Most of Saunders’ newsroom colleagues did not know he wrote the Imaro books. We get the full history here, starting with Saunders’ immense relief and pride after getting a $2,500 advance, to his crashing disappointment at finally seeing the cover of Imaro, which featured a tanned Tarzan-like, possibly white hero and the infamous blurb “epic novel of a black Tarzan.” This drew the ire of the ERB estate and led to it being yanked from shelves, a costly delay. We also get a bit of insight into the workings at DAW. In 1985 founder Donald A. Wollheim was hospitalized and his daughter Betsy took over the day-to-day management of the company. It was her call to ultimately cancel Imaro. 

Because DAW held the copyright to the first three Imaro books, Saunders was in a bind, unable to offer them elsewhere.

The book shines in its Imaro deep-dive, which all sword-and-sorcery fans and historians (ahem) will appreciate. Tattrie gives the series its due like few places did, save for perhaps The Cimmerian and Steve Tompkins (who by the way Saunders later extolled in an essay published in Rob E. Howard: Two-Gun Raconteur). We get the beginnings of Imaro, jointly influenced by Tarzan and a black character in Andre Norton’s postapocalyptic SF novel Star Man’s Son—2250 AD. But Saunders’ number one influence was Robert E. Howard, through the Lancers. We get his first appearances in the Gene Day edited magazine Dark Fantasy, and the big break when Lin Carter selected an Imaro story for his Year’s Best Fantasy Stories (DAW, 1975). It was Don Wolleheim himself who encouraged Saunders to submit Imaro for consideration, and ultimately acceptance.

After DAW cancelled the series Saunders did not publish a single piece of fiction between 1990-99. He did write the screenplays for a couple admittedly terrible S&S films, Amazons and Stormquest, which allowed him to pay the bills. He also wrote a few works of nonfiction about local black history and boxing.

***

But beyond Saunders’ literary legacy we also get much on him the person. His college days during the rise of the Black Power movement. An attempted suicide in the 70s. The lifeline provided by his friends in letters, including the authors Charles De Lint and David C. Smith. With Smith Saunders mourned a joint loss of their early successes when their brand of “masculine fiction” fell from favor. We get the details of his marriage and its eventual failure. His work at the newspaper, Saunders’ raising his arms in triumph when CNNs’ Wolf Blitzer read on air his editorial about Canada sending ships to help the US during Hurricane Katrina. Lots of great details like this.

And we get Saunders’ fiction revival. His resurfacing after he was asked to submit a piece to the anthology Dark Matter. The republishing of his stories by Night Shade in the mid-2000s, which led Saunders to revisit the old Imaro stories and improve them. Tattrie walks us through Saunders’ work strengthening and deepening his characters, especially Imaro’s love interest Tanisha. “As he matured, Charles started treating fantasy not as a way out of our world, but as a deeper way into it,” Tattrie writes. Imaro begins to consider the feelings of others … “over time, core character traits reveal the man beneath the warrior.” Tattrie believes Saunders ultimately eclipsed Howard and his S&S roots by turning the focus of the stories from outer action to inner character revelation.

We get Night Shade’s disappointing cancellation of the series, but then the launch of Sword and Soul Media, and the first true visual depiction of Imaro on a cover that Saunders long imagined. In 2009, 25 years since his last new novel about Imaro, Saunders published his 4th and longest novel—Imaro: The Naama War, which brought with it a shift from the heroic fantasy of Imaro to a more epic storyline.

In short, To Leave a Warrior Behind is not just a biography, but important literary analysis. Analysis that along the way reveals striking parallels between creation and creator. Saunders, like Imaro, was deeply marked by the abandonment of his father and separation from his mother. Tatrie notes that he assembled the book by reading more than 250 letters over 50 years to a range of friends. Each letter was 3 pages, adding up to more than 700 pages of Charles writing about his life. In all that paper Saunders mentioned his father just once. When he fled to Canada to avoid the Vietnam War he largely left his mother behind, too.

Yet this is not a good guy/bad guy story… I’ll end my review here, I don’t want to spoil anything, as there are some big twists at the end. Read this book for yourself and you’ll walk away with brand-new insights into Saunders the man. I regret not meeting Saunders when I had the chance, but I feel like I did after reading To Leave a Warrior Behind. Which is about the highest praise I can give it.

The Tower and the Ruin by Michael D.C. Drout, a review

“Tolkien’s vision is deeply and essentially true, and it gives shape and meaning to the grief and loss that is our common and inescapable inheritance as humans incarnate in time.”

--Michael D.C. Drout, The Tower and the Ruin

As a 52-year-old with more of my life in the rear-view mirror than the road ahead, I find myself looking back on fond memories as much as forward. I think of growing up in the 1980s, which for me meant marathon sessions of Dungeons and Dragons at the kitchen table with friends, afternoon-consuming sessions of Atari 2600 with my brother and cousin, and of course, getting lost in the pages of J.R.R. Tolkien.

Those days are gone, irretrievably, save only in the wells of memory. When I recall them now they are accompanied with intense pangs of nostalgia. They are broken remnants of past glories, even if the artifacts remain.

Towers, and ruins.

A tower and a ruin makes for a powerful symbolic contrast and one author Michael D.C. Drout puts to full effect in this new work of Tolkien scholarship. The Tower and the Ruin (2025, Norton) is a striking blend of deeply personal memory and reflection, sharp intellectual rigor, and voluminous engagement with what is now a great breadth of published Tolkien scholarship. 

Drout tells us how Tolkien forever changed the course of his life, then sets out to show us how Tolkien’s works (principally The Hobbit, The Silmarillion, and LOTR) achieve their potent spell through literary effect. In somewhat of a surprise Drout dispels the myth that Tolkien set out to create a mythology for England, arguing this common refrain is a misread by Tolkien’s principal biographer Humphrey Carpenter. Instead, Drout writes that Tolkien sought to create works of literary art … “that would produce in their readers some of the same effects that the works of medieval literature produced in him.”

The Lord of the Rings is great for many reasons, but among them for evoking the feeling that you are in a world of tremendous depth and history. It feels real, and lived in, like inhabiting a “coherent, consistent, deeply fascinating world … glimpses of a large history in the background.” We can feel this when we read him. Tolkien achieves this effect by layering in references to older ages of Middle-earth, evocative names, and even inconsistencies, all of which combine to produce the effect of displacement and historicity that we get from reading something like Beowulf. Drout explains how this is done with Tolkien’s use of intertextuality; for example writing the chapter “The Council of Elrond” through the telling of a number of implied histories shared by the tellers, all of whom have their own unique voice and viewpoints informed by their unique cultures and races. Tolkien drew on old medieval sources but also sophisticated literary techniques like patterning, interlace, and “heterotextuality,” or the illusion of a story told by multiple authors (Bilbo and Frodo and the fictitious “Red Book of Westmarch”). These create the effects of “textual ruins.” Literal ruins like the tumbled Tower of Amon-Sul, but also the feeling that this is a Third Age which of course means two prior Ages, greater Ages, preserved in song and tales of Beren and Luthien and Turin. It all creates per Drout “the convincing illusion that the work has a long and complex composition and transmission history rather than merely being the creation of a single Oxford professor in the twentieth century.”

Some of this I knew through the likes of the scholarship of Tom Shippey, but some was new to me including Drout’s examination of Tolkien’s deliberate use of racism among the Elves as a motivating force in the narrative of The Silmarillion and to a lesser degree, LOTR and The Hobbit. Drout makes a convincing case that the Elves’ rigid racial hierarchies led to internecine conflicts and great tragedies and helped speed their downfall. See the Kinslaying at Alqualondë and its conflict of Noldorin Elves, led by the prideful Fëanor, vs. the Telerin Elves. This also serves as an interesting counterpoint to modern critiques of Tolkien’s perceived racism; per Drout Tolkien was not only very aware of the pernicious effects of racism but actively grappled with it in his works. 

I found myself nodding along to Drout’s summary that the problems of death and immortality, and the critical importance of individual freedom, are all front and center themes of Tolkien’s works. Even as I learned and/or reinforced what I knew, I found myself not always seeing eye-to-eye with Drout  … but I can’t stress enough how much I enjoyed the act of mental dialogue and sparring.

For example, I really wish Drout—a professor of English at Wheaton College, who not only specializes in Anglo-Saxon and medieval literature but also science fiction and modern fantasy--would read more sword-and-sorcery. He lists early examples of fantasy that add reality and verisimilitude to their works through replicating the feel of old medieval texts, and to his credit gives props to the likes of H. Rider Haggard, William Morris and Walter Scott … but somehow ignores Robert E. Howard, who employed the same “pseudo references” for which he gives so much to credit to Tolkien. Howard not only incorporated his own pseudo references like the Books of Skelos but also incorporated Lovecraft’s pseudo references … which I suppose makes him a pseudo-pseudo referencee/referencer. Like Tolkien Howard also used our real world to frame his fictitious Hyborian Age. Steve Tompkins considers Howard and Tolkien the Two Towers of fantasy with only a short distance between. I agree; the towers and ruins they’ve left behind leave us in awe.

Speaking of Tompkins, one of the things that drew me to Drout was his essay in The Silmarillion: Thirty Years On. Steve’s mention of that essay on The Cimmerian website led me to track it down. You can read my review/experience of that here. Drout’s essay is intensely personal, a recollection of his first encounter with The Silmarillion which he received as a Christmas present in December of 1977. He had just moved from New York to a suburb of Boston, Massachusetts (my neck of the woods, incidentally). That winter the region was hit with the Blizzard of 1978. In addition to the suffocating snows the nine year-old Drout was coping with his parents’ impending divorce and separation from his friends, family, and childhood home. 

Yet paradoxically the bleakness of The Silmarillion and its terrible scenes of carnage and defeat (The Battle of Unnumbered Tears, the Fall of Gondolin) served as a salve for Drout, who learned in its pages the value of courage and resilience and of exhibiting tenacity in defeat. Drout also learned that nostalgia is a genuine emotion worthy of exploration, not of shame, as it is a part of the spectrum of the human condition. 

As Steve wrote, with his typical poetic sensibility:

We humans aren’t as lucky (or is it unlucky?) as Tolkien’s Elves, but Valinors of sorts are available to us, be they the green-gold stun grenade of a spring day, the Polaroid poignance of that one page it might be easier to skip in the photo album, or a chance hearing of a long-ago hit single that ruled the airwaves all during one of those cusp-between-adolescence-and-adulthood summers when possibility and probability were still in equipoise.

In The Tower and the Ruin Drout expands on that essay, but abandons “nostalgia” for the term Heimweh, a German word meaning “home pain” and originally a medical diagnosis. I won’t quibble overmuch with Heimweh… except to say I think nostalgia is a fine word, it signifies something you long for but can never reach. I believe it still fits for how I feel when reading Tolkien, even if it’s been corrupted. We can’t let word corrupters take our language and adapt with constant new (or old) terminology. That’s like playing whack-a-mole.

Anyone who has followed me for any length of time knows how much I detest “Epic Pooh,” which is more or less uniformed teen angst (in fact, Moorcock only read LOTR once, as a teenager, by his own admission). Why anyone gives it any weight beyond the author’s name and some misguided appeal to “authority” eludes me. Drout doesn’t address that essay precisely but he does craft a perfect takedown of its overwrought claims. Here I slightly paraphrase:

“It must be, instead, that there is something about Tolkien’s work that triggers a critical blindness or a perverse reflex to claim the opposite of the truth. I think I can identify one of the major factors. The standard, cliched twentieth-century rejection of any works of literature that depict humanity and its works as being substantially good and beautiful and thus worthy of preservation is to call them “fairy-tales,” with the implication that such are just simple, happy stories that only children would believe.”

There is also a particularly choice and delicious shot at postmodernism and the misguided belief that there is no such thing as good and evil, only power, among some of the intellectual elite… but I won’t spoil it ere.

The Tower and the Ruin is Drout’s first book on Tolkien and ultimately it is mostly for the Tolkien nerd, perhaps more than I was anticipating, mainly because it is in conversation with and builds upon the work of other Tolkien scholars and in particular Tom Shippey. Drout owes a sizable debt to Shippey; you could say this book is built on the textual ruins of Shippey’s groundbreaking scholarship. There is some direct recapitulation of Shippey’s work including his theory of how bourgeois Bilbo vs. the older epic world he encounters gives The Hobbit its unique power. But this is not a critique of Drout; every Tolkien scholar since The Road to Middle-earth is in Shippey’s debt. Drout also references and interprets the likes of Verlyn Fleiger, John Garth, Gergely Nagy, and Thomas Hillman. He’s responding to critics, not just the source texts, which is what any good critic should do. In fact, if you’re looking to get into Tolkien scholarship The Tower and the Ruin is a good place to begin that epic quest; Drout references a number of essays and critical works to take you ever deeper into the whys and hows of JRRT. 

But, this makes The Tower and the Ruin predominately a work for hardcore Tolkien-heads/scholar-types, and less so a broadly popular/mainstream accessible work. I thought it would be more of the latter; I’m not disappointed because I am a Tolkien nerd but I wanted even more of Drout’s experiences as a child escaping from the arguments of his near-divorced parents to his snow and ice castle of Nargothrond. And a pair of terribly sad personal losses, which I won’t spoil here but Drout describes with some haunting, beautiful writing. 

That we do get these personal experiences in The Tower and the Ruin is quite unique. Scholars don’t do this; academic writing is a unique beast, with its own norms and codes. Drout bravely puts his own ruins on display alongside the tower of Tolkien’s art, which makes me grateful we have The Tower and the Ruin. 

Read it.

Here’s an interview with Drout focused on The Tower and the Ruin you might want to check out.

On seeing bands, of which you have no familiarity, live: A night with Opeth and Katatonia

Somewhere around 1998 I stopped keeping up with new heavy metal. I could not tell you precisely why, only that I gave up the ghost somewhere between Megadeth’s Cryptic Writings (June 1997) and Bruce Dickinson’s The Chemical Wedding (September 1998). It had nothing to do with those fine albums, just where I was with my widening life and shifting interests. And possibly, the rise of nü-metal (God I hate even typing those words, and the ridiculous umlaut, which those bands don't deserve).

No need for mourning, I had a good run. I fell in love with metal around 1987 and for a decade devoured everything I could: classic NWOBHM, thrash, progressive metal, power metal. Even though I very much preferred Maiden, Priest and Metallica I was a sponge, promiscuously consuming the new bands my friends recommended, or whatever caught my ear on Headbanger’s Ball or 107.3 WAAF.

Until suddenly, I stopped. 

What does that mean? I have huge gaps that will likely never be filled. An undeveloped metal palette, unable to appreciate the full breadth and complexity of the genre (which to the uninitiated has massive variety, from top 40 bubblegum hair metal bands to incomprehensible wall of angry sound death metal).

Yeah, I’ve got holes. One of which is shaped like an “O.”

Anyone here an Opeth fan?

Queuing up for the unknown...

I saw these guys last night at the Orpheum in Boston and started filling in some gaps. 

Now I’m not a total Opeth rube; I’ve heard snippets of them here and there. I certainly knew of them. I can’t say the same for opening act Katatonia, the first bars of which I heard in my friend Dana’s car on the drive in.

In case you’re wondering both are Swedish metal acts that have been around since the early 1990s. But looking back it all makes sense; Opeth’s debut album Orchid was not released in the United States until June 1997, somewhere around the start of my new and (nü) metal absence.

Love that stylized "O"

Did I enjoy the show? Yes. Interestingly both bands have death metal roots, a subgenre I don’t enjoy, but Opeth is now properly classified as progressive. They can get quite heavy and lead singer Mikael Åkerfeldt busted out the cookie monster growl on many songs. But the majority of their stuff was chill-ish, heavy and with a great groove but overlaid with clean, mellow, even soft-spoken vocals.

I’d classify Opeth as atmospheric and moody prog metal, creating a vibe akin to entering the vast pagan forests of pre-Christian Europe. I dug Katatonia too, which had a similar feel, and a damned cool backdrop of a deer with sentient eyes wreathed in ghostly flame.

I can’t give a proper review of course because I knew no songs and still don’t. Instead I chose to focus on the sound and the experience. It was nice seeing more (and more attractive) chicks than a typical metal show.

Am I going to become a raging Opeth fan? Will I track down their back catalog, binge Opeth YouTube videos, join an Opeth Reddit page? 

No.

But maybe I’ll check out Ghost Reveries (2005), which Dana recommended after I inquired about his favorite album.

We’ll see. I do know it made for a fun and different and interesting night.

Dig around in your past, see the band of which you're unfamiliar, if the opportunity presents itself.

Dana (at right) and I.

Against the Demon World by Dave Ritzlin, a review

(Note: I was given an advance reading copy of this book, which comes out next week.)

It was a life of little but feeding, fighting, and fornicating, but Avok found it a good one. Which was just as well, because he could neither recall nor conceive of any other.

--Against the Demon World, Dave Ritzlin

Yes, that demon has a spiked metal head.

A plain truth about sword-and-sorcery: It can be elevated and thoughtful and literary …but most often you’ll find it spraying arterial blood in gladiatorial pits, or rolling around between the sheets with a lusty demoness.

Dave Ritzlin’s new novel Against the Demon World is this. 

It’s the second standalone novel by the publisher of DMR Books, and the first full-length work of his I’ve read.

If you like classic old-school muscular S&S, you’ll like it.

***

The story opens with two dudes in leather kilts and boots going on an ogre hunt. Straight in, no foreplay, into a well-rendered fight scene. Their names are Kratorr and Avok. Hard, muscular, badass. They fit the story.

Ritzlin tells the tale with a straightforward, easy to read prose style, sprinkled with some Clark Ashton Smith like vocabulary: Fuliginous, trilithon, strophium, sanguineous. But just lightly sanguineous, like sprinkled drops of blood. He’s also not afraid to use exclamation points.

And “thews,” which appears in these pages early and often.

Against the Demon World wears its influences on its sleeve. REH, ERB, CAS, and Lin Carter, predominantly. We have a CAS-esque Fount of Invigorating Flame. But the overall feel seems to owe most to Burroughs, with the demon-world a fantasy stand-in for his red planet of Mars. Weird races everywhere, weird tech. Half-living sky ships with pterodactyl-like wings.

We get Manowar references. The god Agloran, aka.  “The Hammer,” whose worshippers honor him with the Sign of the Hammer. We even get a “leave the hall!” commandment, barked at the cultists of Iljer. Us Manowar fans will know.

And of course, it’s loaded with S&S tropes. Demon worshipping cults? Orgies? Blood sacrifice? Check, check, check. “Human sacrifices were required for said rituals, as they invariably are where demons are concerned.” An unironic observation by Dave. Thunderdome like gladiator fights? Check these, too.

Who is our man Avok? He’s a hybrid Conan and Thongor. He worships Agloran at a Crom-like distance, and abides by a rough moral code of behavior (he dislikes stealing from honest men and doesn’t force himself on women, though he certainly accepts their ardent advances).

The plot is basic: Avok finds himself an unwilling pawn in a war between the barbaric free peoples of Cythera vs. the Cult of Iljer (“Hail Iljer!”). The latter wishes to convert and enslave all of Nilztiria’s free races. Avok’s sister’s entrapped immortal soul is the ransom, keeping Avok compliant. The conflict widens; Avok is pressed into something much more than typical S&S self-interest; returning runaway slaves trapped in the demon world to their homes in Nilztiria, where they can live freely and walk in daylight. 

But make no mistake, this is beefy men’s fiction, all the way. Easy reading. Action-packed. Mortal peril, demon-summoning, fight after fight. Fun! And funny:

Heltorya leaned forward, scrutinizing Avok with her lush jade-green eyes. “What is that jutting from his body? It appears erect.”

Avok glanced down at his crotch before realizing she was referring to the tentacle. It must have sprung to life recently without his awareness.

Nilztiria is a loose anagram for Ritzlin which I assume is deliberate. Dave gives his created world color and life through epigraphs leading off each chapter, written by a sorcerous chronicler. I like this device; it offers short dabs of world-building flavor that never detracts from the action. If Nilztiria feels a little generic, the demon world of Uzz is wildly imaginative. Here are egg-headed snake monsters, demons like spiky monkeys, wasps the size of mantichores wielding weapons in their tails. Gorgeous demon women who bathe in the distilled tears of their prisoners? Yep, that too. 

Here’s a description of one of my favorite demons:

This bestial specimen possessed the head and arms of a black bear, and a pair of squamous limbs which resembled headless snakes emanated from its hips. The lower half of its body was coated entirely in some type of scummy fungus. As it pulled itself aboard, it opened its jaws to emit incongruously high-pitched peals of laughter.

Avok’s chief opponent is Nelgasthros, a demon with a spiked metal head (this appendage can be used to parry sword blows. Cool). When Avok wants to ram his vengeance down the demon’s throat, his love interest quips that will be difficult, as Nelgasthros lacks a visible mouth. “Then I’ll make a few holes in the bastard’s head,” Avok replies. 

This is fun stuff, entertainment as fiction’s purpose (which by the way was Burroughs’ mantra). 

We read these kind of stories because they’re fun. Dave never takes grim matters too seriously: 

They were certainly an odd-looking crew, Avok thought: nearly two dozen hairy, disheveled men and women who appeared as if they knew not the touch of civilization, alongside a proud, noble lady whose captive was a full-bosomed demoness, all following a man with a thrashing tentacle extending from the base of his skull. Avok could not help but laugh, for it was his nature to find humor in the absurd, even when struggling to overcome grave danger as he was now.

I appreciated Dave’s small but steady injection of humor. We get high school locker-room, bro-like conversation about how to attract a woman. Avok is an unwilling mediator in a fight between two bickering women, one a princess, the other a demoness, rife with petty jealousies and insecurities and sexual tension. 

Avok stifled a chuckle. In a way, he was living out every man’s dream, sharing a bed with two beautiful women. When he returned to Cythera, he might boast of the feat to his friends. True, one was unconscious due to an injury, and the other was an evil monster, but he could leave out those details.

As is often the case with villains I found the demoness Heltorya the most compelling character. She possesses no morality, and views life (if she is even capable of self-reflection) as a thing upon which she can sate her lusts, consume and spit out the remnants.

“So the only measure of a living creature’s worth is how you can exploit it?” asked Avok.

“Of course,” said Heltorya. “Is that not self-evident?”

***

OK, Enough Talk! 

(BTW this line from Conan the Destroyer appears in the book; I use it here to cut to the chase).

Against the Demon World is muscular and fun. Good Saturday afternoon reading with a 6 pack of Miller High Life type of fun. At a breezy 200 pages and a top-notch cover illustration you won’t go wrong.

If you don’t like this muscular style of S&S, great—there’s plenty elsewhere to be found.

Kudos to Dave for telling a good story and for keeping this brand of S&S alive longer than any other publisher. 

Jack by Andrew Sinclair, a review

Andrew Sinclair’s Jack (1977) is my first foray into the biography of a writer I consistently place in my top 10 favorites.

I greatly enjoyed it.

I don’t think it’s perfect. I wanted more analysis on the writing and impact of The Call the Wild and The Sea-Wolf, which I think every lover of adventure (that would be you, reader of this blog) should read. At 256 pages (albeit another 40 pages of notes and index), it feels a bit sleight on certain aspects of his life.

But what you do get in Jack is an unadorned look at London’s life, told by a dude with opinions. Jack is an even-handed corrective to the hagiography put out by London’s ex-wife and the baseless accusations of petty former friends. Sinclair is not afraid to criticize his subject. London had many defects as a person and Sinclair gives you those. But he also rightly places London as a greatly influential popular writer of occasional genius. 

I did not know the details of London’s life and death and Sinclair filled in some major gaps. For example, that he never knew his father and that absence dogged him his whole life. I knew London was a socialist but not as ardent as Jack reveals—nor as contradictory (London had ample cash and was not afraid to spend it lavishly and foolishly on himself and his retinue, not on socialist causes). Nor did I know London stepped away from socialism at the end of his life as well as his Spencerian beliefs in life as a biological survival of the fittest, and turned toward the mythography of Carl Jung. I did not know that London purchased more than a thousand acres of farmland in California and threw way too much money at a schooner that was barely seaworthy, nor served as a journalist and war correspondent.

London lived the equivalent of nine lives, both literally and figuratively, in his short 40 years on the planet. He packed in rags, riches, romance, adventure, wealth, debt, fame, success, and failure in four decades. He lived. London had at best a love-hate relationship with the writing life. He wanted to live a life of adventure and preferred material existence and working with his hands over the examined internal life. Yet he lived both. He wrote tirelessly and incessantly, completing 20 novels and some 50 books over his lifetime. He was quite different but also shared much in common with Robert E. Howard. Howard greatly admired London and both consciously and unconsciously imitated him, both in his writing and his beliefs and even mannerisms. I’ve noticed this prior and Will Oliver aptly points out the similarities in his recent Howard biography, but Jack offers even more parallels to the careful Howard reader.

I loved in particular the closing five pages, which sum up London’s literary legacy and read as though they were written to me by a guy who understands London like I do.

I was pleased to see Sinclair address the Jack London literary revival of the 1960s and 70s, which began to resuscitate his tarnished reputation as a flawed Darwinian racist and/or a children’s writer of simple dog stories. London was an incredible influence on writers as diverse as Ernest Hemingway, H.L. Mencken, Henry Miller and Sinclair Lewis. He pioneered the clipped Hemingway style and the Hobo/beat novels for which Jack Kerouac is credited. He was an early pioneer of the science-fiction genre. But for decades it became unfashionable to admit he was a first-rate writer, one of America’s greatest. Influential critics including William Dean Howells sought to diminish any of his literary contributions, dismissing London as a hack writer of adventure stories, and it took good work by the likes of Earle Labor to set matters straight.

Sinclair sums up these unfair appraisals (not helped by London’s frequent dismissal of his own writing) as follows:

“It was unjust, because his life had been experimental and questing, so that his dismissal as a totalitarian or a children’s writer was absurd. He had been his own worst enemy in his insistence that he was merely a farmer who needed a lot of money for the land, and who lit after inspiration with a club; but such a self-denying ordinance should not have dimmed the mytho-poetic magnificence of some of his books … no critical onslaught on him could kill off the affection of the masses for whom he had always said that he wrote.”

Read this.

Sinclair puts his finger on the complex figure of London with this brilliant observation: “He had a dialectic of appetites without a synthesis of satisfaction … in his books, he often split himself into two opposing characters, because he lived so uneasily within his single personality. In The Sea-Wolf, he was both Wolf Larsen and Humphrey van Weyden, the brute ego in conflict with the social being.”

London was a racist and Sinclair does not hold back there, though a glance at Goodreads confirms that you must take book reviews with a healthy grain of salt. Some idiot on that platform gave Jack 2 out of 5 stars because Sinclair “Completely ignores the racist bent that is a sad and pathetic black mark on London's past.” This is utterly, demonstrably false, and I left a comment of correction that platform. Sinclair repeatedly criticizes London’s racism and Anglo-Saxon mythologizing. But then again idiots read books too.

Anyway, I recommend Jack for any serious reader of London who wants to learn more about the man himself. 

Against the Machine: On the Unmaking of Humanity by Paul Kingsnorth, and the need for lines

My neighbors (most of them) outsource their lawn care. They used to fertilize and cut their own lawns, maintain flower beds and gardens. Now that’s done by hired help, men with faster and more efficient machines. “It was taking too long, I’d rather use my time to do something else,” they say.

I am one of a shrinking number of holdouts. I like going outside, working with my hands. Compared to a trained landscaper I’m quite inefficient; two men crews buzz through a lawn in half the time or less with zero-turn lawnmowers and gas-powered leafblowers.

I don’t begrudge my neighbors their choice. I favor active, informed choices, and planning one’s life. But sometimes I wonder: What is the end game of efficiency? Should our goal be removal of all hard things? 

What happens if we could outsource everything? Every effort, including thinking, creativity?

What would that sort of society look like? My guess is it would feel mechanical, uniform, disconnected from the organic. 

Inhuman.

Life is not all about efficiency. Humans need to encounter resistance, do hard things, because these are often the most rewarding. Accomplishing hard things make us who we are.

Today that notion is starting to feel outdated, quaint. Our species is obsessed with ease, efficiency, quantification, improvement. We are increasingly hell-bent on these pursuits, regardless of the tradeoffs.

We are allowing machines to take over. The machine.

In Against the Machine: On the Unmaking of Humanity, author Paul Kingsnorth argues that the modern world is dominated by The Machine. We inhabit a world in which we have replaced our old myths with the Myth of Progress, a tale spun by the impersonal and unerring logic of circuitry. We have replaced spiritual beliefs with machine belief, that life is only material, that which is valuable is that which can be measured, quantified and can be “improved.”

***

The elves in J.R.R. Tolkien’s Middle-Earth viewed the world as an organic entity, a living thing worthy of preservation and beautification. They sought to preserve their natural surroundings. Trees were not resources to be harvested and processed, but nourished and shepherded. 

Conversely Saruman and his army of orcs saw the world not an as organism, but a mechanism. Their goal was to harvest nature, use its improvable elements to create a new and better reality made in the image of the machine.

The machine always needs more. More growth. More reach. 

I believe in the importance of myths, but I also recognize their limitations. Myths must be interpreted. They are subjective, open to more than one meaning. 

Almost everyone swallows The Myth of Progress, without hesitation. It says that history follows a straight line, from cavemen to peasant farmers to utopia. 

Have we made advances as a species? Of course. Anyone who fails to see our huge progress is delusional. I would not want to live in a world without electricity or modern medicine.

But how much is enough? Can there ever be enough? Are we allowed to talk about limits?

Certainly we understand there is a limit to how much ice cream we should eat, or alcohol we should drink. Too much of these are unhealthy. Even too much exercise will kill you.

But as for technology? We don’t seem to have guidelines. We have some dim idea that excessive screen time is undesirable. But we seem reluctant to pause, or certainly draw the line of “enough.”

And so we lose the battle to the black screen.

***

I admit this is hard, and the arguments for ever-progress, persuasive.

Where do you draw the line? At indoor plumbing? Trains, automobiles, aircraft? Telegraphs, telephones? Vaccines? Computers, the internet, smartphones? 

Advanced artificial intelligence, robotics, androids, artificial reality?

Far enough out and it seems the only options are soma and capitulation.

What is important is not precisely where to draw the line, but that we have one, or can even think of drawing one, Kingsnorth argues. Because when we draw lines we are demonstrating that we are human beings with self-determination. That we are bounded, and boundaries are a good thing.

Without boundaries we are formless voids. We fall out of touch with physical reality. Nature becomes just a math problem to solve. We are divorced from it and indifferent to the divine. We become our screens.

People, place, prayer, and the past, are our roots. Human beings have a nature. But in the machine age we are uprooted. We know something is wrong; half the planet is mad. The online world is on fire.

Kingsnorth advocates for something quite radical, for those able to do so.

Form local guerilla communities of dissidence. Smash your smartphone. Delete the internet. Burn the data centers.

Rebellion. Overthrow. Return to What Came Before.

Tolkien knew the One Ring had to be destroyed. Anyone who tried to use its power would be corrupted, even those with the best of intent would ultimately fall under its sway. 

AI adoption is shocking and disgusting. Humans ostensibly are in control and possessed of some modicum of free will, but with these gifts passively watch the virulent, viral like growth of a tech that destroys education, the environment, jobs, creativity, our very ability to distinguish truth from falsehood. It’s absolutely incredible to me. And yet here we are, like rabbits in Watership Down. We ignore the shining wire, the deadly trap, because the keeper of the wire keeps us well fed, safe, and “in charge.” We become willfully complicit in our own destruction.

We must rebel.

***

This is challenging book to read. You might be hurt. If you are a party adherent, of left or right persuasion, you will be offended. Kingsnorth takes on and takes apart identity politics and free market capitalism. He punches up against authoritarian impulses; he punches down against DEI initiatives.

I did not agree with his assessment of the COVID-19 vaccine, but so what? I’m a grown man.

Read it anyway. 

The questions it poses are ones we must grapple with. It’s a necessary live grenade in a land of stale thinking and blindness; we’re all complaining about politics and social sleights and online offenses when the real problem is machine culture.

While I don’t agree with all of Kingsnorth’s assertions and conclusions, where I am in full and vigorous agreement is the need to draw a line.

If you are unwilling to draw a line you don’t have one. Someone, or something, will fill that emptiness. Nature abhors a vacuum, so doom scrolling will fill it. Or AI.

The machine is doing this to us, more every day.

Do you have a line?

Mine is large language models for creative endeavors. Outsourcing my decision-making, my thinking, and myself, to a machine. I will not do it. My writing here is mine, and always will be.

***

In my creeping old(er) age I am cognizant of old man shouting at cloud syndrome. I strive to avoid reflexive negativity. I know we have made positive strides forward socially and technologically since my childhood and my early memories of the mid-late 1970s. I would not want to live in the pre-industrial age.

But when I see people everywhere hunched over screens, staring at hand-held boxes, consuming, I wonder. 

When I see AI derangement and manufactured news, I’m sure.

Technology and progress are not always synonymous. The Myth of Progress is just that. There is only Change, and some of it is good, some not.

***

I feel powerless, we all do, because we are some mixture of willing and unwilling participants in the machine. I used to write for a printed newspaper, now I write for algorithmic platforms that implore me to rewrite everything I type with AI. I write in ChatGPT wastelands of babble and emojis.

But this is how I feed and clothe my family. What are most of us to do, Kingsnorth asks?

The author moved his family out of his homeland of England and into rural Ireland, embracing farming, home schooling, and tech-restricted living.

Most of us aren’t in a position to do this. But we are all capable of the small rebellions.

Restrict your phone time.

Read paper books.

Meet with friends, in person.

Be in nature.

Worship.

How do we become indigenous again in the age of the machine?

Draw a line. 

Where is yours?

The Silver Key: 2025 in review

T-800s like it here... but people too.

Traffic to the blog EXPLODED in 2025.

Unfortunately some of it appears to be robots, likely using my posts to train LLMs. But robots are only part of the story. There are also a lot of fine folks who seem to like what I have to say here on the Silver Key. Lots of returning visitors, lots of comments. For which I remain very grateful.

I’ve got a lot to be grateful for on the writing front in 2025.

2026 will be the year of my heavy metal memoir. I spent a lot of time working on it behind the scenes. I shared it with three readers who appear in it and have taken their advice into consideration. Made a few changes. Re-read it after 3 months and rewrote quite a bit.  

The writing is done, I can’t make it any better nor tell the story I want to tell any more effectively. Next will be editing and cover design.

I’m in the process of helping my friend Tom Barber publish his memoir via Kindle Direct Publishing. I can’t wait to share more details about Tom’s book, which details the depths of his alcohol addiction, his travels out west, all lavishly illustrated with his own artwork. 

KDP is pretty easy to use and I’m near certain I will be using the same platform for my book.

It was a productive year for me on The Silver Key. This post is my 89th, the most I’ve published in a year since 2022, and my fourth highest annual output all-time. And as noted, traffic went through the roof.

People are somehow still visiting this archaic corner of cyberspace. As of this writing (Saturday, Dec. 20) I’ve had 71,000 views in 2025, up from 45,000 in 2024 and 29,000 in 2023. I expected to see traffic decline as folks use AI to find answers or information without going out to websites, but that’s not the case here.

I published broadly on heavy metal, sword-and-sorcery, reading trends, Arthuriana, and the war for our attention. All topics that interest me. All seemed to resonate.

My most popular post by far was a guest blogger writing about Rob Zombie.

Let’s take a look at the 20 most popular posts of 2025.

1. An interesting personal insight into Moorcock’s inspirations (733 views). I learned something new about the author of Elric and Corum during this podcast interview—his father left the family when Moorcock was quite young, and the experience left him with abandonment issues and separation anxiety. Could this have been a formative influence on his writing?
2. Celtic Adventures wrapup and on into Cimmerian September (760 views). I’ve read 40 books in 2025 including DMR’s Celtic Adventures. Highly recommend this title, if for nothing else than John Barnett’s “Grana, Queen of Battle.” A unbelievably cracking good bit of historical adventure written in 1913.
3. Rest in Peace James Silke (775 views). The author of the Death Dealer series left us in February, age 93. That reminds me I need to read and review book 4, Plague of Knives. As I’ve noted these are so bad they cross back over to good territory.
4. We're living in an outrage machine (776 views). I’m not a conspiracy theorist but I can say with certainty that most of the problems we have are not as large and certainly not apocalyptic as you’ve been led to believe by the media. Rather, your attention is monetized and fear and outrage sells.
5. The Empress of Dreams—an (overdue) appreciation of Tanith Lee (776 views). I’ve never given Tanith Lee her just due and this collection from DMR books reminds me I need to read more of her stuff. Master stylist and atmosphere-ist.
6. Rest in Peace, Howard Andrew Jones (783 views). Sad and terrible news about HAJ, who was taken from us far too early. His works will endure.
7. The Ring of the Nibelung/Roy Thomas and Gil Kane (791 views). I’m glad I picked up this wonderful graphic novel by a pair of comic book greats. Recommended as an easily digestible entry point to Richard Wagner’s classic opera.
8. Of pastiche and John C. Hocking’s Conan and the Living Plague (797 views). Anything I write about Conan or Robert E. Howard performs well. This is one of the better pastiches I’ve read, and here I weigh in on John C. Hocking’s book and what I like to see in pastiches in general.
9. Knightriders, a review (817 views). As a fan of all things King Arthur I can’t believe I’ve never watched this odd little film about modern “knights” on motorcycle horseback. Quirky and flawed but unique and recommended.
10. Cold Sweat, Thin Lizzy (855 views). I continue to say that Thin Lizzy has been unfairly pigeonholed as a one hit wonder. Forget The Boys are Back in Town, listen to Cold Sweat. It rocks.
11. Revisiting H.P. Lovecraft's "The Silver Key" (927 views). Wherein I revisit the story that gave this blog its name. There is no cause to value material fact over the content of our dreams. 
12. The Acts of King Arthur and His Noble Knights by John Steinbeck, a review (1033 views). I finally got around to reading Steinbeck’s treatment of the Athurian myth. Sadly unfinished but definitely worth reading.
13. Goodbye to Romance: Reflections on Black Sabbath, Back to the Beginning, and the end of the road (1036 views). Another sad loss this year; the death of Ozzy Osbourne and the end of the first heavy metal band. Am waiting on the release of their final concert on DVD.
14. Robert E. Howard, The Life and Times of a Texas Author (1039 views). Kudos to my friend Will Oliver on writing what may well prove to be the definitive biography of Robert E. Howard. A heroic amount of research. Pick this one up.
15. Martin Eden (1909), Jack London 1083 views. Speaking of Robert E. Howard, this great story by the great Jack London contains many striking parallels to his life. It's an incredibly powerful book on its own merits.
16. Reading is in trouble … what are we going to do about it? (1084 views). Reading is in serious decline and it saddens me. I don’t want to live in a world where we have no attention span and consume content no longer than Tweets and short-form video, though that is on our doorstep. Keep reading, and read to your children.
17. Paper books are better than digital: Five reasons why (1085 views). I’m still a paper-only reader, don’t even own a kindle. One day that may change… but it is not this day.
18. Bruce Dickinson at the House of Blues, Boston MA Sept. 11, 2025 (1182 views): Fantastic concert by the seemingly ageless singer of Iron Maiden, whom I had ever seen perform solo until this fall. Tears of the Dragon nearly brought me to tears.
19. Disconnect (1423 views). The best remedy for many of the above ills is to take a technology detox (except for coming to the Silver Key). Also RIP Robert Redford.
20. Celebrating Rob Zombie, graphic artist, at sixty (4,529 views)  Guest poster Deuce Richardson stole my thunder with the biggest runaway post of the year. Why did this one outperform? Its well written, about a famous performer … but I also suspect it’s because Deuce had me include so many images of Rob's art. These show up in searches and drive traffic. Something for me to consider in my own posts. Either way, nice job Deuce.

***

Anyway, if you’ve gotten this far thanks for reading the blog, today and all year long. I always welcome your comments and suggestions. 

Merry Christmas and I wish you a very fine 2026.

The Merman’s Children by Poul Anderson: A review

Anderson must have been pissed at the spelling of "Faery"

Did magic exist, once upon a time? Did the creatures of Faerie roam the deep woods, inhabit dark and lonely mountains, or swim beneath the ocean waves?

And if so, why did magic leave the world?

This is the premise of The Merman’s Children. I just wrapped up Poul Anderson’s 1979 novel last night, and my review is decidedly mixed.

To start: I’m a big Anderson fan. The Broken Sword resides somewhere in my favorite novels of all time. Not just fantasy novels, but novels period. Hrolf Kraki’s Saga is incredible as well, and don’t sleep on War of the Gods or his short stories from “The Tale of Hauk” to Cappen Varra. All highly recommended.

The Merman’s Children does not rise to these heights. It is far less savage than The Broken Sword though that’s no sleight; Vietnam in 1965 was less savage. But a meandering plot that lacks a propulsive narrative ultimately drags it down below his other fantasy efforts, to something of mediocre territory.

It’s mediocre Anderson … which still makes The Merman’s Children better than a lot of books you’ll read.

What’s to recommend? We get some pulse-heightening encounters with fearful and unique monsters, some well-done late medieval northern European atmosphere, and most of all an interesting examination of the question I posed to start this review:

Why do the myths of Faerie persist? Were mermen just a sailors’ fancy? Or might they have been real?

Anderson posits they were real, and Christianity ultimately drove them out. Anderson’s sympathies are clearly with faerie. Men are prejudiced, judgemental, and inflexible, constantly double-crossing and betraying the mer-people who want only to live and enjoy all of the pleasures of this world. This becomes doubly interesting if you view the mer-folk as metaphor for pre-Christian pagans, the Tuatha Dé Danann and the children of Odin crushed beneath the merciless heel of the followers of the one god. Says the merman king Vanimen: "I who've hunted narwhals under the boreal ice and had lemans that were like northlights ... no, I'll not trade that for your thin eternity." 

This concept been done before, by other authors and even Anderson himself (the coming of the “White Christ” in The Broken Sword), but never so directly as he does here. There is a great tension in the book between men and faerie. As beings made in the image of God the former are ostensibly bound for the paradise of a heavenly afterlife, and so priortize modesty and sacrifice in this world in order to ensure their passage to the next (though they often fail—humans suck). In contrast the mermen have no souls, so this world is their paradise, and they drink it all in. Despite its considerable perils they roam the seas with abandon and indolence. They are quite lusty, sleeping with everyone including other races and even brother and sister. They are also extremely long-lived, near immortal though they can be slain by violence. This makes them feel sufficiently otherworldly, not just comely human-like beings with webbed hands and feet wielding tridents.

Though not as otherworldly as I’d like. Anderson’s mermen are in my opinion not strange enough; their undersea realm falls short of the enchanted lands of The King of Elfland’s Daughter or the perilous realms of Middle-Earth. To be fair their world lies within our world, and so it should feel more familiar. And it does. You can feel the old world giving way to new, and mourn the creatures of faerie fading into legend. Many submit to baptism and forget their past, and are bred out of existence. Anderson gives us a wonderful lament of the passing of the era in the song of the whales, whose mournful language the mermen understand: 

The seasons come and the seasons go,

From the depths above to the depths below,

And time will crumble our pride and grief

As the waves wear even the hardest reef.

The Broken Sword bears none of Tolkien's influence (it could not; both were published in 1954). Anderson was certainly deeply read of the wellspring myths and like JRRT drew on those, not secondary sources. But, by the time of The Merman’s Children he had certainly read The Lord of the Rings and the novel feels quite Tolkienian, even though it is based on the Danish ballad, “Agnete og Havmanden (Agnete and the Merman)." Like Anderson Tolkien greatly admired the pagan heroes of old, and wondered at their ultimate fate, unbaptized and unshriven and therefore presumably doomed to perish forever. But maybe not… there are some gleams of hope in the novel. I won’t spoil the ending but the story ends on a poignant note familiar to readers of LOTR.

Portions of The Mermen's Children appeared in Lin Carter’s Flashing Swords series and I feel like that is part of its problem. It is a series of interesting scenes and concepts patched together with a narrative too gauzy to support a 260 page novel. The plot is quite basic: A priest performs an exorcism on the mermen’s undersea kingdom causing them to flee for new lands in the New World. When the mermen splinter and the narrative splits, neither group is given sufficient attention and we lose urgency and interest. Or at least I did.

A couple other notes.

I sometimes get asked about borderline novels and whether they fit in my preferred subgenre. Is The Merman’s Children S&S? I don’t find a whole lot of use in that question, but I’d say, no. Its cast of characters, high fantasy feel, multi-year narrative, and relative lack of action pushes it in the category of general fantasy. But it does have some S&S DNA in it (the word “thews” is used at least twice, for those keeping score at home). A chapter like “The Tupilak,” in isolation, is S&S, which makes it a fit for Flashing Swords, but as a novel it probably isn’t.

The late Howard Andrew Jones thought S&S was all about pacing; The Merman’s Children takes its time building a world, and its emphasis is on theme, not action. This is not to say S&S can’t have theme; Howard’s Conan stories had an underlying theme of civilization vs. barbarism. But never at expense of action.

I have to mention the cool run-in with a Vodianoi, an underwater version of an umber hulk. I can’t be sure if this is the chief inspiration for the Dungeons and Dragons monster but it seems possible.  Gary Gygax was inspired to use the green skinned regenerating trolls and plucked the paladin character class from the pages of Anderson’s Three Hearts and Three Lions. There's also a great encounter with a kraken.

The sexual violence in the novel probably warrants a reader beware message.

Stephen King's Cujo, a review

I believe that, whenever he pens his last novel and his complete literary corpus can be properly appraised, Stephen King will go down as more than just a shock horror author with popular appeal.

King does nasty shocks well—see “Survivor Type” for the ultimate example—but there is more going on in most of his stories than mere horror and spectacle. And a lot more authorial skill. King understands what makes people tick, both internally and in interpersonal relationships, and makes people come alive on the printed page. 

While he may lack the grand ideas of an H.P. Lovecraft or the atmosphere and style of an Edgar Allan Poe, King is a superior character writer.  We understand his universe of fear, even at its wildest, and we feel the same emotions as his characters, because we recognize ourselves in them.

Sandwiched between The Dead Zone (1979) and Firestarter (1980), The Running Man (1982) and The Gunslinger (1982)—stories of protagonists with supernatural mind powers, some set in far-flung futures or postapocalyptic other worlds—Cujo (1981) is in comparison earthly and corporeal, with only traces of the supernatural creeping in at the edges.

The story is set in Castle Rock, King’s finely-wrought fictitious small town in Maine that is home to all manner of horror. But Cujo is not just small-town horror, it’s small-time horror. A story of a rabid dog, and the damage human weakness can wreak on a family.

Horrors sneak up on us when we least expect them. When everything looks fine, and settled, and placid, boredom sets in. We seek novelty, excitement. The opportunity presents itself, and we take it.

Innocence is shattered.

We can try to trace back the reasons why, but often it’s just ill luck.

Or it seems to be.

A married woman, bored and looking ahead at a prosaic and unfulfilling life as a housewife, falls for a transient tennis instructor in a chance meeting.

A massive Saint Bernard sticks its snout into a hole connected to an underground cave and disturbs a bat, and suffers a bite on its snout. Says King, “He had been struck by something, possibly destiny, or fate, or only a degenerative nerve disease called rabies. Free will was not a factor.” Interestingly however Cujo seems to become more than just thoughtless animal inflicted with disease; his eyes are red and full of rage, possessed of something like malice, a murderous intent.

These (random?) events set in motion four days of terror and a relentless finish to the novel. On a placid, hot week in August it all comes to a head as Cujo begins a murderous rampage, dripping foam and blood. A car mechanic and a cop fall victim to his deadly jaws.

Cujo is a fine, tightly plotted little novel and packs some genuine scares, many of them lurking in the closet of four-year-old Tad Trenton. These scenes reminded me of King’s “The Boogeyman,” for my money one of his most terrifying short stories. I recall being terrified of the dark as a kid, and seeing strange shadows move in the light cast by my feeble nightlight, and shivering under the covers. I felt them again here.

I enjoyed the return of Frank Dodd, a serial killer/sexual predator cop who is identified by Johnny Smith, the clairvoyant protagonist of The Dead Zone. Dodd commits suicide before he can be brought to justice, and his ghost continues to haunt Castle Rock in the pages of Cujo. This adds a bit of interesting inter-novel world building to the book.

Tad has premonitions of Cujo/Dodd in the shapes in the recesses of his closet, but he also senses there is something wrong within his seemingly idyllic family. Tad’s father, Vic, pens his son “Monster Words” to keep away the bad dreams and reads them to his son nightly in a totemic ritual.

But words aren’t enough to keep away the real monsters.

Donna and Tad are trapped in a Pinto in the blazing August heat as Cujo waits them out (good thing the 200-pound dog didn’t ram the rear-end of the car, else it would have exploded). Donna she watches her son slowly slip into convulsions from dehydration. Eventually it comes down to it—she must emerge from the confines of the car to wage a hopeless battle against her deepest fear.

Donna’s final showdown with Cujo in a dusty driveway armed with a taped and splintered bat approaches the showdown of Eowyn and the Witch King on the fields of Pelennor. I love this bit of epic description by King; “high wine and deep iron” was unexpected:

Donna cried out in a high, breaking voice and brought the bat down on Cujo’s hindquarters. Something else broke. She heard it. The dog bellowed and tried to scramble away but she was on it again, swinging, pounding, screaming. Her head was high wine and deep iron. The world danced. She was the harpies, the Weird Sisters, she was all vengeance—not for herself, but for what had been done to her boy.

What has been done to her boy… is it Cujo or her own domestic horror come home to roost?

The 70s were weird, man: Darrell Schweitzer’s We Are All Legends

Sometimes the 1970s seem not so far away. Photos from my childhood confirm I was there; my old albums and books are a tangible affirmation. I can still see and touch that decade, I can smell it when I riff through the pages of my old first edition Dungeon Masters Guide (1979).

But the 70s are also a different, distant country. Things were Weirder then, or at least seemed that way. I don’t believe in ascribing magical properties to arbitrary 10-year windows of time other than to say that if the 60s were the decade of rebellion, the 70s, freed of shackles, were a decade of expression and experimentation.

With the demise of censorship codes and the rise of talented young directors we got some of the best films ever made in the 1970s. Record labels gave unpolished artists the financial freedom and a lengthy creative leash to experiment. The result was heavy metal, punk, … and disco (mistakes were made).

Fantasy fiction was likewise Weird. We had yet to become Sword of Shannara-fied and reading endless series of identical epic quests.

I was listening to a recent episode of the Geeks’ Guide to the Galaxy podcast discussing Flame and Crimson and the history of sword-and-sorcery. Somewhere around the one-hour mark one of the guests—a co-creator of the fine rotoscoped animated S&S film The Spine of Night—observed that the 70s and 80s were possessed of quality where it felt the “guard rails were off” and a reader or viewer felt that anything might happen.

I admire this quality. 

Give me Weird. 

S&S has a streak of this. Weird fiction predates sword-and-sorcery, originating with Edgar Allan Poe and carried on with Arthur Machen and Algernon Blackwood and H.P. Lovecraft. But it was married to swordplay, probably, with the likes of Lord Dunsany, then continued in works by A. Merritt and Clark Ashton Smith, and on into Jack Vance, Michael Moorcock, Tanith Lee, and Michael Shea. Today you’ll see it in John Fultz and Schuyler Hernstrom, and others.

It’s always been in S&S’ DNA. Howard’s Kull of Atlantis stories, in particular “The Mirrors of Tuzun Thune” and “Striking of the Gong,” are in this tradition. Weird, brooding, dark, unsettling, introspective. They are the heritage of Weird Tales, the magazine from which S&S was born. If you abide by even a floor definition, its name, S&S needs swords (or a general medieval/pre gunpowder level of tech) and sorcery. Sorcery is not magic. It’s wild, dangerous, malevolent, often catastrophic to user as much as target. Think of a Neanderthal handling a hand grenade and trying to figure out whether to throw pin or charge; that’s sorcery. That’s Weird.

In that era a series of weird S&S stories appeared across publications now largely lost to time. Whispers. Void. Alien Worlds. Fantasy Tales. Weirdbook. These died out in the 80s as high fantasy rose to ascendancy, magic replaced sorcery, and the short story fell out of favor, replaced by epic quest. But for a time weird stories about weird characters drifted through these lost pages, including a wandering knight named Julian.

Darrell Schweitzer’s We Are All Legends collects 13 short stories published between 1970 and 1981. It’s a weird, wonderful little book. The stories take place in medieval Europe but of an uncertain date and place, with permeable borders. Magic has not left the world. It’s studded with Arthurian references, of wounded fisher kings and Merlin and Excalibur, even though its decidedly S&S. It’s dark, both in tone but also subject matter. Julian is haunted by his past sins. He believes he is beyond redemption, his faith in God irrevocably shaken, possibly shattered. “God” if there is one appears to be gnostic demiurge, a flawed, limited, and possibly malevolent creator:

I knew that if God is mad, and the signs show that he is, his Foe is mad also, and there can be no hope for the world between them, for creation is but a battleground for two maniacs in their death struggle.

We Are All Legends ticks a lot of my boxes. Obviously S&S, but also King Arthur, horror (some of these stories appeared in DAW Year’s Best Horror). Stories of anti heroes, even ostensibly peerless knights, grappling with a loss of faith and their own brokenness:

“When I was a child I heard about a man, a very, very old man, whose father had been a werewolf. So they took him, the son, whose father had been a werewolf, and shut him up in a tower. He remained there always, never knowing love, never knowing life. I, too, live in a tower, only mine is invisible and I carry it around with me. Its walls are just as strong though.”

“Are you a werewolf then?”

“Only in my heart.”

Purple and awesome.

Schweitzer would have been in his mid-late 20s writing these stories, which is remarkable. He is very underrated, by me and the community at large, though this YouTuber is a huge fan of the book.  

Schweizer confirmed on a Facebook post by Charles Gramlich that the two biggest influences on these stories were Ingar Bergman’s 1957 film, “The Seventh Seal,” and “The Travels of Sir John Mandeville,” a 14th century travelogue (reportedly true) of an English knight into the middle and far east. It doesn’t seem The Life of Sir Aglovale de Galis is among its influences, but We Are All Legends feels something like Clemence Housman’s fine, near forgotten little tale, and its damned, forsaken, wandering knight, a tragic hero. I also noted the influence of Michael Moorock; a possible reference to Corum and the Hand of Kwll. Julian’s wanderings resemble something of a tormented Elric seeking the equilibrium of Tanelorn.

Fabian...

In addition to a fine series of stories the book is blessed with Stephen Fabian illustrations. These are terrific, both the wraparound cover and the wonderful black and white interior accent work. Weaknesses? It is tiring to read all at once; while I am happy having all the Sir Julian stories in one volume, some collections need to be dipped into and sampled from rather than read entire; eating too much rich food or red wine can spoil the effect. Perhaps too much repetition of theme, tone. Some of the stories are perhaps a little too weird for my tastes, untethered to the ground. I feel like this book could have used some more internal character work.

… but that is not what Schweitzer was after. He is of the belief fantasy is examining internal conflicts through explicit, external struggles against real-world demons. From an interview on Black Gate: 

In your estimation what are the elements that make truly great fantasy fiction? Truly great horror? Is “weird fiction” more than simply a co-mingling of these two genres?

The point of much fantasy is to deal with mythic elements directly, rather than through symbol and metaphor only. You could, for example, write a story about someone who “sells his soul” and makes a “Faustian bargain,” i.e. he sacrifices his personal integrity in an irretrievable manner for some dubious goal-say, success in the Mafia, or in Hollywood, or in politics. It needn’t have any fantastic content, and the Faust symbolism would resonate. But the fantasist’s approach is to bring the actual demon on stage and deal with the material directly.

Schweitzer is a former Weird Tales editor, living elder scholar, and longtime champion of the weird, you can find more of his observations here. Here’s a bit of his learned commentary on the weird and my response.

Of genre categories:

These categories are ultimately marketing tools. Horror is what is published as horror. Fantasy is what is published as fantasy. It’s all about labels and which shelf in the bookstore a book is displayed on. Aesthetically, the distinction is not particularly meaningful.

Believe it or not I an S&S historian agree with some of this. Genre categories began as marketing tools and probably function best that way, less so than tools of analysis. However, I do think having genre parameters or aesthetic template to follow, bend, or break, can produce surprising results and possibly great original art. As can deliberate mixing of genres. 

Of the greatness of Tanith Lee (agreed here; we need more Tanith Lee in this world):

Tanith Lee strikes me as the perfect Weird Tales writer, which is probably why WT has published more by her than anyone else. Her work is poetic, sensual, scary, imaginative, erotic if it needs to be. She’s got everything. 

And a final hell yeah; I could not agree more with his assessment of the winner take all state of publishing, death of the midlist author, and our need to cultivate more readers:

Forty years ago, you could assume anything in SF/fantasy would sell more like thirty to fifty thousand copies in mass-market paperback without even trying. Just slap the right kind of cover on it and it would sell this acceptable minimum. Well, maybe the ceiling on genre fiction has come off, and today you get an Anne McCaffrey or a Stephen King who can sell millions of copies, but we have also lost the floor, which protected us. Now the major publishers are only interested in writers who have the potential to be the next McCaffrey or King, not the interesting mid-list writers who are worth publishing for what they are, even if they never will sell a million copies — the Davidsons and Laffertys. We have lost our innocence. Once it was demonstrated that SF/fantasy/horror could go to the top of the bestseller lists, anything that doesn’t is now viewed as a failure by those faceless, impersonal Suits who control corporate publishing.

… The U.S.A. has a population of three hundred million. Two thousand copies is not a lot. We have a reading public the size of Luxemborg’s. What any genre needs to stay healthy is more readers and a means of reaching them.

A Fine Line Between Stupid and Clever: The Story of Spinal Tap

Tap crossed that line... which way?

There is a picture of me going to see KISS on their hotly anticipated, sold out 1996 reunion tour. In it I’m standing on my parents’ front lawn with two friends and my brother. All four of us are in KISS makeup.

I’m wearing a Spinal Tap t-shirt.

I love KISS, they’re a fun band who have written some rocking hits. But I also recognize them as ridiculous.

If you've read any of my metal posts here you know I’m a fan. I love the music, I take it seriously. But I also laugh at it. Metal is sometimes awesome, sometimes terrible. Sometimes brilliant, sometimes dumb. Powerful, but sometimes just too damned loud.

Hard rock and metal can be mocked. They should be mocked. Mockery and the ability to absorb it is the sign of a healthy genre, and rock and metal can take it.

Some genres and their fans take themselves too seriously. I see this sometimes in sword-and-sorcery circles; call John Jakes’ Brak or Lin Carter’s Thongor or Gardner Fox’s Kothar what it is—derivative and often dumb, though fun and something I will read and enjoy—and panties get bunched.

But we need good-natured mockery. Parody is a sign of respect that you’ve made it. S&S can take the likes of Mention My Name in Atlantis, and heavy metal can take Spinal Tap. Spinal Tap took the piss out of metal better than anyone before or since in their 1984 mockumentary. And metal bands (most, anyway) love them for it.  We all could use a little more laughter in our lives. Even if the world is ending (it’s not, though one would think so scrolling any social media app) the remedy is laughter.

I just finished reading A Fine Line Between Stupid and Clever: The Story of Spinal Tap, and experienced quite a few chuckles. Laughter is rare to pull off in the written form, I have found. This book made me laugh. But I also learned a lot. I love the film, and when I saw there was a memoir coming out penned by director Rob Reiner I knew I had to have it. Published by Gallery Books, my copy at least came signed by Reiner himself, complete with certificate of authenticity. Cool to have a signature of the man who not only gave us the best metal mockumentary ever, but also The Princess Bride, Stand by Me, and a Few Good Men, among others.

Reiner’s signature is not the only cool and unique feature of the book: It’s also double-sided, like the old Ace Doubles. Flip the book over and “book 2,” Smell the Book, is 60 pages of “interviews” conducted by director Marty DiBergi with band members Nigel Tufnel, David St. Hubbins, and Derek Smalls--an oral history of the band in their voices. Which is pretty funny. You get lines like this:

David: I was at Sacred Sacrament. My mom was a big Catholic.

Marty: Religious?

David: No, five foot ten.

Or old album titles like “Jap Habit” and “Bent for the Rent,” the latter a British expression for what you do for the landlord when he’s bugging you and you can’t pay him, so you do him a favor…

But the meat of the book is the memoir portion. A breezy but well-told history of how the principals came to meet each other, make the film, its reception, and lasting legacy. It offers an illuminating, behind the scenes look, and I learned several things I did not know. For example:

• Spinal Tap barely made it to the screen. The studios to whom Reiner pitched the film did not know what to make of it, just about everyone passed on it.
• It made very little money upon its release and Reiner and co. made almost no money even on licensing until a lawsuit spearheaded by Harry Shearer was able to wrest the rights to the film back and amend missing royalty payments. One city in which it was well-received right out of the gate, I’m proud to say, is Boston, in which it played continuously for a solid year.
• Spinal Tap played real shows before the movie came out to sharpen their playing, including at Gazzarri’s on the Sunset Strip—with opening act Iron Butterfly. No one knew who they were or suspected that they were a parody act (this is circa 1982-83, pre-film, and new metal acts were showing up in the scores.) Spinal Tap was just another unknown metal band.
• Reiner refers to several hilarious-sounding scenes that didn’t make the final cut, as 40+ hours of film was ultimately reduced to a lean 82-minute run time. There were often 3-4 versions of a given scene. Apparently some of these deleted scenes are on a special edition that I need to seek out (my copy is believe it or not VHS). For example, originally the band had an opening act called the Dose, who had a beautiful and easy female lead singer; her dalliances with Tap explain the famous scene where the band has unexplained cold sores on their mouths during a record launch party. But this subplot was left on the cutting room floor.
• The dialogue is almost entirely unscripted and improvised. Reiner, Christoper Guest, Shearer and Michael McKean scripted scenes and had the outlines of the movie plotted, but the actual dialogue was ad-libbed, and many of the verbal jokes utterly spontaneous expressions of the characters they created. Even a young Fran Drescher, then 25, fell into her role and extemporaneously came up with “Money Talks and Bullshit Walks.” That’s talent.

Spinal Tap 2 is just hitting and I’m a little worried. I know someone who got invited to an early screening and he was underwhelmed; he described it as just OK, certainly not terrible but lacking the punch and wit of the original. I will see it for myself, but regardless of whether it holds up as a worthy sequel we’ll always have the OG. The ultimate documentary, if you will, rockumentary, of the world’s loudest band.