Cimmerian sighting: Celebrating a pair of milestones in Howard studies

In studying Howard’s philosophy, one thing becomes abundantly clear: if there is a single overriding reason for critically analyzing Howard outside of the pulp ghetto, it’s that he so often managed to write himself out of it. In Howard’s best work one sees fantasy clichés bowled over like ten-pins in his pulsing rush to portray hate and vengeance. In doing so Howard forces the stories, at sword-point, out of the clichéd trappings of genre and into a different realm altogether: the realm of real literature.

–Leo Grin, “The Reign of Blood,” from The Barbaric Triumph

This year marks a milestone for two classic anthologies of Robert E. Howard criticism: The Dark Barbarian (1984) and its sequel, The Barbaric Triumph (2004) turn 25 and five years old, respectively. If you don’t already own these volumes, now is the time to go hunting on Ebay: According to editor Don Herron’s Web site, the two books have recently gone out of print, and prices are likely to climb:

The five-year contract with Wildside Press just ran out on Don’s two critical anthologies about Robert E. Howard, The Dark Barbarian and The Barbaric Triumph, and he’s decided to let them lapse out-of-print and see where the prices go on the collectors market. The Dark Barbarian has been in-print for twenty-five years, originally in a 1250 copy hardback edition from Greenwood Press — looks like the trade paperback reprint from Wildside moved out approximately 275 more copies. The Barbaric Triumph is going to be tougher to land someday, since it was only available in print-on-demand for that five-year window and critical anthologies don’t tend to sell fast — the Wildside hardback seems to have sold approximately 150 copies while the trade paperback state edged close to 300 copies sold. Hardcore collectors have a perverse love for those low numbers, since they make the game all that much tougher and correspondingly more fun — and good hunting to the folk who didn’t get their copies while they were easy to order new.

To read the rest of this post, visit The Cimmerian Web site.

Cimmerian sighting: I scored a copy of Savage Sword of Conan #1

I would guess it’s been well over a decade—perhaps 15 years or more—since I bought my last issue of The Savage Sword of Conan, the great old magazine that was my introduction to the writings of Robert E. Howard. But I’ve kept all my back issues safely tucked away in a magazine box and I still break them out from time to time. They remain great reads.

Given that I’m hardly a collector of the magazine it was with great surprise that I opened a birthday present from by brother last week to find SSOC # 1 inside. I’m not sure why he bought me the issue—perhaps because he knows I now write blog posts for The Cimmerian—but regardless, I was thrilled.

For those who don’t own a copy—or for those die-hard collectors who have it hermetically sealed and have never read its contents—I’m including a full review of SSOC #1, and my initial thoughts on opening this holy grail of Conan collectables.

To read the rest of this post, visit The Cimmerian Web site.

My contribution to The Dark Man: Robert E. Howard as escapist writer

Although I have definite political and social leanings, I'm probably what most would consider a moderate. When I see something I feel passionately about going too far in any one direction, my tendency is to want to pull it back to the center.

This trait is the likely inspiration for my recently published piece in The Dark Man: The Journal of Robert E. Howard Studies (Volume 4, No. 2). There's been a trend in recent years to classify Howard as a hard-boiled realist, a product of Texas who wrote about his environment and the people he knew. Based on some letters he wrote late in his life, critics and observers have speculated that Howard was ready to abandon the literature of the fantastic entirely for the western.

These opinions are certainly valid and raise many fine points worthy of consideration. Howard's gritty realism infuses even his most fantastic stories of Conan and Kull. This quality is undoubtedly due to his keen powers of observation. Howard wrote about what he knew and used his surroundings and life experiences to lend an air of realism to the Hyborian Age. He also wrote in a broad range of genres, including boxing, historic fiction, and westerns.

However, I feel that this analysis of Howard has gone a bit too far. By focusing on the Howard that might-have-been (had he not taken his own life at age 30), aren't these voices undermining the great works of fantasy that he did leave behind? I think so. Howard was a complicated man who voiced many intentions and beliefs in his too short life, including a profound dissatisfaction with modern life and its banal realities. Through his massive imagination and talent as a writer he found a place to escape in his tales of the fantastic. More than 70 years after Howard's death, legions of loyal readers continue to revisit his tales for the refuge they offer us--and Howard himself.

In short, I believe that there's a reason why Conan and the fantastic Hyborian Age are Howard's most enduring and fully realized creations. I explain these reasons in full in "An Honorable Retreat: Robert E. Howard as Escapist Writer."

I'd like to thank editor Mark Hall and the review board of the Dark Man for the opportunity to publish this opinion piece, my first (and hopefully not last) contribution to this fine journal.

The Face in the Frost: True wizardry at work

John Bellairs' The Face in the Frost is one of those books recommended by Gary Gygax in Appendix N of the Dungeon Master's Guide ("Inspirational Reading") that I've had on my "to read" list for a long time, but never managed to track down. When I finally did score a used paperback copy it sat for months in an unread pile on my bookshelf.

I've now crossed this book off my list, and at 174 pages it flew by in a highly enjoyable and lightning-quick fashion. I would highly recommend it to anyone tired of tedious, drawn out, multi-volume fantasy. The Face in the Frost is not only remarkable due to its brevity, but also because its scope is far more (refreshingly) modest than traditional fantasy fare. There's no dashing young heroes populating the novel, no breathtaking swordplay on display, and no earth-shattering quests to complete. And that's all right. Bellairs reminds us that not all fantasy fiction needs to have its heroes save the world.

The Face in the Frost revolves around two old, earthbound, and rather unheroic wizards--Prospero and Roger Bacon--who embark on a journey to get to the bottom of a seemingly minor disturbance. An old cloak in the basement of Propero's house acts in a threatening manner and strange shapes hover in the woods at the edge of his lawn. When Bacon arrives for an evening of talk over good ale, the two old friends decide to put an end to the growing nuisance. Prospero leaves a note for his cleaning lady and the two set off the next morning through a tunnel in Prospero's basement. We quickly discover that one of Prospero's old peers from his youth--the wizard Melichus, now turned to evil and mischief--is at the root of the disturbance, and the problems take on a much more sinister air.

The Face in the Frost's finest qualities are its details. The world Bellairs creates has the feel of age. The buildings are old, moldy, and sunken; the woods are gnarled, decaying, dark, and mossy. Using sparse but vivid descriptions Bellairs gives Prospero's home and the North Kingdom and the South Kingdom into which the two wizards travel the feeling of groundedness and earthly reality. Prospero and Bacon are both likeable characters and interact with each other with dry wit and genuine friendship that is immediately endearing. In short, Bellairs builds his world and characters far more capably and believeably than many other fantasy authors I've read, and in far, far fewer words. This is no mean feat and a rather impressive piece of artistry.

The Face in the Frost is also recommended for its unique portrayal of magic. The magic here feels unique, dangerous, and unpredictable, much like first edition Advanced Dungeons and Dragons (and unlike the boring, predictable, safe, modifier-enchancing magic that characterizes most of the spells found in later editions of the game). Spells are found in old musty tomes and require years of study to learn and master, and not even aged and proficient wizards can be sure they have selected the right spell for every occasion. Sometimes the effects are quite unintended (and often humorous). At other times the magic is Lovecraftian and evokes twisted, otherdimensional horrors that should-not-be. It's easy to see how this book was an influence on Gygax and early D&D.

If I have any criticism of the book it's its rather abrupt dues ex machina ending (which I won't spoil here); I was hoping for more of a final confrontation than what Bellairs ultimately delivers. But overall this is a minor complaint and not enough to keep me from recommending it strongly.

(Note: A cover blurb by normally sure-handed editor Lin Carter hails the book as "One of the best fantasy novels to appear since The Lord of the Rings". Not only is this a tired comparison (must every fantasy novel compare itself to Tolkien's masterwork?) but its also misleading in that many will open the novel anticipating another LOTR or Sword of Shannara. Ultimately my fears were groundless--this book is anything but an epic quest. A much more accurate description is this glowing recommendation by Ursula LeGuin: "This is authentic fantasy by a writer who knows what wizardry is all about.")

Dracula revisited: Some observations on an old classic

Bram Stoker’s Dracula is one of those books that, like The Lord of the Rings, I find myself returning to time and time again. There’s a lot going on in this book and a lot to like, both on a literary and a visceral horror/pure entertainment entertainment level. I’ve just finished re-reading it and there’s no doubt that it’s worthy of its classic status. There’s so much to comment upon in this novel, far more than I could ever cover in a single blog post, so I’ll direct my focus on two notable elements:

1. Dracula is a really bad guy (and not all that sexy)

Stoker’s depiction of the vampire contrasts sharply with the way they’re portrayed in popular media these days. Buff sex-symbols and/or world-weary, misunderstood, angst-ridden emo-types seem to have replaced the bloodsucking, undead monsters of yore. I blame Anne Rice’s novels for popularizing this trend, which has reached its full bloom with the Twilight movie.

Now, it’s true that Count Dracula is somewhat of an alpha-male and a sex symbol. Lucy transforms into quite the slut after she’s sampled his wares, and her suitors (and even old Van Helsing) pour their fluids—ahem, blood—into her, one after the other, to sate her ravenous needs. There’s reams of essays describing the scandalous sexuality of Dracula, particularly when viewed against the stiff, priggish Victorian era in which it was written.

But Dracula’s sexual element is mainly subtext. Count Dracula is hardly a suave, debonair Tom Cruise lookalike, seducing women with charm and good looks: He hypnotizes his female victims and drains their blood against their will. In Stoker’s world, sex is a corruptive influence: It’s a monster to be shunned and feared, not a buried urge to liberate and embrace.

To read the rest of this post, visit The Cimmerian Web site .

Update: And now for a brief interruption for World War II

When I was 11 years old my grandfather passed away unexpectedly from a heart attack. He was a veteran of the Pacific theatre in World War II, having served in an antiaircraft unit.

I was too young then to appreciate or fully understand his war time experiences, and I regret not having the opportunity to speak to him about his time in the service later in life. Not long before he died he gave me a Japanese bayonet which I believe he got from the island of Leyte. I still have that memento and a few others, but his story was largely a mystery.

A few years ago I was able to sit down with my one of my grandfather's good friends who served alongside him in the Pacific, and recorded a priceless, lengthy, videotaped interview about their pre- and post-war years together. I'm currently in the middle of getting their story down on paper with the hopes of getting it published in a local newspaper.

In the interim my blogging will be light, and perhaps nonexistent (save for my Thursday cross-posts to The Cimmerian). I owe it to my grandfather and his friend to get their story told and that's what I plan to do. I firmly believe that they were a part of The Greatest Generation.

Cimmerian sighting: The Life of Sir Aglovale De Galis

(Warning—some spoilers ahead)

King Arthur: Which is our greatest quality of knighthood? Courage, compassion, loyalty, humility? What do you say, Merlin?

Merlin: Ah, the greatest. Well, they blend, like the metals we mix to make a good sword.

Arthur: No poetry, just a straight answer. Which is it?

Merlin: All right then. Truth. That’s it. Yes, it must be truth. Above all. When a man lies he murders some part of the world. You should know that.

—Excalibur, John Boorman

If you’re a fan of the Arthurian myths, the above exchange of dialogue from John Boorman’s Excalibur—still the best version of the King Arthur myth ever put to film—is probably scored upon your memory. It’s a shame that, in comparison, Clemence Housman’s The Life of Sir Aglovale De Galis languishes in obscurity. Published in 1905, Housman’s book presages Excalibur by more than 70 years, and Merlin’s prophetic words of wisdom and warning are at the heart of this fine and all too little known novel.

The Life of Sir Aglovale De Galis has for most of its history been a difficult book to track down. In 2000, Green Knight Publishing—a small and apparently defunct firm—republished the story, giving it new life and allowing people like me to finally get a copy. In addition to publishing original and reprinted Arthurian fiction, Green Knight also published the fine Pendragon role playing game, much like TSR and later Wizards of the Coast published a line of novels in conjunction with the Dungeons and Dragons game line. But if you come to The Life of Sir Aglovale De Galis expecting to encounter typical role-playing game fan fiction, you’re in for a rude shock. This is not some breezy tale of the Forgotten Realms. While I wouldn’t go so far as to call it archaic, the language Housman uses is, even for the (roughly) Victorian Era in which it was written, anachronistic. Housman writes in Middle English in a style deliberately imitative of Sir Thomas Malory, author of Le Morte D’Arthur.

In short, The Life of Sir Aglovale De Galis is a difficult book to read. I had to go back and re-read opaque sentences and, on one or two occasions, found myself bogged down in the language. But bearing down and continuing on to the end was very much worth the effort.

To read the rest of this post, visit The Cimmerian Web site.