This week I finished reading The Coming of Conan the Cimmerian, a very fine collection of Robert E. Howard’s first 13 Conan stories presented unedited and in order of publication. Aside from some pretty inaccurate-to-the-actual-writing illustrations here and there, it was a wonderful way to be introduced to Howard’s writing and Conan’s world.

I’d imagine the criticisms I have of the stuff have been echoed by countless readers and critics across time. The stories can be repetitive, not only in terms of the basic “Conan shows up some place and kicks some ass” formula but also in terms of details. Here’s a great little summary of that sort of thing from Will Duquette:

And some of the plot elements are distressingly repetitive. In at least four different stories (and it might be five) Conan comes to an island on which he finds ruins made of a strange green stone which were built by some cosmically evil non-human elder race who worshipped a horrible demon who will return to cause Conan grave difficulty but over whom Conan will ultimately triumph. Sometimes the remnants of the cosmically evil non-human elder race still live among the ruins.

Now, if this were one single cosmically evil non-human elder race which left its markings scattered hither and yon across the globe, that would be one thing. But it’s quite clear that each story concerns a different cosmically evil non-human elder race, and that each went from extreme majesty and power to the control of this one single island, and then dwindled almost to nothing, only to be forgotten by time. I mean, really–how many cosmically evil elder races can one planet accommodate?

Also, while Howard takes a very dim view of the morality of pretty much everyone, including and often especially civilized white men, I think the African, Arab, and Jewish analogues come off looking particularly bad, as one sadly expects from American pulp writing of the time. And needless to say his take on gender relations is pretty benighted.

My biggest problem with the work, though, is the total lack of story-to-story continuity in terms of characters other than Conan. Though Howard’s Hyborian Age backdrop is vivid and engaging, the lack of meaningful, repeated interaction between Conan and other people makes it more or less impossible for us to gauge his growth or feel attached to him for any reason other than his awesomeness. Reading these stories reminded me of this long-ago Jon Hastings post comparing J.R.R. Tolkien unfavorably to Howard (read it, it’s fun), which focuses on Tolkien’s use of world-building and continuity as a weakness. I think that’s wrong for a lot of reasons that Jon dismisses, but this particular issue of making it harder to get to know and care about Conan as a person instead of just an avatar of coolness is probably where it’s wrongest.

All that being said, man, these stories are great! Vivid, crazily imaginative (“The Scarlet Citadel” is basically one amazing idea after another), and faster paced than I imagined writing of the era could be. The lack of continuity from story to story gives Howard license to stick Conan in any situation he pleases. In one story, he’s in the jungle with a leopard-skin loincloth. In another, he’s fighting Vikings in the land of the ice and snow. In another, he’s a pirate king. In another, he’s a thief. In another, he’s King of Hyborean-Age France. Basically, if it’s awesome, Howard can make Conan do it.

Moreover, Howard’s defenders often point out that Conan isn’t nearly the one-dimensional killing machine that later interpretations of the character in literature, comics, and film made him out to be, and that’s true: While he is certainly enthusiastic about fighting, fucking, and feeding, he frequently makes reference to how this is what he does in lieu of contemplating human life’s nature as fleeting and futile. He cracks gallows-humor jokes and drops decades-ahead-of-their-time action-movie one-liners (“Who dies next?” is my favorite), but he also reacts with genuine terror to many of the supernatural threats he faces, which is humanizing and endearing. (It often may not stop him from attacking these supernatural threats, but it’s clear that that’s because he simply doesn’t know what else to do.) It’s addictive, but it’s surprisingly satisfying, too.

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