Review of "Conan the Warrior" by Robert E. Howard

Thanks to Arnie, Conan the Barbarian is one of the most well-known characters of heroic fantasy in today's world.  A creation of Robert E. Howard in the 1930s, Conan, with his exotic adventures, sword fights, arcane wizardry, and buxom blondes in leggings and breastplates, has become not only the epitome of sword & sorcery, but a product of the times.  Though influencing a large amount of fantasy, from Joe Abercrombie’s Logen Ninefingers to Michael Moorcock’s Elric, Steven Erikson’s Karsa Orlong to Fritz Leiber’s Fafhrd, tales of the Cimmerian warrior nevertheless represent juvenile wish fulfillment in its most overt form, leaving most to balk.  Given that the quality of the writing is also extremely, extremely poor, there is little to recommend about the stories save nostalgia and cover art.

Conan the Warrior is a collection of three tales, all published toward the end of Howard’s short life.  The following is a brief summary of “Red Nails”, “Jewels of Gwahlur”, and “Beyond the Black River”.

“Red Nails” – Conan, and his unpredictable ally, Valeria, find themselves in an eerie city, danger and intrigue all around.  Wheels within wheels of plot unrolling themselves in this complex story, events shift unpredictably as the secrets of the roofed city are undone by the duo in one action-packed scene after another. 

"Jewels of Gwahlur" - Conan, following a lead that treasure exists in Keshan, has hired himself out as a mercenary to the local army.  he is not the only one seeking the treasure, however.  Thutmekri, and his partner, Zargheba, likewise crave the cache, and have brought along a fake oracle to confuse matters.  Events playing out in typical Conan fashion, the only questions remains: how will Conan outsmart the others, fight off the beasts unleashed, and claim the treasure in the process.

“Beyond the Black River” – Conan, now in his fourth decade of life, returns home to find all of his old friends involved in domestic lives.  Bored, he sets out for the Bossonian Marches and becomes a soldier at Fort Tuscelan on the eponymous Black River.  Trapped outside the fort while hunting one day, Conan’s real adventures begin when he runs into an ensorcelled man who begs him to kill another.  An uprising developing in the aftermath, Conan’s warrior skills prove invaluable.

Though Howard’s effect on the genre is undeniable, it goes without saying that most who were influenced read Conan as youths.  A time when such simplistic and fantastic scenes and stories would have the most impact, certainly there must be a different feeling about Howard’s highly descriptive and immature style of storytelling when digested as an adult.  Paragraphs such as the following are par for the course:

    “He was almost a giant in stature, muscles rippling smoothly under his skin, which the sun had burned brown. His garb was similar to hers, except that he wore a broad leather belt instead of a girdle. Broadsword and poniard hung from his belt.

   "Conan, the Cimmerian!" ejaculated the woman. "What are you doing on my trail?"

   He grinned hardly, and his fierce blue eyes burned with a light any woman could understand as they ran over her magnificent figure, lingering on the swell of her splendid breasts beneath the light shirt, and the clear white flesh displayed between breeches and boot-tops.” (from “Red Nails”)

Passages such as this and many others only make one think of a late night television romance featuring a professional wrestler, that is, rather than any attempt at quality storytelling.

And style gets worse.  On hundreds of occasions Howard is guilty of telling, not showing.  Check the following small example: “He could draw his broadsword and disarm her, beat the blade out of her hand, but the thought of drawing a sword on a woman, even without intent of injury, was extremely repugnant to him.” Repugnant, indeed.  Surely there are better ways to indicate chivalry. 

There are also numerous anachronisms: "I don't know whether it will do the job or not," quoth he. "There's enough poison there to kill an elephant, but -- well, we'll see."  Mixing the Victorian (“quoth he”) with vernacular (“…well, we’ll see…”), well, you see.  

Steven Erikson has (rightfully) pointed out that Howard/Conan were mold breakers in one fashion: their anti-culture tendencies.  At the end of “Beyond the Black River”, a character can be quoth as saying: "Barbarism is the natural state of mankind…  Civilization is unnatural. It is a whim of circumstance. And barbarism must always ultimately triumph."  Implied in this quote is that mankind’s quest for pure civilization is futile, which makes for interesting discussion, indeed.  I’m sure Conan scholars (an oxy-moron if I’ve ever heard one) have taken this idea much deeper, but given that the idea is couched in blatant sexism and goofy violence, all integrity is drained, leaving little in the wash.

In the end, the tales contained in Conan the Warrior cannot be taken with any seriousness; it’s juvenile heroic fantasy—at best.  The stories are filled to the brim with sexism, contrived violence, and an archetypal hero spouting some of the worst one-liners this side of morning tv.  Howard can string sentences together to form a plot in a fashion many modern writers in the sub-genre cannot, but none of that matters when the substance lacks depth beyond boobs, blood, brawn, and beasts.  If you can stomach Leiber’s Fafhrd and the Grey Mouser or Edgar Rice Burroughs tales of adventure, then Conan may be for you.  Otherwise, no matter how archetypal he may be, the book is a low quality museum piece that cannot be appreciated from any other angle save cover art.

*Feb.14, 2013 - Since writing the review above, I've received a storm of feedback—to put it lightly.  In response to some of these comments, I've semi-randomly scanned through the stories outlined above and found further quotes to illustrate the poor quality of writing, sexism, and overall unpracticed approach to storytelling.  In no particular order, they are:

From "Jewels of Gwahlur " 
     
    "You mean you're going to keep me? Take me with you?" she asked hopefully.
    "What else do you suppose I'd do with you?" He ran an approving glance over her figure and grinned at the torn skirt which revealed a generous expanse of tempting ivory-tinted curves. "I can use an actress like you..."

     She was on her knees, clutching at Conan hysterically, her beautiful tear-stained face upturned to him, her dark silken hair flowing in disorder over her white shoulders. Conan picked her up and set her on his knee."Listen to me. I'll protect you from Zargheba. The priests shall not know of your perfidy. But you've got to do as I tell you."

    She faltered promises of explicit obedience, clasping his corded neck as if seeking security from the contact.  (I can't help a little commentary here: "You children listen to Uncle Conan. He knows best.")

   The Cimmerian made no attempt to match wits and intrigue with Thutmekri and his Shemitish partner, Zargheba. He knew that if Thutmekri won his point, he would insist on the instant banishment of his rival. There was but one thing for Conan to do: find the jewels before the king of Keshan made up his mind, and flee with them.

From "Red Nails"

    How the stunned Cimmerian regained his feet, not even he could have ever told. But the only thought that filled his brain was of the woman lying dazed and helpless almost in the path of the hurtling fiend, and before the breath came whistling back into his gullet he was standing over her with his sword in his hand. 

   Her shirt had been torn open in the struggle, and with cynical cruelty he rasped his thick beard across her bare breasts, bringing the blood to suffuse the fair skin, and fetching a cry of pain and outraged fury from her. Her convulsive resistance was useless; she was crushed down on a couch, disarmed and panting, her eyes blazing up at him like the eyes of a trapped tigress.

    Conan spoke imperturbably. He was a barbarian, and the terrible patience of the wilderness and its children was as much a part of him as his lusts and rages. He could endure a situation like this with a coolness impossible to a civilized person.

From "Beyond the Black River"

    Evidently Conan had spent much time among civilized men, though that contact had obviously not softened him, nor weakened any of his primitive instincts. Balthus' apprehension turned to admiration as he marked the easy catlike stride, the effortless silence with which the Cimmerian moved along the trail. The oiled links of his armor did not clink, and Balthus knew Conan could glide through the deepest thicket or most tangled copse as noiselessly as any naked Pict that ever lived.