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What shall a man say when a friend has vanished behind the doors of Death? A mere tangle of barren words, only words.

Robert E. Howard

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Robert E. Howard
Age: 30 †
Born: 1906
Born: January 22
Died: 1936
Died: June 11
Author
Novelist
Poet
Science Fiction Writer
Screenwriter
Writer
Robert Ervin Howard
REH
R. E. Howard
Robert Howard
Two-Gun Bob
Bob Howard
Patrick Mac Conaire
Steve Costigan
Patrick Ervin
Patrick Howard
Sam Walser
Shall
Tangle
Words
Vanished
Death
Barren
Men
Mere
Doors
Behinds
Friend
Behind

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In the hill country, civilization steals in last, and the people retain much of the crude but vigorous mode of expression of the colonial days and earlier.
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The printed page was like wine to me.
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Money and muscle, that's what I want to be able to do any damned thing I want and get away with it. Money won't do that altogether, because if a man is a weakling, all the money in the world won't enable him to soak an enemy himself on the other hand, unless he has money he may not be able to get away with it.
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I see in the papers where Roy Guthrie committed suicide. Why, I wonder?
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A woman in such an emotional tempest is as perilous as a blind cobra to any about her.
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Never the less, at the age of fifteen, having never seen a writer, a poet, a publisher or a magazine editor, and having only the vaguest ideas of procedure, I began working on the profession I had chosen.
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I had neither expert aid nor advice. I studied no courses in writing until a year or so ago, I never read a book by anybody advising writers how to write.
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Time and times are but cogwheels, unmatched, grinding on oblivious to one another. Occasionally - oh, very rarely! - the cogs fit the pieces of the plot snap together momentarily and give men faint glimpses beyond the veil of this everyday blindness we call reality.
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Before the invader sound was born, the Universe was silent and shall be again.
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How can I wear the harness of toil And sweat at the daily round, While in my soul forever The drums of Pictdom sound?
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For man's only weapon is courage that flinches not from the gates of Hell itself, and against such not even the legions of Hell can stand.
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The poem you sent me was as fiery and virile as anything you've ever written - or anybody else, for that matter. Especially the second part went to my brain like the flaming liquor of insanity. No one else besides Jack London has the power to move me just that way.
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I have known many gods. He who denies them is blind as he who trusts them too deeply.
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What is death but a traversing of eternities and a crossing of cosmic oceans?
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Civilization is a network and a maze of precedences and custom.
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Man is still an ape in that he forgets what is not ever before his eyes.
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A kingdom is not lost by a single defeat.
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What do I know of cultured ways, the gilt, the craft and the lie? I, who was born in a naked land and bred in the open sky. The subtle tongue, the sophist guile, they fail when the broadswords sing Rush in and die, dogs—I was a man before I was a king.
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Hither came Conan, the Cimmerian, black-haired, sullen-eyed, sword in hand, a thief, a reaver, a slayer, with gigantic melancholies and gigantic mirth, to tread the jeweled thrones of the Earth under his sandaled feet.
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When I cannot stand alone, it will be time to die.
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