Life Is But A Web Spun Of

He Was . . . A Strange Blending Of Puritan And Cavalier, With A Touch Of The Ancient Philosopher, And More Than A Touch Of The Pagan. . . . A Hunger In His Soul Drove Him On And On, An Urge To Right All Wrongs, Protect All Weaker Things. . . . Wayward And Restless As The Wind, He Was Consistent In Only One Respect—he Was True To His Ideals Of Justice And Right. Such Was Solomon Kane.

One Objection I Have Heard Voiced To Works Of This Kind—dealing With Texas—is The Amount Of Gore Spilled Across The Pages. It Can Not Be Otherwise. In Order To Write A Realistic And True History Of Any Part Of The Southwest, One Must Narrate Such Things, Even At The Risk Of Monotony.

I Have Known Many Gods. He Who Denies Them Is Blind As He Who Trusts Them Too Deeply.

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.

It Seems To Me That Many Writers, By Virtue Of Environments Of Culture, Art And Education, Slip Into Writing Because Of Their Environments.