What Shall A Man Say When A

Animals Are Neither Gods Nor Fiends, But Men In Their Way Without The Lust And Greed Of Man.

Some Mechanism In My Sub-consciousness Took The Dominant Characteristics Of Various Prize-fighters, Gunmen, Bootleggers, Oil Field Bullies, Gamblers, And Honest Workmen I Had Come In Contact With, And Combining Them All, Produced The Amalgamation I Call Conan The Cimmerian.

Wits And Swords Are As Straws Against The Wisdom Of The Darkness.

Man Can Be That Which He Wishes To Be; Form And Substance, They Are But Shadows. The Mind, The Ego, The Essence Of The God-dream -- That Is Real, That Is Immortal.

But The Idea Of A Man Making His Living By Writing Seemed, In That Hardy Environment, So Fantastic That Even Today I Am Sometimes Myself Assailed By A Feeling Of Unreality.