But The Idea Of A Man Making

If I Was Wealthy I'd Never Do Anything But Poke Around In Ruined Cities All Over The World - And Probably Get Snake-bit.

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.

Rome Got Some Peachy Pastings When She Tried To Lick The Irish.

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.

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.