How can I wear the harness of toil And sweat at the daily round, While in my soul forever The drums of Pictdom sound?

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.

The printed page was like wine to me.

I don't believe I ever saw an Oklahoman who wouldn't fight at the drop of a hat - and frequently drop the hat himself.

My characters are more like men than these real men are, see. They're rough and rude, they got hands and they got bellies. They hate and they lust; break the skin of civilization and you find the ape, roaring and red-handed.

The more I see of what you call civilization, the more highly I think of what you call savagery!

Every twinge of sensation, even of agony, was a negation of death.