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seriousficBefore I begin, I'd like to say there's a reason Robert E. Howard is one of the greats of fantasy literature. He's pretty much the most "fuck yeah!" writer ever. And you really enjoy his stories, when he's not slapping you around with an insane amount of racism. Like, so insane Strom Thurmond would say "hey, what did the black people ever do to you?" In fact, it's so racist, I just had to transcribe some of the passages from the Solomon Kane stories so you'd believe me when I say that Howard is like a Batman villain whose theme is racism, that's how racist he is.
Solomon Kane is a 16th century adventurer, a Puritan and basically a religious fanatic, only he spends his time fighting monsters and pirates instead of passing out Chick tracts. He has the same lust for adventure as all of Howard's characters, only he sees it from the perspective of his righteousness. Also, do not piss this guy off. One villain sneeringly refers to Kane as "Sir Galahad" and that's about the size of it. If he hears about a girl in trouble, even if it's just one of his fallen foes confessing to stranding a woman on another continent, he will go down there and save her. If he stumbles across a crime, he will track the perpetrator literally to the ends of the Earth. Later, I'll post some of his more badass passages because there is some good stuff, but right now, I'll focus on the failings of Howard's writing. For instance, whenever a story takes place in Africa... and it happens a lot, because Howard envisions Africa as a very literal Dark Continent, the place to which the rest of the world banished all their monsters as civilization expanded.
And, you know, it's pulp. If the story's set in deepest, darkest Africa and if it was written way back when, you can expect a certain level of ignorance to inform the writing. But even if you didn't mind Indiana Jones knocking around Kali cultists in Temple of Doom, well...
“Your confidence would be admirable were it not amusing. Ho, Gulka!”
A giant negro stalked into the space between them. He was the hugest man that Kane had ever seen, though he moved with catlike ease and suppleness. His arms and legs were like trees and the great, sinuous muscles rippled with each motion. His apelike head was set squarely between gigantic shoulders. His great, dusky hands were like the talons of an ape, and his brow slanted back from above bestial eyes. Flat nose and great, thick read lips completed this picture of primitive, lustful savagery.
“This is Gulka, the gorilla-slayer,” said Le Loup.
[…]The giant black slouched close to Kane and stared into the white man’s eyes. Kane returned his gaze somberly, and presently the negro’s eyes dropped sullenly and he slouched back a few paces. The look in the Puritan’s grim eyes had pierced the primitive hazes of the gorilla-slayer’s soul, and for the first time in his life he felt fear. To throw this off, he tossed a challenging look about; then, with unexpected animalness, he struck his huge chest resoundingly, grinned cavernously and flexed his mighty arms. No one spoke. Primordial bestiality had the stage, and the more highly developed types looked on with various feelings of amusement, tolerance or contempt.
IT GETS WORSE.
“Your life,” said the black presently, “is in my hand.”
Kane smiled thinly. “I carry the lives of many warriors in my hand.”
The negro’s gaze traveled uncertainly up and down the shimmery length of the Englishman’s sword. Then he shrugged his mighty shoulders and let his spear point sink to the earth.
“You bear no gifts,” said he; “but follow me and I will lead you to the Terrible One, the Mistress of Doom, the Red Woman, Nakari, who rules the land of Negari.”
He stepped aside and motioned Kane to precede him, but the Englishman, his mind on a spear-thrust in the back, shook his head.
“Who am I that I should walk in front of my brother? We be two chiefs—-let us walk side by side.”
In his heart Kane railed that he should be forced to use such unsavory diplomacy with a black savage, but he showed no sign.
In his search for Nakari (Solomon's in a slaying mood), Kane finds one of the million lost civilizations dotting Africa in the days of pulp.
The light streamed between two of these stones, where the mortar had crumbled away. Kane ran his hands over the surface with an interest beyond his present needs. The work seemed very old and very much superior to what might be expected of a tribe of ignorant negroes.
And he finds more of the lost civilization.
Not even in the courts of Europe had he seen such grandeur. […] To Kane it seemed that these things must have been the work of gods rather than men, for this chamber alone would dwarf most of the castles he had known in Europe.
The black people who thronged that mighty room seemed grotesquely incongruous. They no more suited their surroundings than a band of monkeys would have seemed at home in the council chambers of the English king.
[...]
Still the thought hovered in Kane’s mind as he watched—who built this place, and why were negroes evidently in possession? He knew this was the work of a higher race. No black tribe had ever reached such a stage of culture as evidenced by these carvings.
But hey, Howard's got something for everyone. If you're tired of reading about those ignorant Africans, how about some evil lesbians?
“Lilith!” thought Kane. “She is beautiful and terrible as Purgatory. She is Lilith—-that foul, lovely woman of ancient legend.”
Nakari halted by the couch, stood looking down upon her captive for a moment, then with an enigmatic smile, bent and shook her. Marylin opened her eyes, sat up, then slipped from her couch and knelt before her black mistress—-an act which caused Kane to curse beneath his breath. The queen laughed and seating herself upon the couch, motioned the girl to rise, and then put an arm about her waist and drew her upon her lap. Kane watched, puzzled, while Nakari caressed the white girl in a lazy, amused manner. This might be affection, but to Kane it seemed more like a sated leopard teasing its victim. There was an air of mockery and studied cruelty about the whole affair.
“You are very soft and pretty, Mara,” Nakari murmured lazily, “much prettier than the black girls who serve me.”
Of course, Kane's a white guy and such a HBIC, so when Nakari discovers him, she immediately offers for him to be her king. This seems to happen a lot, black people seeing Kane and going "ooh, white skin, he must be a god!" Now, come off it. If I saw someone with green skin, I wouldn't kneel down in front of that person... unless it was She-Hulk. Or Gaila. Or... you know what? Moving on.
(Gamora, yes, Gamera, no.)
Where were we? Oh, right, Nakari was asking Kane to join the Dark Side.
“Out on ye, daughter of Satan! Avaunt! Am I a beast of the forest to lead your black devils against mine own race? Nay, no beast ever did so. Begone! If you wish my friendship, set me free and let me go with the girl.”
But how did Nakari’s kingdom come to be, anyway?
“The [brown] sons of Atlantis had brought their black slaves into the city with them. […] They mixed with each other more and more as the race degenerated until at last only the priestcraft was free of the taint of black blood. Rulers sat on the throne of Negari who were nearly pure negro, and those allowed more and more wild tribesmen to enter the city in the guise of servants, mercenaries and friends.”
The slaves stage a revolt, which is… bad?
“[…]for these black people are not as other negroes. A latent insanity lurks in the brains of every one. They have tasted so deeply and so long of slaughter and victory that they are as human leopards, for ever thirsting for blood. […] But as they faded, so too faded their masters, the brown priests. One by one they died, until only I remained. In the last century they too mixed with their rulers and slaves, and now-—oh, black the shame upon me!-—I, the last son of Atlantis, bear in my veins the taint of negro blood.”
You know what? Let's talk about vampires now. To fight them, Kane needs the help of a sorcerer named N'Longa, who at least as a good guy is treated with some dignity.
“Them vampires, they stay hid in daytime,” said N’Longa with a low laugh. “They be afraid of one fellow vulture! No fool vulture! He know death when he see it! He pounce on one fellow dead man and tear and eat if he be lying or walking!”
A strong shudder shook his companion.
“Great God!” Kane cried, striking his thigh with is hat; “is there no end to the horror of this hideous land? Truly this land is dedicated to the powers of darkness!”
"Dude," N'Longa said, "I'm standing right here."
But hey, it's not all about how black people suck. Kane always runs into Moslems, in the form of (of course) a slave-running sheik with all the complexity of a WWF wrestler in the 1980s.
…old Yussef came to Kane and began to talk about the staff again. Kane answered his questions with admirable patience, considering the hatred he bore the whole race to which the Hadji belonged, and during their conversation, Hassim came striding up and looked down in contempt. Hassim, Kane ruminated, was the very symbol of militant Islam—-bold, reckless, materialistic, sparing nothing, fearing nothing, as sure of his own destiny and as contemptuous of the rights of others as the most powerful Western king.
And I mentioned the part where he compared a negro baby to a small animal? Yeah? Fuck.
Still later (you'd think Kane would learn to avoid Africa. He's always running into vampires, Atlantean barbarians, winged fiends... I mean, that's why I don't go to Jersey), Kane runs into a tribe beset by gargoyles and takes them under his protection. It don't work out too good.
[…]the fiends rent the thatch or burst the door, and what took place in those huts was mercifully hidden from Kane’s eyes. And to the frantic white man’s horror-distorted brain it seemed that he alone was responsible. The black folk had trusted him to save them. They had withheld the sacrifice and defied their grim masters and now they were paying the horrible penalty and he was unable to save them. In the agony-dimmed eyes turned toward him Kane quaffed the black dregs of the bitter cup. It was not anger or the vindictiveness of fear. It was hurt and a stunned reproach. He was their god and he had failed them.
Naturally, he kicks the fiends (really the harpies that the mythological Jason drove off into Africa… really) in their ass.
Kane stood with the ju-ju stave in one hand and the smoking pistol in the other, above the smouldering ruins that hid forever from the sight of man the last of those terrible, semi-human monsters whom another white-skinned hero had banished from Europe in an unknown age. Kane stood, an unconscious statue of triumph—the ancient empires fall, the dark-skinned people fade and even the demons of antiquity gasp their last, but over all stands the Aryan barbarian, white-skinned, cold-eyed, dominant, the supreme fighting man of the earth, whether he be clad in wolf-hide and horned helmet, or boots and doublet—whether he bear in his hand battle-ax or rapier—whether he be called Dorian, Saxon or Englishman—whether his name be Jason, Hengist, or Solomon Kane.
JESUS CHRIST, DUDE.
Solomon Kane is a 16th century adventurer, a Puritan and basically a religious fanatic, only he spends his time fighting monsters and pirates instead of passing out Chick tracts. He has the same lust for adventure as all of Howard's characters, only he sees it from the perspective of his righteousness. Also, do not piss this guy off. One villain sneeringly refers to Kane as "Sir Galahad" and that's about the size of it. If he hears about a girl in trouble, even if it's just one of his fallen foes confessing to stranding a woman on another continent, he will go down there and save her. If he stumbles across a crime, he will track the perpetrator literally to the ends of the Earth. Later, I'll post some of his more badass passages because there is some good stuff, but right now, I'll focus on the failings of Howard's writing. For instance, whenever a story takes place in Africa... and it happens a lot, because Howard envisions Africa as a very literal Dark Continent, the place to which the rest of the world banished all their monsters as civilization expanded.
And, you know, it's pulp. If the story's set in deepest, darkest Africa and if it was written way back when, you can expect a certain level of ignorance to inform the writing. But even if you didn't mind Indiana Jones knocking around Kali cultists in Temple of Doom, well...
“Your confidence would be admirable were it not amusing. Ho, Gulka!”
A giant negro stalked into the space between them. He was the hugest man that Kane had ever seen, though he moved with catlike ease and suppleness. His arms and legs were like trees and the great, sinuous muscles rippled with each motion. His apelike head was set squarely between gigantic shoulders. His great, dusky hands were like the talons of an ape, and his brow slanted back from above bestial eyes. Flat nose and great, thick read lips completed this picture of primitive, lustful savagery.
“This is Gulka, the gorilla-slayer,” said Le Loup.
[…]The giant black slouched close to Kane and stared into the white man’s eyes. Kane returned his gaze somberly, and presently the negro’s eyes dropped sullenly and he slouched back a few paces. The look in the Puritan’s grim eyes had pierced the primitive hazes of the gorilla-slayer’s soul, and for the first time in his life he felt fear. To throw this off, he tossed a challenging look about; then, with unexpected animalness, he struck his huge chest resoundingly, grinned cavernously and flexed his mighty arms. No one spoke. Primordial bestiality had the stage, and the more highly developed types looked on with various feelings of amusement, tolerance or contempt.
IT GETS WORSE.
“Your life,” said the black presently, “is in my hand.”
Kane smiled thinly. “I carry the lives of many warriors in my hand.”
The negro’s gaze traveled uncertainly up and down the shimmery length of the Englishman’s sword. Then he shrugged his mighty shoulders and let his spear point sink to the earth.
“You bear no gifts,” said he; “but follow me and I will lead you to the Terrible One, the Mistress of Doom, the Red Woman, Nakari, who rules the land of Negari.”
He stepped aside and motioned Kane to precede him, but the Englishman, his mind on a spear-thrust in the back, shook his head.
“Who am I that I should walk in front of my brother? We be two chiefs—-let us walk side by side.”
In his heart Kane railed that he should be forced to use such unsavory diplomacy with a black savage, but he showed no sign.
In his search for Nakari (Solomon's in a slaying mood), Kane finds one of the million lost civilizations dotting Africa in the days of pulp.
The light streamed between two of these stones, where the mortar had crumbled away. Kane ran his hands over the surface with an interest beyond his present needs. The work seemed very old and very much superior to what might be expected of a tribe of ignorant negroes.
And he finds more of the lost civilization.
Not even in the courts of Europe had he seen such grandeur. […] To Kane it seemed that these things must have been the work of gods rather than men, for this chamber alone would dwarf most of the castles he had known in Europe.
The black people who thronged that mighty room seemed grotesquely incongruous. They no more suited their surroundings than a band of monkeys would have seemed at home in the council chambers of the English king.
[...]
Still the thought hovered in Kane’s mind as he watched—who built this place, and why were negroes evidently in possession? He knew this was the work of a higher race. No black tribe had ever reached such a stage of culture as evidenced by these carvings.
But hey, Howard's got something for everyone. If you're tired of reading about those ignorant Africans, how about some evil lesbians?
“Lilith!” thought Kane. “She is beautiful and terrible as Purgatory. She is Lilith—-that foul, lovely woman of ancient legend.”
Nakari halted by the couch, stood looking down upon her captive for a moment, then with an enigmatic smile, bent and shook her. Marylin opened her eyes, sat up, then slipped from her couch and knelt before her black mistress—-an act which caused Kane to curse beneath his breath. The queen laughed and seating herself upon the couch, motioned the girl to rise, and then put an arm about her waist and drew her upon her lap. Kane watched, puzzled, while Nakari caressed the white girl in a lazy, amused manner. This might be affection, but to Kane it seemed more like a sated leopard teasing its victim. There was an air of mockery and studied cruelty about the whole affair.
“You are very soft and pretty, Mara,” Nakari murmured lazily, “much prettier than the black girls who serve me.”
Of course, Kane's a white guy and such a HBIC, so when Nakari discovers him, she immediately offers for him to be her king. This seems to happen a lot, black people seeing Kane and going "ooh, white skin, he must be a god!" Now, come off it. If I saw someone with green skin, I wouldn't kneel down in front of that person... unless it was She-Hulk. Or Gaila. Or... you know what? Moving on.
(Gamora, yes, Gamera, no.)
Where were we? Oh, right, Nakari was asking Kane to join the Dark Side.
“Out on ye, daughter of Satan! Avaunt! Am I a beast of the forest to lead your black devils against mine own race? Nay, no beast ever did so. Begone! If you wish my friendship, set me free and let me go with the girl.”
But how did Nakari’s kingdom come to be, anyway?
“The [brown] sons of Atlantis had brought their black slaves into the city with them. […] They mixed with each other more and more as the race degenerated until at last only the priestcraft was free of the taint of black blood. Rulers sat on the throne of Negari who were nearly pure negro, and those allowed more and more wild tribesmen to enter the city in the guise of servants, mercenaries and friends.”
The slaves stage a revolt, which is… bad?
“[…]for these black people are not as other negroes. A latent insanity lurks in the brains of every one. They have tasted so deeply and so long of slaughter and victory that they are as human leopards, for ever thirsting for blood. […] But as they faded, so too faded their masters, the brown priests. One by one they died, until only I remained. In the last century they too mixed with their rulers and slaves, and now-—oh, black the shame upon me!-—I, the last son of Atlantis, bear in my veins the taint of negro blood.”
You know what? Let's talk about vampires now. To fight them, Kane needs the help of a sorcerer named N'Longa, who at least as a good guy is treated with some dignity.
“Them vampires, they stay hid in daytime,” said N’Longa with a low laugh. “They be afraid of one fellow vulture! No fool vulture! He know death when he see it! He pounce on one fellow dead man and tear and eat if he be lying or walking!”
A strong shudder shook his companion.
“Great God!” Kane cried, striking his thigh with is hat; “is there no end to the horror of this hideous land? Truly this land is dedicated to the powers of darkness!”
"Dude," N'Longa said, "I'm standing right here."
But hey, it's not all about how black people suck. Kane always runs into Moslems, in the form of (of course) a slave-running sheik with all the complexity of a WWF wrestler in the 1980s.
…old Yussef came to Kane and began to talk about the staff again. Kane answered his questions with admirable patience, considering the hatred he bore the whole race to which the Hadji belonged, and during their conversation, Hassim came striding up and looked down in contempt. Hassim, Kane ruminated, was the very symbol of militant Islam—-bold, reckless, materialistic, sparing nothing, fearing nothing, as sure of his own destiny and as contemptuous of the rights of others as the most powerful Western king.
And I mentioned the part where he compared a negro baby to a small animal? Yeah? Fuck.
Still later (you'd think Kane would learn to avoid Africa. He's always running into vampires, Atlantean barbarians, winged fiends... I mean, that's why I don't go to Jersey), Kane runs into a tribe beset by gargoyles and takes them under his protection. It don't work out too good.
[…]the fiends rent the thatch or burst the door, and what took place in those huts was mercifully hidden from Kane’s eyes. And to the frantic white man’s horror-distorted brain it seemed that he alone was responsible. The black folk had trusted him to save them. They had withheld the sacrifice and defied their grim masters and now they were paying the horrible penalty and he was unable to save them. In the agony-dimmed eyes turned toward him Kane quaffed the black dregs of the bitter cup. It was not anger or the vindictiveness of fear. It was hurt and a stunned reproach. He was their god and he had failed them.
Naturally, he kicks the fiends (really the harpies that the mythological Jason drove off into Africa… really) in their ass.
Kane stood with the ju-ju stave in one hand and the smoking pistol in the other, above the smouldering ruins that hid forever from the sight of man the last of those terrible, semi-human monsters whom another white-skinned hero had banished from Europe in an unknown age. Kane stood, an unconscious statue of triumph—the ancient empires fall, the dark-skinned people fade and even the demons of antiquity gasp their last, but over all stands the Aryan barbarian, white-skinned, cold-eyed, dominant, the supreme fighting man of the earth, whether he be clad in wolf-hide and horned helmet, or boots and doublet—whether he bear in his hand battle-ax or rapier—whether he be called Dorian, Saxon or Englishman—whether his name be Jason, Hengist, or Solomon Kane.
JESUS CHRIST, DUDE.
