Wits And Swords Are As

In The Hill Country, Civilization Steals In Last, And The People Retain Much Of The Crude But Vigorous Mode Of Expression Of The Colonial Days And Earlier.

It Is An Ill Thing To Meet A Man You Thought Dead In The Woodland At Dusk.

I Have Accomplished Little Enough, But Such As It Is, It Is The Result Of My Own Efforts.

I Have Not Been A Success, And Probably Never Will Be.

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.