Conan the Texan: the Tension between Barbarism and Civilization

         If you've been following the news at all over the past week, you've heard of the massive winter storms circulating across the country, wreaking havoc especially in southern states like Texas, which are not at all acclimated to such events. Having lived in the Midwest my whole life (including several years up in the frozen tundra of Wisconsin), my heart goes out to those suffering through this extreme weather. Some of the stories (of the failure of electrical grids, water systems, and other infrastructures) and the human cost have been absolutely appalling and frightful. With the weather starting to warm up, hopefully those devastated areas will be able to start the recovery process.

        The political reaction to this state of affairs has also made the news lately. Texas governor Greg Abbott strangely (and incorrectly) blamed wind turbines for the energy disruptions, Senator Ted Cruz  checked out for Cancun, and former Texas governor Rick Perry claimed Texans were happy to go without power because it kept the federal government out of their business. Standing out amongst them all was (now former) Colorado City, Texas mayor Tim Boyd, who railed on Facebook that his fellow citizens asking for help during the power and water outages were "looking for a handout," that "no one owes you are (sic) your family anything," and "only the strong will survive and the weak will parish (sic)."

        Taking all of this in, my first reaction (oddly enough) was to think of Robert E. Howard's original pulp tales of Conan the Barbarian. 

        For those unfamiliar with the character of Conan, he is described in Howard's stories as a mostly amoral mercenary living in the deep, deep past of human history, somewhere between the sinking of Atlantis (which existed in this mythology) and the founding of the earliest civilizations in Mesopotamia and the Indus Valley. Disdainful of human society and rules, Conan lives a mostly nomadic, solitary existence, surviving through his wits and strength by stealing, fighting, and killing his way out of problems. The god of Conan's people, named Crom, is portrayed as utterly indifferent to human affairs, leaving people to fend for themselves. Likewise unfeeling, Conan scoffs at all manner of altruism and social obligation, being much more likely to split a person's skull in half than explain himself.

        Here's the connection to current events: Robert E. Howard was himself a Texan and conceived of the character while travelling out in the state's vast and (at least in the 1930s) unsettled areas. Howard imbued Conan with his own Libertarian scorn of what he saw as the stifling, constricting force of civilization: living alone, taking what you needed, and making out your own rules was the way to go. In other words, to Howard being a barbarian was vastly better than the civilized life, hence his idealized character "Conan the Barbarian." (As an interesting aside, Howard maintained a voluminous letter correspondence with fellow pulp writer H.P. Lovecraft, creator of the famous Cthulhu mythos, which I've used from time to time in classes on symbols of evil. Lovecraft was of the opposite point of view: civilization needed to be protected from barbarism at all cost.)

        Watching the news and having read some Conan tales, it seems to me that Howard's fellow Texans Mayor Boyd, Senator Cruz, and former governor Perry were advocating a very Conan-like, barbaric way of handling this current crisis. Only the strong will survive! (Boyd) We'd rather suffer than than ask for help, because then we can be on our own! (Perry) If you have the means, fend yourself and flee to a tropical climate! (Cruz) It has certainly highlighted a chasm in political philosophy: are we all in this together or are we all on our own? As you come to your own conclusion, maybe ask yourself this question: would you really want to live in a world where you and everyone around you has to act like Conan?

The Pain Behind the Beauty

    One of the books I've enjoyed reading the most with my sons is the early 20th century British classic The Wind in the Willows, the fantasy story by Kenneth Grahame about the adventures of several anthropomorphized (and quite civilized - in the British fashion) animals, who have their own village or settlement that somehow coexists alongside the human world. Each creature is archetypal in some respects, with their main overriding characteristic representing some facet found in human nature. At the same time, there are multiple sides to their personalities: Mole is perpetually enthusiastic and optimistic, but naive; Badger is gruff and irascible, but ultimately kind-hearted; Rat is usually eminently and reliably practical, but also given to daydreams; and Toad is profligate, arrogant, and obsessive, yet somehow still loveable. 

 

    In a rhapsodic way that treats nature as a source of mystic revelry, the story primarily follows Mole's awakening to life and friendship aboveground after years of living only in his burrow. Of course, there's also Toad, a rich animal who gets himself into deep trouble by disregarding his friends' help and indulging in a mania for fast cars. With funny situations, relatable characters, and beautiful language, my sons and I have enjoyed reading it over and over again. 

    In the Signet Classics edition of the book, there is an essay by novelist Luanne Rice about the life of the author Kenneth Grahame (pictured below). 

     His life, I found out, was not a happy one. When he was only five years old, his mother died, leaving him and his three siblings alone with their alcoholic father. Realizing he could not care for his children, the father sent them to live with relatives in the countryside. Those relatives were described as "indifferent" and "emotionally distant" toward the children who, as a result, began to invent games and characters among themselves. The essay suggests it might have been in this context that the characters of The Wind in the Willows were created.

    Later, other events intervened for Grahame. At the age of nine he was sent to boarding school and developed a love of books and writing. He wanted to study at Oxford to become an author, but his caretakers would not allow it, forcing him instead to go to work at the Bank of England. He survived being shot during a bank robbery and then entered into a loveless, unhappy marriage. All along, however, he wrote stories during what free time he could muster and when his son Alastair was born (premature and nearly blind), he told him bedtime stories - about a mole, a toad, and a badger, among other creatures. These tales evolved into The Wind in the Willows and Alastair, despite chronic health problems, realized his father's dream by enrolling at Oxford. It seemed as though there might be a happy ending, until Alastair committed suicide at the age of twenty.

    In Bob Dylan's song Not Dark Yet, he sings, "Behind every beautiful thing there's been some kind of pain." I feel that very keenly after reading about Grahame's life. It seems that we can see the scars of his trauma and the yearnings of his whole life throughout the tale: Toad disappearing on self-destructive joyrides (like the father on alcoholic benders?), remote and stern Badger who becomes more kindly (like the relatives Grahame hoped would relent?), and the myopic and shy Mole who comes out of his burrow and his shell to a whole new world of friends (like the sickly and near-sighted Alastair?). Grahame's life speaks to me of the healing power of writing, of trying to re-take ownership of a life spinning out of control by telling your own story, even when that feels most hopeless. Spinning a story can be like weaving the threads of a parachute, to protect against the impending crash.

    Learning about Grahame's story has definitely enhanced my appreciation of The Wind in the Willows. Just as there's a bit of the archetypal Toad, Badger, or Mole in us all, there's also a bit of Kenneth Grahame. Despite his own tragedies and moments of unbearable sadness, he left behind a treasure of literature to benefit the rest of us. I know it has benefitted my family, and learning of his story gives me hope for what we all can do, for the stories we all can tell, to break free of our circumstances.