Reading from A Word from the Outer Dark, page 79
“Now is the lyre of Homer flecked with rust,” begins the first verse of three in this circadian poem. Reading such brief, atmospheric works shot with reflection and shaded in reds, grays and midnight shadows, one finds—or this reader fancies—the doom-gurgling fountain of Howard’s most striking fantasies set in worlds so dark that his black-maned, dark-hearted and bloody-handed heroes might seem a comet of virtue against the worlds that bore them.
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