Yesterday morning, I was chatting at Tam and mentioned my admiration for Robert E. Howard, the Texan writer who created Conan the Barbarian and launched "Sword and sorcery" fiction. Howard's prose could be as purple as the pulps that published it, but he had remarkable imagination, good discipline and an excellent ear for dream-like narrative.
Robert E. Howard's mother was ill with tuberculosis all of his life. He helped take care of her and they were very close. The disease eventually resulted in her death, which appears to have prompted his suicide. His mother and father were somewhat estranged to one another, though they stayed married and lived together.
People -- perhaps F/SF fans especially -- being what they are, the mother-son closeness and his suicide led to all manner of speculation, some of it quite smarmy. But -- as I remarked to Tam, "It may have been no more than his despair at having failed to keep his mother alive."
I choked on the last few words and felt unexpected tears rising in my eyes. Had I failed to keep my mother alive?
Sometimes it feels that way. Maybe if I'd been a better child, less of a disppointment, more dutiful, quicker to reconcile...?
No. I might've had more time with my family -- stressful though I often found it -- but Mom's heart wore out on her long before she passed. She kept going for years on pluck and determination, and I am glad we had as much time together as we did. I still miss her.
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