Der König des Wilden Westens

Carrie pointed me to a great biography of Karl May, a sort of German Louis L'Amour (or, as she described him, "the German love-child of James Fenimore Cooper and Zane Grey.")

Throughout his life, May was closely identified with his first-person narrator and alter ego, Old Shatterhand -so called because he could kill a man with the blow of his fist. Ironically, May never set foot upon the American plains and largely researched his subject in German prison libraries while serving time for, among other things, fraud and impersonating a police officer. Despite, or perhaps because of this, May's stories continue to be immensely popular. His works have sold more than 100 million copies worldwide, far more than any other single German author, including Goethe, Hesse and Mann, and his fans have included the likes of Einstein, Schweitzer, and even Hitler.

May's existence answers a question that has puzzled me for over twenty years. In my youth, I did a NOLS course out in the Rockies, and when we came down out of the hills and went out on the town in beautiful, cosmopolitan Lander, Wyoming, we were surrounded by excited German tourists in Stetsons and very expensive cowboy boots, who were apparently either on their way to, or on their way back from, a nearby dude ranch. And now I know why.