When I was the age for reading comic books, I had no
interest in them. Instead, I read what I considered to be real books, with the
occasional Archie or Katie Keene (a comic about a model which also included a
paper doll in every issue). At the time, I was no book snob, and read high
literature, children’s chapter books, and mysteries with the same avidity. But
comic books—they had pictures, and that meant that they were not serious.
It was not until I was in college that I developed an
interest in comics, and but not because I had any interest in the comics
themselves. Another long held obsession, Tori Amos, led me to them. Amos, whose
career was only made possible by the alternative music movement of the 90s,
wrote surreal lyrics, played piano expressively, and sang breathily. Amos
happened to be friends with Neil Gaiman, and even mentioned him in her lyrics.
Gaiman, in turn, loosely based his Sandman character, Delirium, on Amos. Amos
was invited to write the introduction to the collected volume Death: The High Cost of Living.
When I learned about Delirium, I agreed to go to the comic
book store with my brother, who started collecting at the age of five, and
flipped through a volume of Sandman
looking for Delirium. Knowing nothing about the series, I did not know that
Delirium did not figure prominently in every issue, and I was disappointed when
I could not find an image of her. In addition, I did not find the illustrations
appealing, and so did not brother taking one home with me. Later, my parents tracked
down a Delirium T-shirt with an image that resembled Amos a good deal and also
gave me copy of Death: The High Cost of
Living as Christmas presents.
Amos’s introduction was beautiful, but I also found the
story intriguing. Death is cheery and sweet, unlike her human companion. Her
human companion is a typical teenage boy, disaffected and unhappy with his
experiences. The story is dark and brilliant full of hope. It came to me at a
point in my life when I particularly needed it, and I was grateful and surprised
that comic books could contain such emotionally moving content. At the time, I
did not desire to pursue the Sandman series,
as it was Death I was in love with, and I knew that she was not the star of the
other comics.
It wasn’t until my stint at Borders that I picked Sandman back up. I was in graduate
school, reading lots and lots of poetry, writing lots and lots of poetry, with
little time for any other reading. In addition, while there was downtime at
work, it wasn’t possible to read anything of substance, because a good book
would distract from a customer who might need assistance. So, I tried sneaking Preludes & Nocturnes to the
information desk, and decided to buy it so that I could take it home and have
it for my own. By this time, the series had long been completed, and I knew
that there was a finite number of books to read. With great self-control, I
spaced out the purchasing and reading of the compilations, until they were
done, and I had fallen hopelessly in love with Gaiman.
Sandman tells the
story of immortal icons of Dream, Death, Delirium, Desire, Despair, and
Destiny. All are siblings and all are involved in the lives of mortals, to
varying degrees and with varying amounts of empathy. The plot encompasses
Shakespeare, myths, and history, and explores political, emotional, and ethical
topics. As imaginary as the characters are, they become real in a way I had not
experienced since James and the Giant
Peach. Magic. Gaiman allows magic to return.
It was not until my second run of graduate school that I
begun to consume graphic novels with a voracious hunger. I had moved to Oxford , Mississippi ,
where I knew no one, and where I found myself experiencing a culture shock
worse than I felt the summer I spent in Prague .
Searching for a friendly face, I found Gaiman’s The Books of Magic at the public library. In fact, while the
library itself was not terribly impressive (I had been spoiled by enormous
libraries in Pittsburgh ),
the graphic novel selection was extensive. And so, in an effort to distract
myself from loneliness, I read all the books by Gaiman, and then everything
that looked like a literary type book, and then anything that looked fantastic,
but stopped short of superheroes. But I made flesh and blood friends, and
comics were not always a necessity. Then, a few laters, when I found myself in
the midst of a devastating break up and temporary bout of unemployment, I
returned to comic books, this time discovering superheroes. It was not as bad
as I thought it was going to be, and I was fascinated by how different
interpretations of Batman could be.
For me, comic books offer popcorn reading, a relief from the
intensity of reading literature and grading papers. I do not have to analyze
(as much—I can never turn it off) and I find myself more forgiving of poor
dialogue and plotlines. Though, I must admit, that more I read, the more I find
myself aware of poor technique. However, I still feel that I am doing something
frivolous, and it feels both comforting and relaxing. Now, I have series I have
followed for years, such as Fables and
Unwritten, as well as series I
followed from the beginning, like Saga. I
still wait for the collected volumes to come out, instead of purchasing
monthlies, because it feels more satisfying, but I might yet come around to the
phenomena of individual issues, as I did buy the first issue of Sandman: Overture.
Have comic books informed my own writing? Surely. Everything
I experience, see, and hear influences my writing. And I still harbor a dream
that I will write my own comic book someday. As to why comic books are so good
at offering me comfort, I don’t yet know, but I continue to question.
Question—always question. When we quit questioning, we are surely dead.
Pay no attention to the girl behind the book.
No comments:
Post a Comment