As children, as we learn what things are, we are slowly learning to dismiss them visually. As adults, entirely submerged in words and concepts, we spend almost all of our time thinking and worrying ab...
Newly Found Sugary Spill: Tastes Like Dried Spit or Old Soda
Conveniently then he can forget it all exists. And, after a time only a general notion will remain in his mind, that there are places where he doesn't belong, and those where he seems to fall right in...
This life we endure - how strange, yet how jolly
Well, there are better cartoonists now than there ever have been. I firmly believe that. There's some amazing work being done.
I don't think there's any independent cartoonist whose stuff I don't like or respect in at least some way or another. We're all marginal laborers - we're practically medical oddities - so I don't see...
I mean, if all we are is bundles of energy... what is a 'hug' anyway?... and how can we ever really touch each other?
I guess we all make choices as to how we want to live, right?
Every city began as a campsite - pg. 25
Unlike prose writing, the strange process of writing with pictures encourages associations and recollections to accumulate literally in front of your eyes; people, places, and events appear out of now...
The whole experience reminded me of my own 'old lady' phase that I went through in high school while I was reading Somerset Maugham... The embroidered sweaters, the costume jewelry... I remember genui...
The soundof One Lungfilling with waterdrowned out by wave after wave of a million buzzing insects an invisible chorus that only knows how to sing the last letter of the alphabet.
METAPHOR: A tightly fitting suit of metal, generally tin, which entirely encloses the wearer, both impeding free movement and preventing emotional expression and/or social contact.
Ragtime has about the same amount of respect as comics. And in a way they're similar art forms. Ragtime is highly compositional, and the emotion in the music is built in, whereas in jazz a lot of that...
Every couple of years or so, when Daniel Clowes releases a new book, one can almost sense the rectal contraction across the collective seat of our humble profession.
Even the disappointing diffusion of a sheer curtain can suggest the most colorful bouquet of unspeakable secrets.
The nest is agiggle with excitement.
I prefer to imagine that my wife, a few friends, and occasionally my mom are the only ones who read what I do, though I realize that this is somewhat unrealistic.
As I've gotten older I've occasionally found myself nostalgic for earlier periods of solitude, though I realize that's also likely a false nostalgia, as I know there was nothing I wanted more during t...
It's somehow more comforting to imagine that one's suffering is unique, and to measure against what one doesn't know, rather than against what one does.