Autobiographical comics, I love them. I love them.
I just met someone who read Gone With the Wind 62 times for exactly that same reason. She couldn’t bear that it wasn’t real. She wanted to live in it.
I still found literary criticism to be a suspect activity.
It was a vicious cycle, though. The more gratification we found in our own geniuses, the more isolated we grew.
At first I was glad for the help. My freshmen English class, “Mythology and Archetypal Experience,” confounded me. I didn’t understand why we couldn’t just read books without forcing contorted interpretations on then.
And partly, the worst thing you could do in my family was need something from someone. So physical strength represented an avenue of self-sufficiency to me.
Well, I’m always working on my comic strip and trying to, you know, keep cranking that out.
Watching everyone root through their psyche, it just delights me. Especially R. Crumb’s stuff.
The satiric ethos of Mad was a much bigger childhood influence.
The web is my unconscious but it’s also a wish – a fantasy of what my own creativity might look like if I weren’t constantly impeding its flow.
Even drawing gray hair at all is difficult to render in black and white.
I’m pretty illiterate when it comes to comics history.
For some reason writing and drawing are very separate processes for me.
I just have this sort of entrepreneurial spirit and I work really hard at promoting myself.
I love Jules Feiffer. I didn’t discover him until I was a little older.
It was not a triumphal return. Home, as I had known it, was gone.
Feminism is the theory. Lesbianism is the practice.
Maybe it was the converse of the way amputees feel pain in a missing limb. He really was there all those years, a flesh-and-blood presence streaming off the wallpaper, digging up the dogwoods, polishing the finials... smelling of sawdust and sweat and designer cologne. But I ached as if he were already gone.
Your unconscious wants to express the pain you feel about your own lost innocence. But your ego wants to keep it repressed. To the compromise is anxiety.
Gatsby’s self-willed metamorphosis from farm boy to prince is many ways identical to my father’s. Like Gatsby, my father fueled this transformation with the “colossal vitality of his illusion”. Unlike Gatsby he did this on a school teacher’s salary.