Having spent my entire reading life tussling with others over the comics page (pages, actually: In the Chicago Tribune, there were always two, and one split and shared them in my home, or one lost a limb) — and believe me when I say, dear reader, that if I haven’t finished the comics yet, I will snatch them from my own children’s hands — I came to a rather surprising realization yesterday:
I love the comics, but don’t really enjoy graphic novels — YET: I love novels, but don’t really enjoy short stories.
Isn’t the short story to the novel what the comic strip is to the graphic novel? My problem with short stories is that I don’t have enough time to immerse myself in the experience, to get to know the characters, to get lost in the machinery of someone else’s imagination. Why is that not an issue with the comics?
Just to add to the weirdness, I will happily settle down with a collection of comic strips in book form and read page after page — but seek out an actual novel in graphic form? Never.
I now return you to your regularly scheduled Rest Of The Internet, where I’m sure interesting things are being said, somewhere.