mcsweeney's quarterly concern no. 13
This book will kill me. I am so overwhelmed by the absolute beauty of it. There is so much for me to read. 264 pages of comic history, sketches (Charles Schulz's early sketches), a snippet of Optic nerve (!@$$&^&), Daniel Clowes, Richard Sala, Kaz. I've been sat thumbing through it, not daring to crease the pages. The sleeve is a perfectly folded piece of hardpaper, into which are two folds, one on the back, and one on the front. In each pocket is a mini comic, one about the political standpoint of a narrator on a femal suicide bomber, and the other one a tiny comic about the innocence of life and the little things that are important. There are pages of text for me to read, 17th century drawings, history history history. This book proves to me that it is possible to be so happy you could burst. Here are some pictures, that will never do this book justice.
Beginning of Kaz section.
Slobber.
This is the cover opened up, with drawings in the center, and text all the way round the edge!
The little booklet is the free comic you got about the suicide bomber.
Early comic. How fucking rad?
Beginning of Kaz section.
Slobber.
This is the cover opened up, with drawings in the center, and text all the way round the edge!
The little booklet is the free comic you got about the suicide bomber.
Early comic. How fucking rad?