it strings you along as these artists muddle around trying to figure out the art of comic books, tumbles you into the rabbit hole with its dirty rags-to-riches business schemes, described here almost like an unpoliced fountain of liquid gold! then micheal tugs in citizen kane and salvador dali as a splash of debonoir inspiration and shoots the breeze on obsessive escapism while making rollies from crushed cigarette butts.
fighting war with art, the struggle between religion against sexuality, art giveths; art takeths away, dip-sticking the shadowy depths of brotherhood, the initial censorship battle... oh my god, is it natural to fit all that and more into one novel and make it seem as casual as flicking the ashes off a cigarette?
what fascinates me still (i'm writing from memory, it's been months since i read it) is how escapism is examined... well, graciously, and from odd angles.
superheroes here are like neighbourhood gods, as if the comic artists under the cloud of WWII just needed to see someone up there doing something about it and drew that. and these neighbourhood gods are man-made, & therefore flawed, & therefore disappoint. just like religion. there's an implication that religion is also a form of escapism.
yet!
they become gods of their creations, this kavalier & clay, and the creation reflects their lives. they fall in love; a mysterious female superhero appears. they are anti-fascist; their hero, The Escapist, whips Nazis into submission in every issue. one experiments with his sexuality; sidekicks appear.
you end up convinced that this is the true history of comics, never mind that neither the Escapist, Kavalier nor Clay existed. You mourn a little -how can something so real... not be real? you're left with a posy of flowers in hand and no grave to go pay pilgrim to.
READ IT!
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