by Austen Jennings
I’m sitting on my couch. It’s been a long day. I have a whiskey. I have my books. I feel stranded in a desert lately. I can’t seem to stop reading these bullshit philosophy books. I want a good story, but fiction just isn’t working for me. I do have this 900 page novel I’m currently reading, that I love, but no one else is liking it. I feel isolated in fiction. Sometimes this happens to me. I like the punishment of philosophy. I’m a masochist I suppose. Why else would I work all day to come home and read Kant? I need a break.
Adie recommended a graphic novel yesterday. It’s sitting on my coffee table by the whiskey. I pick it up. An hour later I’m halfway through it. It’s 500 pages of graphic novel. Needless to say, I’m loving Scott McCloud’s The Sculptor. It came to me in my final hour. It plucked me from the cruel wasteland that is Transcendental Ideality. Water in my mouth. Manna in the muscular hollow that lies beyond the hard knot of flesh that is my navel.
McCloud’s style is sublime. He has crafted a world so deftly enthralling that I find myself at once both freed and bound-bound in the sculpture.
In the words of the famous philosopher Kanye West: ‘I’m in it and I can’t get out.’
Let’s be clear here, McCloud’s world is a very good place to be stuck in.
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