I’m here to argue the opposite. Not only is it possible to identify the single greatest comic ever published, but doing so is essential. We need a Mount Rushmore. We need a heavyweight champion. We need a book you can hand to a non-believer and say, “Read this. If you don’t get it, you don’t get comics.”
Watchmen is smarter. Maus is more important. Sandman is more magical. But Jimmy Corrigan is the truth. And the truth, however miserable, is always the fucking best. fucking possible comic best
Because its greatness is partly extrinsic. It’s a vital historical document. But would Maus be as revered if the Holocaust wasn’t its subject? The craft is undeniable, but the “fuck” factor is one of horror, not revelatory joy. It’s essential. It’s not the best. Sandman #1-75 (Neil Gaiman & various artists) The case for: The Sound of Her Wings . The Cereal Convention. “Sometimes you wake up.” Gaiman turned horror into myth and myth into therapy. It’s the most literary comic ever. I’m here to argue the opposite
The fourth time, you cry at the ending where nothing is resolved. Because that’s the point. There’s a moment—no spoilers—in the 1893 sequence where a character experiences a horrific accident involving infrastructure. It’s drawn with cold, Victorian precision. You turn the page. And Chris Ware has drawn an insert of a paper cut-out toy of the same accident. Instructions: “Cut along dotted lines. Fold. Glue.” We need a heavyweight champion
For years, we’ve danced around the question with careful, academic disclaimers. “Art is subjective.” “You can’t compare Maus to Amazing Spider-Man #122 .” “It depends on what you mean by ‘best.’”