Wilson

Wilson by Daniel Clowes (2010) I read Wilson many years ago, and since saw a movie based on it (which I remember liking, I think), and just re-read it. It’s got big pages, like a comic book, and nearly 80 pages, so there’s a lot of Wilson—it’s kind of a life story. The most surprising thing is that each page is like its own chapter, with a title, and a self-contained episode. Most of them have a similar rhythm, with a quickly established situation and then a resolution. Often the last frame comes off as a punchline, and some are really, really funny. The next surprising thing is that there are several different styles of drawing—from very naturalistic to more comic and exaggerated—big heads and bulbous noses. Also, some are full color and some black and white and various degrees of tinting. The last surprising thing, then, is that you might start to care about him—Wilson—well, as a human being, anyway. If nothing else, you understand him. And this is surprising because he’s a reprehensible human being. I’ll skip the reasons and the labels and examples—that’s the fun of the book, because we can laugh at him—and you might have to laugh at yourself—for the ways you relate to him. I like to think that with some of these pages, Clowes surprised even himself—like looking down on himself, shaking his head. My favorite combination (whether in songs or stories) is funny and sad, and a little bit weird. So, maybe the only reason this isn’t my favorite book ever is the limits of my compassion—in that, if I were to encounter Wilson, in life, I don’t think he’d like me. As far as the weird part—here’s an example: there’s one page, titled: “Frankenstein,” in which the humor is so bizarre and esoteric that I can’t imagine more than a tiny percentage of readers really connecting to the humor—but I’ve got to imagine that Clowes, after finishing that one, must have fallen to the floor (even if he’s not the falling to the floor type) unable to contain his own laughter.

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