Give Our Regards to the Atomsmashers! Writers on Comics

My parents were something between: separated, or separating, sometimes living together and sometimes apart, and each of them with lovers. I would never have been able to name that difference in 1975, however, let alone account for how it felt. The difference I understood was this: Luke had an older brother, Peter, whom both Luke and I idealized in absentia. Peter had left behind a collection of sixties Marvel comic books, in sacrosanct box files. These included a nearly complete run of Fantastic Four, the famous 102 issues drawn by Jack Kirby and scripted by Stan Lee, a defining artifact (I now know) of the Silver Age of comics. Luke was precocious, worldly, full of a satirical brilliance I didn’t always understand but pretended to, as I pretended to understand his frequent references to “Aunt Petunia” and “the Negative Zone” and “the Baxter Building.” He was disdainful of childish pursuits and disdainful of my early curiosity about sex (I didn’t catch the contradiction in this until later). Luke didn’t buy new comics so much as he read and reread old ones. Luke’s favorite comic book artist was Jack Kirby. Karl was precocious, secretive, and rebellious, full of intimations of fireworks and drugs and petty thievery that frightened and thrilled me. He was curious about sex, and unaware of or uninterested in the early history of Marvel superheroes. For him Marvel began with the hip, outsiderish loner heroes of the seventies—Ghost Rider, Luke Cage, Warlock, Iron Fist. His favorite comic book artist was John Byrne. Karl got in trouble a lot. Luke didn’t. Though all three of us lived in rough parts of Brooklyn, Karl and I went to a terrifying public school together, in an impoverished neighborhood, while Luke went to St. Ann’s School, safe in moneyed Brooklyn Heights. It was this, I’m certain, that tipped my allegiance to Karl in those years. Karl and I, in our schooldays, had been forced to adopt a stance of endurance and shame together, a kabuki of cringing postures in response to a world of systematic bullying. That was a situation I could no more have explained to Luke than to my parents. Karl and I never discussed it either, but we knew it was shared. In 1976 Marvel announced, with what seemed to Karl and me great fanfare, the return of Jack Kirby, the “King” of comics, as an artist-writer—a full “auteur”—on a series of Marvel titles. The announcement wasn’t a question of press conferences, mind you, or advertisements in other media, only sensational reports on the Bullpen Bulletin pages of Marvel comics themselves, the CNN of our little befogged minds at the time. Kirby was the famed creator or cocreator of a vast collection of classic Marvel characters: the Fantastic Four, the Hulk, Thor, Silver Surfer, Doctor Doom, the Inhumans. In a shadowy earlier career (as captives within the Marvel hype machine, Karl and I had bought into a view that nothing really existed before 1962) Kirby was also the creator of Captain America—his career reached into what was for us the prehistory of comics. The notion that he was about to reclaim his territory was rich and disturbing. In fact, what he would turn out to bring to Marvel was a paradoxical combination: clunkily old-fashioned virtues that had been outmoded, if not surpassed, by subsequent Marvel artists (John Byrne foremost among them), together with a baroque and nearly opaque futurPlease note: The following is an excerpt from one essay in this collection. The Return of the King, or, Identifying With Your Parents by Jonathan Lethem In the mid-seventies I had two friends who were into Marvel Comics: Karl, whose parents were divorced, and Luke, whose parents were among the most stable I knew. My parents were something between: separated, or separating, sometimes living together and sometimes apart, and each of them with lovers. I would never have been able to name that difference in 1975, however, let alone account for how it felt. The difference I understood was this: Luke had an older brother, Peter, whom both Luke and I idealized in absentia. Peter had left behind a collection of sixties Marvel comic books, in sacrosanct box files. These included a nearly complete run of Fantastic Four, the famous 102 issues drawn by Jack Kirby and scripted by Stan Lee, a defining artifact (I now know) of the Silver Age of comics. Luke was precocious, worldly, full of a satirical brilliance I didn't always understand but pretended to, as I pretended to understand his frequent references to "Aunt Petunia" and "the Negative Zone" and "the Baxter Building." He was disdainful of childish pursuits and disdainful of my early curiosity about sex (I didn't catch the contradiction in this until later). Luke didn't buy new comics so much as he read and reread old ones. Luke's favorite comic book artist was Jack Kirby. Karl was precocious, secretive, and rebellious, full of intimations of fireworks and drugs and petty thievery that frightened and thrilled me. He was curious about sex, and unaware of or uninterested in the early history of Marvel superheroes. For him Marvel began with the hip, outsiderish loner heroes of the seventiesGhost Rider, Luke Cage, Warlock, Iron Fist. His favorite comic book artist was John Byrne. Karl got in trouble a lot. Luke didn't. Though all three of us lived in rough parts of Brooklyn, Karl and I went to a terrifying public school together, in an impoverished neighborhood, while Luke went to St. Ann's School, safe in moneyed Brooklyn Heights. It was this, I'm certain, that tipped my allegiance to Karl in those years. Karl and I, in our schooldays, had been forced to adopt a stance of endurance and shame together, a kabuki of cringing postures in response to a world of systematic bullying. That was a situation I could no more have explained to Luke than to my parents. Karl and I never discussed it either, but we knew it was shared. In 1976 Marvel announced, with what seemed to Karl and me great fanfare, the return of Jack Kirby, the "King" of comics, as an artist-writera full "auteur"on a series of Marvel titles. The announcement wasn't a question of press conferences, mind you, or advertisements in other media, only sensational reports on the Bullpen Bulletin pages of Marvel comics themselves, the CNN of our little befogged minds at the time. Kirby was the famed creator or cocreator of a vast collection of classic Marvel characters: the Fantastic Four, the Hulk, Thor, Silver Surfer, Doctor Doom, the Inhumans. In a shadowy earlier career (as captives within the Marvel hype machine, Karl and I had bought into a view that nothing really existed before 1962) Kirby was also the creator of Captain Americahis career reached into what was for us the prehistory of comics. The notion that he was about to reclaim his territory was rich and disturbing. In fact, what he would turn out to bring to Marvel was a paradoxical combination: clunkily old-fashioned virtues that had been outmoded, if not surpassed, by subsequent Marvel artists (John Byrne foremost among them), together with a baroque and nearly opaque futurIn Give Our Regards to the Atom-smashers!, some of our most intriguing and creative contemporary writers weigh in on the world of comics: the ones they love versus the ones they hate, the comics they devoured as kids and still can't live without, and the comics that have influenced them in their work and their lives. Here is Jonathan Lethem on childhood friendships, comic books, and the genius of artist Jack Kirby . . . Brad Meltzer on spending a summer vacation with the New Teen Titans. . . Glen David Gold on the obsessive nature of collecting . . . Myla Goldberg writing about the disturbed visions of Chris Ware and Renée French . . . Steve Erickson riffing on the perverse patriotism of American Flagg. Here, too, are Luc Sante on Tintin, Aimee Bender on Yummy Fur, Greil Marcus on Uncle Sam, Lydia Millet on Little Nemo in Slumberland, and many others. Give Our Regards to the Atomsmashers! is a quirky, thrilling, and compulsively readable celebration of the unique alchemy of words and drawings that forms the language of comic books. It is a book that will delight the seasoned comics reader and invite everyone else into a whole new world."In Give Our Regards to the Atomsmashers!, some of our most creative contemporary writers weigh in on the world of comics: the ones they love versus the ones they hate, the comics they devoured as kids and still can't live without, and the comics that have influenced them in their work and their lives."--BOOK JACKET. Title Summary field provided by Blackwell North America, Inc. All Rights Reserved