Music to Slit Your Wrists By
Audrey Niffenegger
Chris Ware
The Acme Novelty Library Great Big Book of Jokes:
Vol. VII, Issue Number VII, Summer 1996
Seattle, WA: Fantographic Books
Boys and girls, moms and dads, friends, Romans, countrymen: let
me begin by saying that this is a damn fine publication. Both
in quantity (10 3/4" x 17 7/8" and an exemplary example of horror vaccui) and in quality, Chris Ware's Book of Jokes is nearly perfect. Near-perfection, in this case, is embodied
in the form of a large comic book. The potential reader is beguiled
by the brightly colored cover, which features a relaxed, amused
robot lounging with an Acme Novelty Library publication in a comfy
chair, oblivious to the bustle of the many flying objects outside
his penthouse windows. A side panel promises "the absolute latest
in illustrated entertainments...easily digested little tales of
wit aimed at those who have yet to develop the maturity to appreciate
our more subtle shadings." And so the reader, like one of those
hapless insects in nature programs on PBS which stroll into carnivorous
plants in search of a snack, opens the Book of Jokes and finds all the less attractive aspects of the Human Condition
laid out for her or his delectation and mirth. Topics i
nclude the merciless profit-mongering of large corporations; the
misguided and sometimes lethal attempts of imperfect men to befriend
small animals, machines, and the simple-minded; the indifference
and occasional cruelty of God; the isolation and loneliness which
is often the lot of gentle, uncomprehending men; the ridiculousness
of Progress; and the dreadfulness of parents, especially Dads.
In some ways Mr. Ware's creations remind one of Dickens's; except
that in Mr. Ware's hands, Oliver starves to death at the work
house, Pip is humiliated by Esmerelda and grows up to work for
Scrooge, who exploits his workers mercilessly until they are maimed
or drop dead and then fires them while Little Nell dies and is
flown to Planet X-9 and eaten by stranded astronauts; and somehow,
this is all highly amusing, perhaps because the readers of 1997
are somewhat more perverse than those of 1877.
The format in which this is all presented is a smooth, seamless
mix of comic book and boy's magazine, evoking graphic styles from
the 1870's to the 1940's. One of Mr. Ware's great strengths has
always been his consummate understanding of the interplay between
content and form; long passages of admonitions and exhortations
on the power and glory of the Acme Novelty Library are presented
in nineteenth-century typography and layouts that underline the
ominous quality of articles such as "Accidental Death and Dismemberment
Benefits Increased at Library; Forward-Looking Policies Greatly
Improve Employment Conditions for Workers Mortally Maimed, Beheaded."
The narrative is episodic; the Book of Jokes moves from staple characters Big Tex to Rocket Sam to Quimby
to Jimmy Corrigan to God and back again in no particular order,
presenting the same little pattern every time: 1) a character
attempts to entertain or better himself, or please someone 2)
the attempt is frustrated by its own inherent foolishness or the
arbitrary hostility of an authority figure 3) the character realizes
that things are hopeless. There is great economy and power in
this schema; it leaves us expecting that 4) the character will
somehow pick himself up, dust himself off, and triumph over adversity,
but in the Acme world this never happens. Only the relentless
simpleminded optimism of these characters allows them to come
back, strip after strip, for more punishment. This is of course
a convention of the world of comics and cartoons (viz. the Wile
E. Coyote, Charlie Brown, etc.), but in Mr. Ware's world innocence
only wins by endurance, and is frequently annihilated just for
kicks, not unlike the real world, come to think of it.
And of course only an ingrate would quibble with near-perfection,
but hey, I am that ingrate, so here goes: the problem with the
Book of Jokes is that it's just so unremittingly bleak. Now, as a citizen of the fine metropolis of Chicago I'm privileged
to encounter the work of Mr. Ware once a week in the pages of
New City. And once a week is a good thing, sort of like getting updates
on one's tetanus shots so one can continue to frolic with rusty
saw blades. Mr. Ware's work almost invariably conjures up feelings
of loss, self-loathing, rue, despair, agnosticism, sexual anxiety,
loneliness, fear, doubt, longing, pity, hilarity, and desire,
a conglomeration of emotion which, taken on a regular but carefully
paced schedule, can function as a vaccination against the disappointments
and absurdities of modern life. Readers should be forewarned that
the Book of Jokes constitutes an overdose of the aforementioned emotional cocktail
and should be consumed in very small doses in order to avoid having
to run into the bathroom, heave open the medicine chest (scattering
little tonics everywhere), seize Dad's straight razor and hack
away at one's wrists, causing blood to spurt cinematically over
the shower curtains. If Bleakness were nails and Mr. Ware was
in the circus, he would have an act that involved bright, friendly
patter while smilingly pounding a 10" nail of solid Bleakness
up the nose of an audience volunteer. One of the things that confirms
for me Mr. Ware's genius is that it is frequently so enjoyable
to be the subject of these little nail-pounding activities. Perhaps
it's the perky and subtle colors, the Winsor McCayesque draftsmanship,
or the soothing qualities of such phrases as "contemporary aestheconomic
theory" and "HUZZAH!" At any rate, very few readers have actually
died from the effects of the Book of Jokes, and so I encourage you, the potential reader, to zip right out
and lay your hands on this bleak but fun product. Just pace yourself
a bit.
