I was sorry to miss this one!
To those already entrained by Campbell’s rhythms the book is an openhanded, full-to-bursting gift, the culmination of a long, long process whose every step has been absorbing.
I don’t know of anyone in comic books who can compete with Campbell’s graciousness and smarts, his devastatingly personal, sometimes harrowing and yet eminently civilized way of putting into order the jagged shards of experience and, in the process, fashioning a self that so many of us want to spend time with.
It’s been two years since I first [read] Fate. As I said, it keeps echoing round my brain. I decided early on, and still believe, that the book was wrung out of anger and, as Campbell half-acknowledges, a tormenting case of creative block.
Anger and desperation are the book’s arterial qualities, threading through and sustaining the thing, giving it a certain battery-on-the-tongue bitterness. How odd, then, that the end result should be so pleasurable, so inventive, and so extravagantly, profoundly, comic.