more on Harvey Pekar

I have been reading a lot of Harvey Pekar’s comics recently, which are about the everyday, but because he is brilliant they are also about everyone. He writes about himself, but we can all see ourselves in his failings, his neuroses, his humour. For example in his piece about his great 60s evening in San Francisco he talks about how Pete Townsend smashing his guitar was the one false moment of the gig he saw. That, actually, the concert was full of fun and humour and this negativity, though expected, was out of keeping with the whole mood of the evening. And I think that kind of perception, which rests in a generous view of the world- that there are people out there, everywhere, with great stories to tell, not everyone, but they exist and aren’t so rare, this allows him to escape the dead hold of some kind of formulaic worldview, which though powerful, in the way opinions can be powerful, just get in the way of truth.

But being such a skinflint I have only ever bought one of his comic books. The rest I read in this great bookstore I have taken to going to of an evening. I also go there with my kids on weekends and my son even worked there for a while though I think the novelty of working has worn off…anyway, I buy my overpriced hot chocolate- a $3 cup- but worth it because it means the store is never crowded- and start reading Harvey interspersed with dipping into William Vollman and other worthy titans of prose. I don’t want to actually buy comics and graphic novels because they’re over so fast, and apart from Tintin the artwork is never so engrossing as to demand a second reading. I think that’s the problem with most comics- they’re great, more fun than books, but when they’re finished they’re finished. Disposable in a way, though taking an awful lot of industry to produce- a real American product.

But I love reading Harvey Pekar. I’ll read anything by him, even his memoir of cancer and I usually avoid that kind of stuff. His touch is usually perfect, hidden too, like an old style Hollywood movie the intelligence is behind the camera. He has his hobby horses, but he treats them very lightly- unlike I imagine he does in real life- the real matter of the stories is the interstices of life- one of my absolute favourites- which I did reread was simply a series of frames depicting eating an orange and getting rid of the pips in someone else’s bin in an office. Couldn’t be done in prose, or maybe it could, but you wouldn’t think of doing it.

I leave the store and it’s night, a full moon. The garden strip outside the bookstore smells of plant scent, one I can’t identify, but damp and sweet. Cars zoom by and I think about my walk tomorrow morning, my own quotidian battle plan. Reading about Harvey’s life has made me realise how to value my own more. If you’ve ever seen the movie My Dinner with Andre (I gave away my hard to get copy to someone I met at a party who probably never watched it) there is a scene at the end where Wallace Shawn takes a taxi home through New York and sees it again through fresh eyes, eyes full of wonder and new interest. Strangely reading Harvey Pekar has done that for me.