I have a friend who lets me borrow from his collection of graphic novels. I don’t see him often and we don’t talk much. Possibly we are too much alike to ever have much to say to one another. Well, much to say in words anyway, for we are communicating through the sharing of books.
Months ago he gave me my latest stack of graphic novels, which I have only recently been in the right state of mind to read. Over the past two nights I read his copy of David B.’s graphic novel, Epileptic (in France, l’Ascension du Haut Mal).
When Brent gave it to me, all he told me was that it was about a boy and his brother in France, and the brother had epilepsy. And that it was amazing, and absolutely unlike anything he had ever read before.
Publisher’s Weekly called it “one of the greatest graphic novels ever published.”
I’d like for it to come to you, if you choose to find it, as it did to me: A blurbless, banana-yellow book more than an inch thick. And you knowing nothing but that you heard it’s amazing, and like nothing else Brent or I had ever read before.