(N.B. It’s summer break, and while my two months will revolve around my internship, I realise this is the first time in a while that I’ll be able to have time to read the hordes of books I’ve accumulated over the past year or so. Here’s to hoping I actually push through with this!)
Rating: 4.5/5
Blankets was built exactly like a conglomeration of all angsty teen songs at the time: pent-up childhood anger, conflict with authority, inner turmoil, and that one great love.
I’m kidding, of course, but that’s what it felt like — largely — to me. It felt like I was transported back to my own childhood, of imagining the floor was the sea and my boat, the vessel; although, of course, since I mostly grew up without my siblings, my numerous stuffed toys served as my ship’s crew. Sometimes the treacherous sea would transform into a pool of molten lava, and so I’d jump from bed to couch, not unlike that legendary fight scene between Obi Wan and Anakin.
Then that part about the battle between doing what you’re indoctrinated to do by the Church, and fearing to disappoint God. Unlike Thompson, however, I’m still in Church, and I still go to mass often, but like him, I’ve largely veered away from the idea of church camp and other large group activities. Growing up, I’ve realised my Faith Journey was personal, and my relationship with my Christ friendly; a mentorship, if it were — more what would Jesus do, than God the punisher.
And finally, that part about feeling that the love you had at 18 will never be surpassed by any other love you will experience in the future. The lingering touches, the feeling of desire that washes over you even while you’re standing in front of him, looking at him, the silent embraces, the eskimo kisses, the quiet smiles shared from feet away, from the ends of party halls, the subtle blushes that creep up every time they’re near, and the scent of their perfume on their clothes that you wear, slowly smelling more like you and less like them after a while.
And the realisation that comes after — that things are never quite as they seem, but there’s no need to keep yourself from living anyway.
Perhaps the only reason holding me back from giving the graphic novel the entire 5 stars is premised on three things: first, I read Habibi before this. Second, the use of the word “retarded,” which could (but shouldn’t) be justified as the events happened in 1994, but the book was produced a decade hence. And third, because [SPOILER] there was a part which alluded to sexual abuse which was never given closure. While I surmise that it was deliberate on the part of Craig Thompson; after all, he probably did not want to discuss such a traumatising experience in a graphic novel, it left me hanging; troubled.
The illustrations, the allegories (he made mention of Platonic and Socratic themes), the Bible verses, the tiny details, however, were all so intricately made, and one is assured that this heavy piece of heavy literature will be a brilliant read.
Of perpetual finds 