But let’s be honest: Every comic reader has had that 2 a.m. argument. The one where voices rise, beer bottles become gesticulating weapons, and someone eventually shouts,
Yes. It’s Jimmy Corrigan: The Smartest Kid on Earth .
No other comic rewards slow reading like Jimmy Corrigan . You stare at a single page for five minutes. You notice the sign in the background that says “REGRET.” You see the shadow of a father who isn’t there. Ware’s craftsmanship is so obsessive it becomes pathological. And that pathology is the point. Before Jimmy Corrigan , comics had panels. After Jimmy Corrigan , comics had excavations . Ware invents a new language of time: inset panels within panels, dream sequences disguised as reality, instructions for paper toys that mirror the protagonist’s desire to build a functional family. fucking possible comic best
The second time, you notice the structural mirroring: the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition flashback parallels Jimmy’s modern loneliness. The great-grandfather’s cruelty echoes into the present.
The fourth time, you cry at the ending where nothing is resolved. Because that’s the point. There’s a moment—no spoilers—in the 1893 sequence where a character experiences a horrific accident involving infrastructure. It’s drawn with cold, Victorian precision. You turn the page. And Chris Ware has drawn an insert of a paper cut-out toy of the same accident. Instructions: “Cut along dotted lines. Fold. Glue.” But let’s be honest: Every comic reader has had that 2 a
For years, we’ve danced around the question with careful, academic disclaimers. “Art is subjective.” “You can’t compare Maus to Amazing Spider-Man #122 .” “It depends on what you mean by ‘best.’”
The third time, you realize Jimmy Corrigan is actually a comedy. A bleak, cringe-comedy about a man so passive he makes Charlie Brown look like Tony Robbins. Ware hides jokes in the margins. A sign that says “FREE ADVICE (worth every penny).” A child’s drawing labeled “My Dad” that’s just an empty square. It’s Jimmy Corrigan: The Smartest Kid on Earth
You stare at the page. You say aloud: