Ty Burr, The Boston Globe, August 4, 2017
When the term “graphic novel” first came into vogue in the 1980s, it was seen by many as just a fancy-pants name for comic books — a self-conscious way of bootstrapping a lowly medium into social acceptability. If you told someone at a party that you were reading a graphic novel, it betokened not necessarily that you were serious but that you wanted to be perceived as serious. It was a pose, a dodge, a pretention — no matter that works like Art Spiegelman’s Pulitzer Prize-winning “Maus,” Marjane Satrapi’s “Persepolis,” and Alison Bechdel’s “Fun Home” were and are terrifically rich reads that wouldn’t work as well as they do in any other format (and, yes, I’m a fan of “Fun Home” the Broadway smash).
Imagine Wanting Only This by Kristen Radtke
Flammable by Gabrielle Bell
Japanese Notebooks by Igort
Songy in Paradise by Guy Panter
Giant Days by John Allison
Solid State by Jonathan Coulton
Threads From the Refugee Club by Kate Evans
The Unbeatable Squirrel Girl by Ryan North and Erica Henderson
Boundless by Jillian Tamaki
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