92615_RAA_LooseCannon_Text_R1_PROOF

It is my contention that arete is intrinsic to human beings. It is an under lying element that applies to the world in general and every human being who’s ever been in it. Arete is linked, not just to excellence in performance, but to hope. In the comic book industry in 1996, there is a palpable sensation of con nection to one another -- and to history -- among fans and professionals alike. There is a sense that we’re in the middle of watershed events that will resonate in the industry much as the events of ten years ago do today. But, much as the ancient Greeks had their Olympic Games that started out as sacred rites and devolved into spectator sports, so too has the comic book industry devolved from an entertainment and artistic medium avail able to the masses to a “spectator sport,” with clearly delineated separa tions between the producer and the consumer.

Fans are gone.

Speculators are gone.

Half the retailers who opened stores in 1986 are gone.

Those of us who are left are those who believe in the white-hot purity of the form. We’re not loudmouths. We’re not show-offs. We’re not totems. We don’t want people vicariously identifying with our own arete.

We want quality comics.

We want pathos. Engagement. Poignancy. Elegance. Falling-down Funniness. Instruction. Joy.

I’ve got some discretionary income and I wanna spend it on quality funny books.

I wanna reward those who are displaying, in whatever way, arete.

So whenever someone would ask me what made a good comic, I’d explain the concept those ancient Greeks held in such high regard, and say that a good comic is one in which the makers displayed arete.

“But specifically,” John says, “what makes a good comic?”

“It’s like the definition of ‘obscenity,’” I say. “I know one when I see one. I don’t really think too much about it. I don’t want to spoil the allure.”

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