In order of completion:

1. Adam Hochschild. American Midnight. A look at a period in our history whose horrors, in some ways, exceed those our own, but written in a style that lacks the magic that warrants a pause, let alone a rereading.

2. Dawn Powell. The Locusts Have No Wings. There was a period I read a lot of Powell. I’d missed this one but found on a Free Books shelf. Now her nasty, embittered humor seems better suited to her time and place.

3. Anastasia Aukenan, Welcome to Painterland. I’ve written about this book at length. (See: “The Semi-Magnificent Bastards” www.firstofthemonth.org. July 17, 2026. ) I have nothing to add.

4. Jenny Epperstein. The End of Days. A mercilessly inventive novel in which the “same” woman lives and dies and lives again through the wars, pogroms, and purges that bloodied Europe and the USSR from the late 1890s deep into the 20th century.

5. Wolfgang Koeppen. A Death in Rome. In the near aftermath of WW II members of two generations of a dysfunctional family find themselves in the City of Eternal Light. The third book in a trilogy, the reaction to it among Germans was so negative, Koeppen never wrote another. Which is enough to make it worth reading.

6. O. Schrauwen. Sunday. My second reading of a graphic novel rightly compared to Ulysses. (Check my “Last”s from a year or two ago to see what else I said.)

7. Domenico Starnone. The Old Man By the Sea. A widowed octogenarian visits an Italian coastal village. His physical health and mind are failing but not significantly so, and his interaction with the villagers, especially a half-dozen women, are infused with wistful charm.

8. Shigeru Mizuki. Onwards Toward Our Noble Deaths. A graphic novel/history of a WW II battle/slaughter in which Mizuki fought. It records the stupidities, demented thinking, and madness which kills young men mercilessly. To me, though, few of the characters were developed enough in prose or illustration to grip and hold me and mourn their loss.

9. Steven J. Zipperman. Phillip Roth: Stung By Life. A treatment of Roth’s ambition and aggression in his professional and personal relationship while thoroughly complimentary toward his work, left me thinking, “Boy, I am glad I never fell into that world.”

10. Annie Ernst. The Years. An impressive treatment of the passage of time and influence of the world on the novel’s central character, a woman who mirrors Ernst, with a handling of the problems of narrative that won me over completely. (Thanks to my friend Budd who urged the book upon me.

Adventures in Marketing: Weeks 554 – 557
One sale.
Another CHEESESTEAK to Glory, the ex-Philadelphian whose family moved here in the ‘60s and now lives around the corner from the café in an SRO. She had thought of another wealthy cousin, now a periodontist in Arizona, to whom she would send it and would probably not thank her or respond to her gift in any way. Glory’s interactions did not seem to be highly regarded by her wealthy cousins.
I gave her a BEST DRESSED. Adele’s cover WOW-ed her. “How can we get Adele to do more art? Shall I call her?”
“Don’t,” I said. “She will return to art when she is ready.”

In other news…
I lunched at a pizzeria a few doors down. Two of the quartet of roots musicians playing, the fiddler and banjo player, had bought copies of MESSIAHS…, and I wanted to further goodwill and my sense of solidarity with the offbeat. The bounce provided my step when I left did not sit well with a 90-degree afternoon, my post surgical brain and legs still not co-ordinating well, a sidewalk slanting slightly west-to-east, and my push to get to the ATM.
A mandatory eight-count awaited.
“It is embarrassing,” I told my cardiologist, “to be helped up by a young woman. I can remember when they dropped handkerchiefs at my feet. Now I’m tossing myself at theirs.

Gave a BEST DRESSED to a friend as a gift for his 85th birthday. (He hosted a private dinner at which an eight-course Sicilian dinner was served so my gesture may have struck some as being out of balance.) Sold a copy to a lawyer/novelist pal who wrote me, not remembering what happened to the cat, “My curiosity is piqued.” Swapped a copy for the forthcoming novel of a fellow I met when his wife came down from Benecia to read poetry at one of the soirees I used to host at the café.
In related news, a comic book store worker, who hopes to write a book about Vaughn Bode, came across my article (“the best and most well-researched bit of writing I’ve seen about (him)” e-mailed to arrange a chat with me. Coincidentally, just the week before, the fellow who’d been hoping to make a film about Vaughn expressed his desire to get together to bring me up to date on the “stops and (re)starts” that have occurred since I’d last heard from him a year or two ago. And CONVERSATIONS WITH TRINA ROBBINS, in which my interview of her is included, can now be pre-ordered from University Press of Mississippi. [Both the Bode and Robbins pieces are in MESSIAHS, MESHUGGANAHS…, which (I just checked) is available in 44 libraries, in case you don’t want to buy it.

In a less salubrious vein, the 35 copies of DRESSED I had sent to the incorrect address in Brooklyn are still sitting where they landed, waiting to be picked up by their intended recipient. Does anyone know someone in the area who does pick-ups and deliveries? I may be willing to intervene to speed up their entry into the stream of commerce.

Sold a BEST DRESSED to my former secretary and to a psychiatric social worker who frequents the café. Sold a MESSIAHS, MESHUGGANAHS… to a fellow who works for the Library of Congress. (We have never met but he has been a regular customer. In his email, out of the blue, he asked if I was a Phillies fan. I am waiting to find out why.)
Best reader reactions to BEST DRESSED of the week: (1) …a riot! Obsessive, absurdist, comical.”; (2) …a blast! The art is fantastic.”

In other news…
An independent French publisher, who does a series of The Art of… tributes to various
cartoonists, is planning one on Rory Hayes and stumbled across the article I wrote about Rory 20 years ago. (“Remarkably insightful and beautifully written,” the publisher says). He’s asked for permission to reprint it, which I was pleased (and honored) to give. That’s one of the neat and gratifying things about the Internet. If you post something about something that interests you, chances are it will interest someone else; and if they go looking for things written about this something, they may find what you wrote, and something may come of that.
The Hayes tribute is tentatively scheduled to appear late next year

The article originally appeared in THE COMICS JOURNAL #250, over 20 years ago, and was included in my OUTLAWS, REBELS… collection, which is out of print. You can find used copies on-line or order one, signed, directly from me for $20. POB 9492, Berkeley 94709.

ALL OF BOB’S BOOKS are available at www.theboblevin.com

My latest piece is now up at www.tcj.com/rr-nos-qui-/

It begins:
At some point in the late 1980s or early ‘90s, when I was working to establish cred with The Comics Journal, I told an editor that I considered Watchmen the best novel of the last decade. Oops, I later thought. I should have said Love and Rockets.
Watchmen had been lauded at the time. It is taught, I see, in high schools today, which means it has been deemed no more troublesome than To Kill a Mockingbird. It does not excite Moms as do trans-sexuals and Toni Morrison. (Only in Missouri have school districts banned it.) Was it not the driven and demented work which had hooked me? It has fallen out of the conversations in my cafe – if it ever had been part of them. Perhaps the poorly received movie, which I didn’t see, or the highly lauded HBO series, which I’d been unable to watch, had overwhelmed the knife’s edge I had sensed sheathed between its covers. When I told a friend I was writing about the graphic novel, he was flabbergasted to learn it did not concern African-Americans. Its place in the pantheon might be worth a second look. While it was the only graphic work on Time magazine’s list of the greatest novels ever, the more elitist Journal ranked it only the 91st best English-language comic of the 20th century.

Sold “Best Dressed”s to a pick-up basketball buddy and a newer café acquaintance.

Shipped 35 copies to Brooklyn, 10 for a distributor to sell on his own and 25 for shops that acquire stock from him. Sent a copy to a book/zine store SF to try to interest it in stocking it. (An insider tips me, it will probably put it up for sale, and I will only hear from it if it buys it, interesting them in more.)
Most quotable reaction: “Wonderful! I loved the text, the drawings, the entire “essay.” Highly original.” (This from a notable artist/critic/friend, though not one who has spared me his negative feelings about the cartoonists and the works I generally write about.)

In other news...
Do you know about Google Alerts? They let you know anytime something you are interested in is mentioned on the Internet. I generally put in my book titles, hoping to be tipped off to reviews. Well, the other day one arrived in Spanish, which seemed to say that “Messiahs, Meshugganahs...” had been nominated for something. Now my Spanish pretty much taps out after “Un doppio espresso, poquito,” so I asked my publisher, It told me I was up for a Ringo Award, which is bestowed by the Baltimore Comic Con. “It’s frankly unusual for the award to acknowledge such a legitimately great work, so this was a great surprise!”
I’m up for Best-Comic Related Publication. Only comic pros can vote, so if you know any, ask them to cast a allot for me – and American culture.

Otherwise, going forward, feel free to refer me to me as “The Ringo Award nominated…”

Kicked off with a Pay Pal order from a young man I met a few weeks ago for a “Cheesesteak,” which he wanted to give as a birthday present to a friend from Philadelphia.
This was quickly overwhelmed by the arrival, hot off the Risograph, of “Best Dressed.”
(One copy – to a woman at the café – has been sold, and two people – another woman at the café and a distant FB-connected relative – have said they want one, but no money has as yet changed hands.) As for other reactions, copies given as gifts have produced the following: (1) a lengthy email denoting points of admiration and some for further discussion; (2) a text consisting entirely of hearts and exclamation points; (3) two “Thank you”s, one suggesting a shop in SF which might take some copies; (4) an apology from a fellow who had been too busy to read it but who admired the “eye-catching/popping zest” of Adele’s cover; and (5) a complaint from a cousin that she’d found herself “worn down” by the content. (This is the same cousin whose reaction to “Messiahs…” had been to wonder why I wrote about such “twisted” artists in the first place. She may not be my ideal reader.) Then, from the two-dozen people who received an e-mail announcement of the book’s issuance, I received one “Congratulations, Bob” and not another word.
But a fellow in Brooklyn with a distribution business for zines and indie comix wants three-dozen copies to try to move
Stay tuned.

No café action, but…
I received an e-mail from a woman in Pennsylvania with whom I had been in occasional correspondence with since she had stumbled upon “Outlaws, Rebels…” in a museum bookstore. She’s an artist (and fan of UG comix), and reading it, she felt, had changed her life. Now, having read “every single word in ‘Messiahs, Meshugganahs…,’” she wanted to tell me what an extraordinary book it was and what a significant writer I was, in language so laudatory I wouldn’t even direct my way in fantasy or day dreams.
She also wanted a signed copy of every book I’d written, even those she already had.

My latest piece is up at https://www.firstofthemonth.org/the-semi-magnificent-bastards/. (That’s the July 17 issue. It begins: Once I heard the title Welcome to Painterland: Bruce Connor and the Rat Bastard Protective Association, (University of California Press. 2016), I hungered to lay my hands on a copy. Once I did, I wanted to throw it off the roof.

Adventures in Marketing: Weeks 536.5 – 546

I had stopped selling my books at the cafe even before my hospitalization. When I got back, another fellow was selling books he’d written, and a third was selling an anthology he had poems in and a fourth was selling pocket knives and belt buckles and mini-stoves for camping.  (Actually, I haven’t seen any of them sell anything.) But even without trying I have been getting my product out there.
1.) An ex-newspaper reporter/ex-lawyer, who had been a year behind me in college, bought a “Bob on Bob.” He had recently seen Dylan in concert and was one of those who expected him to play what and sound as he did in 1965. Don’t people check out set lists? Don’t they listen to albums from the last 60 years. He didn’t; he was bummed; apparently he wanted to know what I thought of the changes time has wrought.
2.) Faithful readers will recall Glory, the schizophrenic with a manic depressive overlay, who had been born in Philadelphia but came to San Francisco as a child. Glory’s illnesses prevent her from reading books, but she had sent a copy of “Cheesesteak” to her 90-year-old mother, who has dementia. Her mother loved it, especially the chapter on Puddles (p.10), which she reads over and over. Glory decided to send copies to six cousins of hers, all of whom live in Philadelphia. I gave her a discount for buying in bulk.
3.) After I got out of the hospital, I felt an urge to contact people from my past I hadn’t been in touch with for a while. Partly it was about time and partly it was to see who was still here. One was Lester, the jazz pianist, who towards the end of “Cheesesteak” (p. 95), replies when asked if he is going to college, “What, man, you mean be an everybody?” (This line had enough resonance for it to be recalled to my by the 20-something-year-old son of a friend from NYC who was visiting Berkeley the week before.) Anyway, Lester is fine, had, in fact, just played a gig with his trio at a restaurant on Chestnut Street and was so delighted at being quoted 60-years down the road, he asked for another copy, which I was delighted to send him.

ALL OF BOB’S BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE AT WWW.THEBOBLEVIN.COM