This was August.

Monk and Robot by Becky Chambers. The two novellas that make up this volume—A Psalm for the Wild-Built and A Prayer for the Crown-Shy—are pretty much the only books from the past decade that I keep returning to time and time again. They’re stories that speak to me on a molecular level, that put many of the fears and doubts and anxieties that haunt me into solid, sober, mercifully soothing words. They’re a comforting presence in my life, and in these recent times of doubt, fear, and anxiety, that comfort is something I find myself constantly seeking. I’m not at all religious, but I’m grateful that there are still psalms and prayers I can turn to in times of need.

And oh, do I wish Chambers would continue Monk and Robot’s journey. Lovely and beautiful and true though it may be, I can’t help but feel that it remains incomplete. The part of my brain obsessed with narrative can’t help but anticipate an undoubtedly forthcoming third entry in the series (the Promise cycle, I always thought—Psalm, Prayer, Promise). But then again, that’s one of the central themes in these novellas: the inscrutable, serendipitous nature of life. Mosscap and Dex, like you and me, have no actual idea what comes next, but they’re perfectly willing—like you and I should—to be okay with not knowing. It’s enough to just exist in the moment, prepared to embrace whatever, if anything, the next chapter might bring.

All-Star Superman by Grant Morrison, Frank Quitely. August was bleak and draining. At the beginning of the month, my tío—a man who helped shape nearly every aspect of my being, down to the name we shared—passed away suddenly and senselessly. It was a blow I’m still struggling to recover from, and it meant I spent much of the month in a fog of melancholy and a state of profound anhedonia. It’s why I did so little reading during that time. I found it difficult to enjoy much of anything.

Then I watched the new Superman film, and it was the first time in weeks that I felt any real, unadulterated sense of joy. I watched it a total of three times. When I couldn’t stop thinking about it, I figured I might as well revisit the original masterpiece that influenced it in the first place.

In my grief, I clung to this silly superhero stuff like a lifeline.

There’s not a lot I can say about this staggering achievement of sequential art, other than I’ve read it countless times over the years and it still manages to surprise and astonish me. Quitely’s art remains revelatory, and his rendition of Clark is still my favorite. I’ve marveled at—and delighted in—the sheer inventiveness and anarchic glee of Morrison’s writing for ages now. This book has the single best page in all of comics history. I don’t know. It’s just a beautiful, wonderful work of art, man.

Superman for All Seasons by Jeph Loeb, Tim Sale, Bjarne Hansen. It’s been ages since I last read this so I had forgotten a great deal of it. But, man, is it still one of my absolute favorite Superman stories. Sale’s art along with Bjarne Hansen’s stunning color work already make this a gorgeous comic, but it’s Loeb’s sincere, folksy, down-to-earth writing that makes this book special for me—it captures the essence of the character more deeply and more profoundly than many other narratives featuring the Big Blue Boy Scout. Just an exceptionally endearing book.

This silly superhero stuff. 

I’ve been thinking a lot about heroes lately.

The day my uncle died, my siblings and I rushed to the hospital to be by our mother’s side. “I know your uncle was your hero,” was the first thing she told us. “He loved you so very much.”

My tío was not Superman. He was a flawed, fallible man who would sometimes make promises he couldn’t keep, a man prone to distraction, at times carelessly so. And yet. He was always there, regardless, at every single stage of my life. And still. He always—without exception, without fail—believed in his namesake, even when his namesake didn’t believe in himself. He was my hero and I love him and I miss him.

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