Abel

On the cover of Abel, a photograph from an old family album. Two young boys, probably two brothers, wearing their best clothes, smiling though the sun shines in their eyes. Two brothers we meet again on the side of a lonely road, around a dog’s corpse. And already we feel tragedy approaching, as Philip, the eldest, threatens young John with a (fortunately unloaded) gun.

This tense mood, this boiling aggression waiting to be released, we’re going to find them throughout this book. This is wartime, and even if it is happening far away on islands somewhere in the Pacific, the war is present in these people’s misery. They have not yet forgotten the Great Depression. Racism, the rude way of life of rural America, these are difficult times when you are 13 and asking questions.
So you try to forget the sad reality, you try to keep it away with words, with lies — in thought, in action, in omission. You lie to others, to let them dream for a while, to keep them from despair or fear ; you lie to yourself, to forget your own weaknesses. These lies are present in the text, in the dialogue by William Harms, while Matt Bloodworth’s pictures keep telling the truth, an often violent truth.
Without the text to soften their impact, the mute panels become the bearers of an intense reality, the only moments when the characters seem to really live. The story returns regularly to this rotting dog’s corpse, a recurring vision of Death in its most tangible form. The dog will symbolise John’s guilt, a death he regrets, and the only one for which he can accept responsibility.

This gallery of lies goes on : from the very title, William Harms is lying to us, leading us on a false track. The tragedy we are awaiting is of course the death of Abel/John, the bullied little brother of a family in search of its lost Paradise. All the elements are there, but William Harms plays with the biblical story.^[1]) Whereas Elia Kazan’s East of Eden was a literal interpretation, here he modifies the roles and twists the conclusion.
The favourite son, Abel/John, is not a shepherd, but cares for the products of the earth. It is Adam/the Father who is going to sacrifice his cattle and his old bull, a gift that will profit the entire family. And even if Cain/Philip is the bringer of death throughout the story (“the fertile soil opening its mouth to receive blood from his hands”, Genesis 4 :10), the little brother is the one to bear the mark, each time guilty of inaction.

This very literate story brings to mind The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck, through the atmosphere of those little American towns living out of time. Remarkably constructed, it is close to the works of Adrian Tomine and Daniel Clowes because of its subtle painting of human relations, because of its silences and the questions it raises — without trying to explain it all.
The drawing is not the strongest point of this comic book. With a realistic treatment, resembling the Giraud of Blueberry but without his mastery, Matt Bloodworth nevertheless displays a perfect page composition … and a
wonderful balance between text and picture, which gives this book all its richness.

This is a rare book — hard to classify, set apart by its quality of writing and the strength of its symbolism. A book you want to read again, to share with friends.
Let’s close Abel, and look at the cover one last time. The photograph of two brothers, smiling in spite of the sun in their eyes. An tentative smile on John’s face, a smile which might be a grimace, which might be pain. The picture of two brothers, seemingly happy.
We only show a mask, William Harms and Matt Bloodworth tell us. We only show a mask … but who knows what tragedies it hides ?

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“We live in a world of lies…” Thus begins Rachel “Doom Patrol” Pollack’s introduction (which should have been at the end, as she gives away a great deal of the story) to Abel. We really do live in a world of lies ; every day brings its share of them, big and small. We lie without realizing it ; we lie out of laziness, out of opportunity, so as not to get angry, so as not to give ourselves away.
We live with lies, and we expect to be lied to. Whenever we hear of an unexpected event, our first reaction is “I don’t believe you !” How can we stop something that’s such a part of our lives ? Works of fiction often show us the disastrous consequences. But it’s so easy : why go into long explanations, when a little lie will suffice ? And what alternative do we really have ? Facing the truth ?

Abel is a story of racism, betrayal, and deception, revolving around a 13-year-old boy who lives under the violent domination of his older brother. He has befriended a Chinese boy. Asians are unwelcome, during a war where Japan is the enemy.

Obviously, this story has a familiar side. We immediately think of certain movies and of the novels of Steinbeck . Thus, from the first pages, we think we see how the story unfolds … so that when something good suddenly happens, we don’t believe it ; we can no longer believe such a thing. After all, haven’t we just witnessed, helplessly, a crescendo of lies ?

The strength of Abel is in William Harms’s writing, and his meticulous construction of the story, which may not be apparent on a first reading. Although the art is not particularly appealing, it draws strength from its opposition to the text : the images show us the truth, the text lies. The quality of writing brings to mind authors like Adrian Tomine or Daniel Clowes . The characters are not one-sided, and the story opens more doors than it closes. Why should every connection between people be illuminated and developed ? Why must everything be explained in fiction, when it isn’t in life ?

Comics, films, and television have encouraged us to believe an additional, sad lie : bad people will always be punished, good ones rewarded. But life is not so comforting. The introduction ends with this statement : “William Harms gives us something far more valuable than comfort. He gives us the truth.”

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