As a kid, whenever I had cotton candy bubblegum it would be so delicious that temples would ache and I'd screw my knuckles into them just to alleviate it while I continued chewing. That is what the best parts of Terry Moore's Strangers in Paradise does to me as an adult. Twice I punched in the air at how dead-on his writing had gotten.
This book is in every way a sequel to the first, with Francine and Katchoo settling into new digs, but still haunted by the manipulative pimps that once destroyed Katchoo's life. Another mastermind even shows up to drag Katchoo down, and just like the first book, that's not even in the top three reasons why I kept turning the pages. Francine and Katchoo aren't just friends who don't know they're in love anymore; Katchoo has confessed and now Francine is trying to figure out if she can feel the same way. After the trauma the Big Six put them through, they're incredibly tense, and the waiting alone is eating away at Katchoo's psyche. They have no idea that one phone call from a stranger could mean they'll never see each other again.
Moore nails so many elements of friendships and would-be romances that other fiction only references. The basics are Katchoo and Francine; how one can worm around to find the right way of supporting the other in a moment of doubt, and in the next scene, how one is so absorbed she misses that she's hurting the other. David returns as a hopeless love interest for Katchoo who she keeps looking straight through and winds up a crucible for the ways she ignores others. It's frequently done with an energy, able to be quiet, but unafraid to be as exhuberant as best friends really do get with each other. It's the relationships that earn the sighs of relief, not the missed gunshots.
It's those traits that make Moore's treatment of minor characters so jarring. A board room will never be seen again, so they exist in binary states of total boredom and being complete horndogs. There's a background boyfriend character who gets beaten to a pulp and winds up wandering around quoting poetry or plays like he's drunk instead of in need of another hospital visit. It can be adorable, but it's usually dismissive of the rest of the world in a way that is complete unresolved to the depth the main characters see. After the first book, wherein Fred wound up leaving the background stereotype role for surprise depth, you'd hope for more surprises here. Instead you get an adorable and impossibly scrawny man dangling from gym equipment.
I love when Terry Moore does something new on the next page. Just like Volume 1, here he's happy to have pages of dialogue interrupted by a two-page spread of Katchoo silently snooping around an apartment full of memories we can only imagine based on her facial expressions. There's another two-page spread of a house with a little babble near the windows, but set on both sides by a straight-up prose monologue about Francine's childhood that obliquely reflects what's happening in her life now. There's a period when Francine meets her old (and quite bad for her) boyfriend and a third party tries to chat them up, but the dialogue pops its bubbles and drifts around behind them to show us how they're ignoring it. These things are never done again, throwing me off and simultaneously throwing me into the emotional context of the time.
At this point, I don't know why Strangers in Paradise hasn't come up more often in discussions of the great American comics. It was popular when I was a teen (and ignored it), but I seldom hear about it now the way I do about Preacher, Bone and Transmetropolitan. That seems unfair for something so profoundly intimate and creative. If anything, this was so stirring that it's going to screw up my enjoyment of the next sequential art I read.