First let me start by saying I am not a comic book guy. I always kind of wanted to be one, and did read them sometimes when I was a kid, but I could never quite inhabit the superhero world and the funny stuff was either too silly (“Little Lulu”) or too adult (Archie and Jughead intimidated me; Veronica terrified me). The stuff I did read (Sgt. Rock, anything with ghosts) I look back on with nostalgia, but can’t really get worked up about now that I am finally a quasi-adult. But with this preface out of the way, let me say that Charles M. Schulz’s comic Peanuts is one of the enduring landmarks of 20th century American literature.
The book in question, “The Art of Charles M. Schulz,” is another gem I discovered in the Allen County Public Library discard pile (really, they get rid of the best stuff - I just picked up Jane Addams’ autobiography - a ratty, otherwise uninteresting copy, but signed by Jane Addams. Sure, I’d rather have Orwell or Abe Lincoln, but still, for 2 bucks!). Anyway, this book, for all its flaws, reinforced my belief that Charles M. Schulz is a genius.
Yep. Genius. But first my Peanuts reservations. Although the book doesn’t cover it in any meaningful way, there is a huge contradiction between Peanuts the comic strip and the relentless, seemingly guileless yet often nauseating Peanuts as a marketing phenomenon. For nauseating, think Snoopy Icecapades and “Happiness is a warm puppy” T-shirts. Schulz, for all his genius, had kind of a small-minded make-a-buck attitude towards his creation that ballooned around the core of his best work. The marketing confused and sometimes obfuscated the art. Snoopy was only rarely a “warm puppy” and only when it suited his rather chilly, selfish ends. Likewise Charlie Brown was only occasionally the feckless warmhearted anti-hero with the starveling Christmas tree; at other times he was as monomaniacle as Captain Ahab (usually on the pitcher’s mound), crushingly depressive, and a hapless, but relentless social climber and a snob whenever the occasion presented itself. The T-shirt version of Peanuts eliminates or softens the delusions and despair of Linus, the heartless singlemindedness of Schroeder’s talent, and the annihilating nihilism of Lucy’s implacable will.
Another problem with Peanuts is covered very well by this book: the fact Peanuts was a work in progress. As Schulz was well aware, a cartoonist is a person who has to meet a deadline 7 times a week. For gag-heavy trifles such as “Family Circle” or “Dennis the Menace” this isn’t a problem - either the gag works or it doesn’t (even for for superior gag-dependent work such as “B.C.”). With Peanuts, as it became more of an ensemble serial relying on its characters, this development gets worked out in public; in effect, Schulz had to publish all his first drafts and false starts. This would be a catastrophe for a novelist working on a single, life’s work book (think Dickens from Pickwick Papers to Bleak House in one fell swoop). Which is to say Peanuts at the start (c. 1950-1957) was, looking back on it now, a kind of shaky proposition, often too reliant on “Li’l Folks” cutsieness and lame jokes. It often doesn’t hold up well. And yet these are the years when something great was being formed, and the spare, sometimes bleak suburban landscapes take their lines and the characters start to deepen. Around the mid-1950s and through to the late ‘60s, Schulz hit his stride and Peanuts became - I’ll kick you in the shin if you don’t agree with me, I mean it - genius.
The scope of Peanuts rivals any Jonathan Franzen novel (or is this damning with faint praise?). The Peanuts neighborhood was a miniature dystopia peopled by a cast of characters who were crushed by it (Charlie Brown), resisted it (Snoopy, Linus Van Pelt, and the problematic Peppermint Patty), went along with it and thrived (the mostly contemptible, if minor, Violet and Patty, who take their meaning from group solidarity and cruelty), ignored it (Schroeder), or exulted in making it worse (Lucy Van Pelt, one of literature’s great narcissistic monsters of implacable will). The actual neighborhood itself - the ranch houses, the miniature intermittent tufts of grass, the blank box of the old console TVs, and the distant wooden fences -- is an existentially bleak blank slate against which the characters attempted (and often failed) to create meaning. And meaning is not easy to create, as Jean Paul Sartre would tell you. There’s the futility of Charlie Brown’s sports obsessions. There’s Linus’s crippling reliance on his security blanket. Or Snoopy’s vivid imagination that fails to manifest itself tangibly because he was such a hilariously bad novelist. Even Lucy dashed herself on the rock of Schroeder’s indifference, self-absorption, and the lofty inhumanity of his genius. Sally Brown, Charlie Brown’s little sister, is not perhaps the most appealing of characters, but her unflappable self-confidence in the face of failure (she was a poor student) makes her an interesting contrast to her brother. She is hard-headed (and -hearted to some extent); you kind of get the feeling she is going to succeed while her brother drifts off. Her unrequited love for Linus won’t be an all-consuming tragedy for her the way the Little Red-Haired Girl is for her brother. Peppermint Patty, not one of my favorite characters, but perhaps the last of Schulz’s successes, was the inverse of Charlie Brown, doomed to fail, but in possession of optimism, a basic social adroitness, and self-respect; that this usually failed to do her any good is one of Schulz’s bleakest messages. But to see Charlie Brown as merely a loser is to underestimate him as a literary character. Like many losers, he lorded it over lesser beings if given an opportunity - in particular Snoopy and Linus were subjected to his efforts to be an older, wiser, and more powerful councilor and (in Snoopy’s case) master. They easily rebuffed him, of course, but never used it to crush him or entirely abandon him. Charlie Brown persisted, which is perhaps Schulz’s most inspiring message. None of the characters became types (as they won’t in great literature). For instance Lucy the tyrant was occasionally dumbfounded by her brother Linus’s shrewd turning of the other cheek and/or his agile reasoning. Linus in turn profits from Lucy’s tyrannical concern that he not screw up and embarrass her since he tends to be foggy and a victim of his own imagination (the futility of the Great Pumpkin is one of my personal touchstones for failing at verse). Whatever happens, Peanuts is never quite hopeless. Never quite, just mostly so.
The book in question has very little text (besides captions). Other than the strip, mostly we get fragments of Schulz talking about Peanuts. Many of these fragments are compelling. Some tend to seem as if Schulz doesn’t quite understand the full scope of his accomplishments (perhaps this is where “Happiness is a warm puppy” comes from).
“Charlie Brown’s personality goes in several directions. Most of the time he is quite depressed because of the feelings of other people about him, but at the same time he has a certain amount of arrogance. Generally, however, he is wholly struck down by the remarks of other characters, especially Lucy. She represents all of the cold-blooded, self-sufficient people in this world who do not feel that it is at all necessary ever to say anything kind about anyone.” (pages aren’t numbered; this is from a 1959 interview).
“Because of the feelings…” is a bit incoherent. DaVinci describing Lisa’s smile? Ah! But a few years later:
“’You can understand why the others get annoyed with Charlie Brown.’ said Schulz in 1967. ‘He bores them because he wants so much to be liked. I think they are justified sometimes in their treatment of him. Charlie Brown is too vulnerable. He is full of hope and misdirected faith. Lucy is too sharp for him, and she is full of misdirected confidence. She can cut through a lot of the sham and she can really feel what is wrong with Charlie Brown, which he can’t see himself.’”
Much better (if not covering everything), I like how he gives Lucy her due here (although Lucy’s ability to see her self is virtually nonexistent; her will is all that matters, in a terrifying way). These bits of Schulz interviews and stray thoughts are salted sparingly throughout the book. Too sparingly, perhaps. But the bits are almost always interesting. For instance, we are told Schulz’s least favorite character was Pig-Pen, whose appeal to his audience baffled him; he considered him a one-off joke and kept him alive only because of fan clamor. This was an interesting bit of information. Amiable and generous, Pig-Pen represented the complete pariah, separated from the others by what amounted to a handicap. Charlie Brown at least had good grooming (and his dad was a barber). Pig-Pen’s failure was not a failure of character; he was a victim of fate.
A few words about the book itself. The reproductions of the strips are taken from old newspaper clippings, with yellowed tape marks, etc. I like this. What I didn’t like was the size they were often reproduced. Some are full-size, but page after page these strips are reduced to minuscule making them difficult to read. The book is a weird size - horizontally formatted and scarcely larger than an old-fashioned Sunday strip. But still, the book often looks great, and the photos of Schulz artifacts - inky nubs and cluttered desk drawers - were for me strangely moving (no computers, thank God, thank God). Far less interesting are photos of the clumsy “rare” toys made in the early days of the Peanuts merchandizing phenomenon; lumpy figurines and bizarre dioramas from Italy - a precursor to all that awful Peanuts marketing tie-in trash to come. As for the text that doesn’t quote Schulz, there is a certain Icecapades blandness to that seems to pretty much be the default setting for all Charles M. Schulz critiques. Jean Schulz’s introduction is fond, warm, and quite uninteresting. As for the other editorial asides, they are also quite wan. For instance, it is never suggested that Peanuts went through a catastrophic if gradual decline starting in the 1970s until Schulz’s death (2000). Woodstock was the beginning of the end for me, but even if you don’t agree with me, Snoopy’s mustachioed cousin Spike was truly a failure. Other new characters never seemed to jell either. If nothing else, there were far too many golf jokes in the last decades (I have complete immunity to golf jokes). More catastrophically, there is Schulz’s health. He was afflicted with Parkinson’s which gave him an increasingly shaky line. There is some requisite heroic talk in the book about this:
“Rather than harming the strip, this actually made the linework even more expressive, and marked the further evolution of Peanuts through the 1980s and 90s. Due to Schulz’s discipline and mastery of technique, the gradually wavier lines never looked like a mistake -- the were a natural, effective design choice.”
Well, yes, Parkinson’s Disease is “natural.” But what nonsense this is. Schulz’s line - his steady, dark, brooding, suburban line -- was genius and the ravages of his disease was not an improvement. Tellingly, despite the brave editorial, the book reproduces virtually nothing of Peanuts’ last decade except for a few of Schulz’s heartbreakingly quavery idea sketches. There is no sign of Spike anywhere, and as I recall, he was a constant presence throughout the 1990s. I admire Schulz’s perseverance, but beyond a certain pathos, late Peanuts strips were mostly failures. Still, this does not obscure the genius that is…
Mon Dieu! I must stop! The ghosts of literary snobs I have known are tormenting me now. Perhaps I over-praise? Let it stand: Charlie Brown c’est moi! Good grief!