Jacob's Apartment

The artwork in Jacob's Apartment (2022), the Gen Z graphic novel by Joshua Kemble is spare, stark; functionary. It complements the story of Jacob who, seemingly, has never known many happy days.

Jacob, the poor, put-upon, mealy, and somewhat unappealing protagonist of Jacob's Apartment by Joshua Kemble—who is, essentially, writing about himself—lives in a huge, empty, spooky house in some undisclosed state that seems to be a hop, skip, and a jump from "way out West." He drinks a lot and thinks about Jesus and the Bible. He also lives with Sarah (Biblical references abound here), who is just a roommate—until that changes abruptly. His father, who looks like the bass player from Hüsker Dü, is dying, and early on, the book introduces little surreal moments of dream-like fantasy wherein devils, undersea creatures, and a stuffed dinosaur come to life.

Jacob has occasional tête-à-têtes with a buddy—a theological student, youth pastor, or something of that ilk—where he questions his faith in a gloopy, melancholy, eternally "searching" manner. His buddy, friend, or whatever, is rather stultifyingly self-righteous about these matters but does provide Jacob with a handy list of Bible verses. Did I mention Jacob is a cartoonist/graphic novelist?

We get a moving and ugly portrait of Jacob’s upbringing: the poor little tyke, who seemingly never fits in anywhere, running around in his Superman suit with his dinosaur, is an easy target for local toughs—bullies who break his glasses and rip the stuffing out of his dino. Not good. No bueno. His mother, while driving through a scary ghetto, informs him early on that Hell is very real. One could assume that from there on out, he developed his various neurotic traits. At the very least, he seems caught in the crux of life’s potentialities, unable to progress forward or backward due to a deep well of personal trauma and religious-infused guilt that has plagued his existence.

Sarah, on the other hand, is recovering from an exploitative relationship with a college professor who happens to be a big cheese in the New York publishing industry. Having rebuffed her once before, she finally concedes that he’s a jerk—like most of her other boyfriends. Naturally, the novel’s central "coming-of-age" drama is that Jacob and Sarah—who are already living together as platonic friends—are perfect for each other. But the disharmonic convergence of their respective pasts creates a barrier they can’t seem to cross, at least in the romantic sense.

Jacob relates his history to comic books. Like so many others, he found in them a "shelter" from the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. As a runty, easily picked-upon kid, he retreated into a fantasy world where Superman might very well swoop down to save the day. Later, he discovers more sophisticated works—classics like Maus by Art Spiegelman and, ironically, The Sandman by Neil Gaiman, who, as of late, has been accused of being an exploitative individual in a series of shocking allegations.

Be that as it may, Jacob eventually earns himself a grant, and for a brief moment, his gloom and depression seem to lift. Then fate kicks him in the face. Again. By the end of the novel, he finds himself back in the same dark, isolated, brooding environment—presumably drinking and thinking (or perhaps doing one to forestall the other). And he is doing this alone, still wondering why God acts in the inscrutable manner in which HE does, dumping the offal of his Divine Will upon the heads of the guiltless, guileless, unsuspecting.

As Jacob's father explains in a painful memory, "I used to wonder the same thing [...] It's the nature of man..." Inside, Jacob is still that wounded child with a bloody nose, broken glasses, and a dinosaur with its stuffing ripped out. Inside, he is still screaming.

The Nature of Man. This slim graphic novel is a glum reminder of that reality. And, as such, worth the read.

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