2003, Pantheon, NY, a coffee table book with unnumbered pages that seems to come in at about 240 pages

I hate superheroes, yet found this book intriguing.

I hate all superheroes, and enjoyed this book.

I hate some more than others, and reading this beautiful book finally brought that hatred to clarity.

I avoided comics as a kid because I was already being picked on and beat up for no reason other than the attacker could accomplish the act. So, since everyone I knew who read comics was wimpier than I, why would I want to raise the pink flag?

In my savage teens, being a big reader of history and fantasy, I was convinced to try some comics, and found that the comic version of Conan was a clown, an imposter. Values seemed to change in the comic context. Something was wrong.

The opening quote of Mythology is from Joseph Campbell's Hero with a Thousand Faces, and old Joe gave me the clue I needed.

After viewing saturation level Bat Man, Super Man [my most hated], Captain Marvel, Shazam, Uncle Sam, Wonder Woman and the Joker, having imbibed the stunning work and come to appreciate the use of live modeling through the text, I finally figured out what these hated imposters of might are.

Superheroes are recycled gods, such as the ancient Greeks marveled at more than worshipped and that thinkers like Aristotle admitted were necessary fictions to comfort the minds of the stupid multitudes. The gods of old all had their moral weaknesses, where our new gods are either morally pure or foul, with weakness being found at the material level. Superheroes are recycled pagan gods for the materialistic and nominally monotheistic mind, which sees everything as a black and white duality, a world of truth and falsehood without shades of gray. None of these demi-gods are heroic in the ancient fashion, but civic in the modern, slavish sense, an entertaining reminder that a citizen does not use force, but leaves that to the experts, who will do the dirty work of liberty on his behalf, assured that civilization and the heroic figures it superseded coexist so that he might not be troubled with rising and striving, and may remain free to graze listlessly and cast his glossy eyes on the planets and stars that his caretakers have thoughtfully decided are too dangerous to explore, and shall forever remain the sparkling accents twinkling down on the slaughter house of souls that is his pen.