Watchmen is smarter. Maus is more important. Sandman is more magical. But Jimmy Corrigan is the truth. And the truth, however miserable, is always the fucking best.

Inconsistency. For every perfect issue ( Ramadan ), there’s a meandering arc ( The Kindly Ones ). The art rotates too much. A single “best comic” must be a unified object. Sandman is a brilliant, messy cathedral. Akira (Katsuhiro Otomo) The case for: The double-page spreads. The bike slide. The psychic meltdown of Neo-Tokyo. Otomo drew motion like no one before or since.

I’m here to argue the opposite. Not only is it possible to identify the single greatest comic ever published, but doing so is essential. We need a Mount Rushmore. We need a heavyweight champion. We need a book you can hand to a non-believer and say, “Read this. If you don’t get it, you don’t get comics.”

The second time, you notice the structural mirroring: the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition flashback parallels Jimmy’s modern loneliness. The great-grandfather’s cruelty echoes into the present.

Because its greatness is partly extrinsic. It’s a vital historical document. But would Maus be as revered if the Holocaust wasn’t its subject? The craft is undeniable, but the “fuck” factor is one of horror, not revelatory joy. It’s essential. It’s not the best. Sandman #1-75 (Neil Gaiman & various artists) The case for: The Sound of Her Wings . The Cereal Convention. “Sometimes you wake up.” Gaiman turned horror into myth and myth into therapy. It’s the most literary comic ever.