Randy King

On November 25, 2001, accompanied by a nervous building super, two policemen entered a tenement apartment on Chicago's South Side. Inside they discovered the lifeless body of Randy King, some spoiled luncheon meats, a few mean sticks of furniture, and-- tucked away in a dusty corner--a portfolio of cartoons the deceased had been trying to peddle to web magazines and alternative newsweeklies for many years. His failure to sell a single panel no doubt weighed heavily on his mind. Five days prior, King had slipped into a tub of water, probably warm at the time, and opened the veins of his wrists.

This was, historically minded readers may note, the mode of death favored by several Roman poets when condemned by Caligula. Those poets are now crowned in glory, and perhaps, in his last moments, King had forlornly hoped that, after death, posterity might convey to his own reputation a similar note of grace.

If several modern writers, including a Nobel laureate, have their way, King's wish may soon be granted. From London to La Brea, the recently released posthumous works of Randy King have been winning praise of an effusiveness rare for the works any artist, let alone those of a humble gag cartoonist.

"In the deceptively simple works of Randolph King," Octavio Paz declared at a recent seminar in Barcelona, "the whole human condition is revealed."