Hi Reader: One of my favorite graphic novelists is Ben Katchor, whose work smells faintly of mildew, corned beef, body odor, and industrial lubricants. He tells odd, meandering stories of a bygone era, a world of shoehorn salesmen and cardboard valises, peeling hallways, and faded ambitions. It’s a familiar world but long gone, possibly the early 1950s, probably New York. It’s so evocative and odd, and ultimately, it leaves me feeling washed out and bleak but also inspired. Paul Auster and...