Collects Saga of the Swamp Thing #20-27.
*Writer Alan Moore's seminal horror series is now published in hardcover for the very first time — including the never-before-reprinted Saga of the Swamp Thing #20, in which Moore wraps up the previous storyline and sets the stage for the groundbreaking tales that were to come.
This first volume features the stories that put Moore on the comics map in the 1980's thanks to his unique narrative style and deconstructive storytelling. Created by a freak accident, Swamp Thing believed he was once scientist Alec Holland — but when he discovers his true nature, it shatters his universe and sends him on a path of discovery and adventure. *Source: dccomics.com
**There is a red and angry world. Red things happen there.
The world eats your wife, eats your friends.
Eats all of the things that makes you human.
And you become a monster.
From 1983 through 1987, a young British writer named Alan Moore revolutionized the American comic book. His ground-breaking tenure on DC Comics' Swamp Thing set new standards for graphic storytelling and touched off a revolution in the medium that is still expanding today. Building on the title's framework of gothic horror with a remarkably intuitive narrative style and an unprecedented depth of characterization, Moore's vision was realized through the hauntingly beautiful artwork of such collaborators as Stephen Bissette, John Totleben, Dan Day and Rick Veitch. The result is one of comics' most enduring masterpieces.
Now, for the first time, Moore's entire run--including his never-before-reprinted debut issue--is available in archival hardcover editions. This first volume, collecting issues 20-27 of The Saga of the Swamp Thing, also features a foreword by famed horror author Ramsey Campbell and a new introduction by Swamp Thing co-creator and original series editor Len Wein.
This is the place.
It breathes. It eats. And, at night, beneath the crawling ground fog with the luster of vaporized pearl, it dreams; dreams while tiny predators stage a nightmare ballet in sharp black grass. It is a living thing. It has a soul. It has a face.
At night you can almost see it.
At night you can almost imagine what it might look like if the swamp were boiled down to its essence, and distilled into corporeal form; if all the muck, all the forgotten muskrat bones, and all the luscious decay would rise up and wade on two legs through the shallows; if the Swamp had a spirit and that spirit walked like a man.
You can stare into those places where the evening has pooled beneath the distant trees, and glimpse an ambiguous shifting of the darkness: something large, large and slow, its movements solemn and inevitable, heavy with clotted, sodden weed that forms its flesh. Its skeleton of tortured root creaks with each funereal pace, protesting at the damp and sullen wight. Within their sockets its eyes float like blood-poppies in puddles of ink.
This is the place.
This is the story. **Source: Dust Jacket