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know something about fear and loss and feeling
powerless, don’t we?
CC: So much creativity comes from strife or
hardship in the creator’s life. Do you feel your characters were, in some ways, born of the challenges of
your youth?
SL: I think everybody is a product of the life he
or she leads. In my case, my parents didn’t have
much money. My father was unemployed a lot of the
time. This was the Great Depression, you have to
remember. We lived in this very tiny apartment in
the Bronx, hand to mouth. We were one of the only
families living in our building that didn’t even have
a car. Reading was one of the most inexpensive
forms of pleasure at the time; you could always get a
good story at the library—for free! Going to a movie,
I think, cost a quarter, which was a lot of money at
the time. So I read. Anything. Everything. All the
time. One of the best gifts I ever received came from
my parents when I was a little boy. They got me this
little bookstand for Christmas so I could put the
book in front of me and read while I was eating. I
think that gift was my mother’s idea; she was worried what would happen to me if all I ever read in
the house were ketchup bottles and cereal boxes. I
still think that’s some of the best literature out there.
CC: Would you say that some of your characters
are at least partially autobiographical?
SL: I don’t know, really. When I was writing
those characters, I was never consciously thinking
about my own life or experiences. I was just making
things up. But maybe you’re right.
CC: When did you realize that your true calling
in life was as a storyteller?
SL: I don’t think I ever realized it. I got into
comic books for no other reason than I really
needed a job. Before that, I was an office boy. I wrote
ad copy for a hospital. I delivered sandwiches for a
drugstore. I was an errand boy for the second-larg-est trouser manufacturer in the country. I wrote
obituaries for the local newspaper. I was an usher at
the Rivoli Theatre, which I loved because I could
watch the movies for free. I wanted to be one of
those big-screen heroes, like John Wayne or Errol
Flynn. I wanted swagger. But I was too skinny.
CC: Your earliest responsibilities at Timely
Comics were not exactly glamorous.
SL: I was hired to be an assistant to Joe Simon
and Jack Kirby [the team who created Captain
America], which must be one of the most amazing
things that happened in my life, next to meeting my
wife. Can you imagine working for geniuses like
that? I filled the inkwells. I brought them sandwiches.
I erased the penciled pages after they’d been inked.
Eventually, they saw that I could write. One day, the
publisher came into the office and asked
me if I could look after things until he
could hire a grown-up because he
needed an interim editor. I
don’t know if I was a grown-
up or not, but that’s how I
started writing stories,
working with artists,
doing my thing.
CC: When it came to
your byline, you changed your
name from Stanley Martin Lieber
to Stan Lee. Why?
SL: Well, I did it because I
was embarrassed to be doing
comics! People had so little
respect for comic books that I didn’t want anybody
to know who I really was. Comics were just dumb
little kids’ stories with pictures, right? Even I
thought that for a while. Once I realized how easy
writing was—at least for me—I figured, “I’ve gotta
get out of this comics thing. I’m going to write the
Great American Novel!”
CC: You merged classic mythology with contemporary psychology, which was revolutionary stuff
then. Why do you think your comic books have
connected so meaningfully with readers?
SL: Every young person loves fairy tales,
witches, giants, wizards, the things that are bigger and more colorful than real life. They’re
bh
m
s
little kids’ stories with pictures, right? Even I
thought that for a while. Once I realized how easy
writing was—at least for me—I figured, “I’ve gotta
get out of this comics thing. I’m going to write the
o
ry
sn
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Spider-Man
Thor
Stan Lee arrives at
the 2012 premiere
of The Avengers
in Los Angeles.