Collecting Comics: When Time Takes Shape in Volumes
Collecting comics is not just keeping a row of issues in order. It is not just having everything. It is building a path, brick by brick. It is giving physical body to memory. A complete or partial collection - ordered, curated, lived - tells more than a single story: it tells an era, a taste, an identity.
In the case of a series like Diabolik, collecting means following the evolution of a character and his entire universe. It means seeing how the graphic sign changes, how the themes mature, how the narrative world transforms. But it also means — and perhaps above all — creating a personal, emotional, tangible bond with paper, ink, and printing.
Diabolik is one of the most enduring and recognizable icons of Italian comics. Created in 1962 by sisters Angela and Luciana Giussani, he made his debut with issue one of the homonymous series published by Astorina. Success came almost immediately, despite a cautious start, and within a few years the character became a social phenomenon, so much so that he influenced language, the way of telling comic stories and even the perception of crime in the collective imagination of Italian popular culture.
The setting of Diabolik is a suspended universe, elegant and dark, balanced between reality and an imaginary Europe. Clerville, the city where most of his adventures take place, is a crossroads of modern architecture, noir atmospheres and institutions that seem to have come out of a stylized crime chronicle. Diabolik moves like a ruthless and methodical thief, capable of impossible heists and perfect transformations. His face is rarely seen without the black mask that made him famous, and he is known for his extraordinary intelligence, his coldness and his ability in the use of technology and disguises.
From the very first stories, Diabolik is flanked by Eva Kant, a female character who breaks the mold of the time. Not only is she his companion and accomplice, but a figure of equal caliber in terms of cunning, coolness and determination. Their relationship is not marginal but central: it is a bond built on trust and mutual respect, rare in comics of the Sixties. On the other side of the law, Commissioner Ginko represents the moral antagonist, constantly engaged in chasing the thief, in an eternal game of cat and mouse. The dynamic between the three constitutes the backbone of the series, in a narrative balance that has held up for over sixty years.
From a graphic point of view, the pocket-sized �strip� format of Diabolik is one of its most recognizable characteristics. Sharp black and white, thick inking, hard lines: an aesthetic that recalls noir cinema and American action comics, but with an evident European matrix. The covers, often drawn by Sergio Zaniboni, have entered the collective imagination for their iconicity. The visual language is direct, functional and without frills, in perfect coherence with the dry and pressing narration.
The editorial evolution of Diabolik has gone through various phases. In the 1970s and 1980s, the magazine adapted to changes in society, introducing more complex plots, more complex secondary characters and greater introspection. The character, while remaining faithful to his nature, becomes more nuanced: from the ruthless criminal of his early days, he moves on to a more selective and almost ethical figure in his choices. This process occurs without betraying his essence, but by updating the mythology of the character to the tastes of the public. In recent years, the series has maintained its regular periodicity, flanking the classic monthly with specials, reprints, "Grande Diabolik" and celebratory issues.
From comics to television and cinema, Diabolik has had numerous transpositions. The first film dates back to 1968, directed by Mario Bava, with John Phillip Law in the role of the protagonist. Although it was received lukewarmly at the time, it has become a cult over time for its visionary aesthetic and experimental approach. More recent is the film trilogy started in 2021 by the Manetti Bros., which brought Diabolik back to the big screen with a tone faithful to the original comic, enhancing its vintage atmosphere and retro elegance. The television and animated transpositions, although less central, have helped consolidate its image even among younger audiences.
Merchandising related to Diabolik is extensive, although less invasive than that of other pop characters. It ranges from figurines, models of the black Jaguar E-Type (the character's symbolic car), to t-shirts, posters, watches, stamp collections, illustrated books and art catalogues. Many objects are produced in limited editions and aimed at collectors, rather than general consumption. In recent years, thanks to renewed media attention, collaborations with fashion brands, exhibition events, urban installations and crossover publications have been born.
Diabolik has also crossed more contemporary languages, such as video games and interactive apps. Although there are no major titles dedicated to him, several games for mobile devices have been published, as well as digital versions of the classic albums. The archive of stories has been progressively digitalized, allowing new readers to rediscover the first years and follow the publications in real time, even in digital format. The online presence, especially on social media, is curated and timely, and helps keep the dialogue alive with a historic and devoted community.
The cultural value of Diabolik in the Italian context is difficult to overestimate. He anticipated trends, broke taboos and introduced a narrative style that influenced entire generations of authors. He has been quoted, parodied, analyzed by critics and historians of comics. His influence has extended well beyond the page, becoming a transversal figure, recognized by regular readers and those who do not read comics. A pop symbol, but also an example of how a character can maintain narrative coherence for over half a century, adapting without distorting itself.
Diabolik continues to be published every month, with the same formula that decreed its success: a complete story, built around a heist, a trap or an escape. It is a mechanism that still works, because it is fueled by conscious writing and a consolidated mythology. A modern archetype, the child of crime reporting, pulp literature and noir aesthetics, which has managed to transform itself into a classic of contemporary comics.
Every collection starts with a first volume. A spark. Maybe an issue found at a newsstand by chance, or given to you by someone who knew your taste. From there, the rest comes naturally. You look for the next issue, then the one before, then the entire year. At first it seems like just a series of purchases. Then you realize you're building something. An archive. A timeline. A part of yourself.
Collecting is not just accumulating. It's choosing. Choosing what to keep, what to look for, which edition to prefer. There are those who aim for first printings, those who aim for hardback versions, those who love variant covers or deluxe versions with extra content. Each collection is different because it tells the story of a different person. And each shelf, each box, each binder full of albums is a declaration of love for a form of narration.
Those who browse their Diabolik collection are not just browsing comics. They are traveling back in time. Issue 1 has a different smell than issue 30. The tables change pace. The covers speak of an era. Even the publisher's logo, the chosen paper, the graphics of the index: everything tells something. The collector is not just a reader, he is a custodian.
And every new or used album that enters a collection has a story. The hard-to-find issue, perhaps bought at a fair after months of searching. The damaged edition that was decided to keep anyway because it has sentimental value. The interrupted series that is resumed after years, as one does with certain dreams left half-finished. A collection is never static: it is a narrative parallel to that of the comic.
That's why, even on eBay, selling or buying a comic is never just a transaction. It's an exchange between two roads that cross. Those who sell a well-kept volume are giving a part of history back to someone who was looking for it. Those who buy do so because they are building — or completing — something that goes beyond the object.
Even the physical condition of a comic, for a collector, is not just an aesthetic issue. It is part of its history. A lived comic can tell the time in which it was published, the care with which it was preserved, the type of reader who kept it for years. For this reason, every advertisement that accurately tells the edition, the format and the real condition of the volume is an act of respect.
And it's not just the single issue that counts: a collection also lives on narrative blocks. A coherent sequence of numbers has more value than many scattered volumes. Because it restores the sense of continuous narration, it allows you to read the evolution without jumps. A batch of 21–30 of Diabolik, for example, is not just ten issues: it is a complete chapter of his adventure, ready to be experienced in one breath.
Collecting also means learning to recognize details. The editions that change from one issue to the next. The small differences between an Italian printing and an original Japanese or American one. The printing errors that have become sought after. The rare dust jackets. The out-of-print issues that pop up every now and then, and that must be snapped up on the fly. It is an activity that trains the eye, patience, and instinct.
And then there is the visual beauty. A well-displayed collection, with the spines neatly arranged, the covers aligned, the complete sequence… it is a piece of furniture, yes, but above all an object of memory. Every time you look at it, you know that there is a part of you in there. Every number has a meaning. Every volume has been chosen. There is nothing random in a carefully constructed collection.
For this reason, even when a comic is used, if it is part of a collection it has another value. It is not only its “physical” state that counts, but its placement in the larger picture. And this is what true enthusiasts look for when they browse the pages of a marketplace: not only the right price, but the right piece. The one that is missing. The one that completes.
Ultimately, a comic book collection is an act of love. Towards a story, towards a character, towards a world. But also towards oneself, towards one's ability to remember, choose, preserve. It is a silent language, made of numbers, covers, albums read and reread. And every time you add a volume, you add another piece to something bigger: a personal universe.
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