Some artists draw every line as if they know just where it will end. Jules Feiffer never did. Not for him the delicate feathering, diligent crosshatching or obsessive pointillism of the neurotically controlling craftsman. His lines unfurled across the page like banners of the subconscious, zooming forward, doubling back and propelling the reader's gaze (and even, you had to suspect, his own) in directions nobody could have anticipated. It wasn't just on the page that he hurled himself so intrepidly into the unknown. In life, too, he continually aimed for unseen horizons. When he died Jan. 17 of congestive heart...