I first noticed Marjane Satrapi's Persepolis when it was chosen as one of Heather's Picks. Somehow, I hadn't pegged Heather Reisman as a graphic novel booster. (Me, I'm fascinated by them, though not especially knowledgeable.)

Persepolis is an autobiographical graphic novel that explores a childhood in Iran during the turbulent years surrounding the 1979 Iranian Revolution, which saw the government overthrown, theocracy introduced, and war with neighbouring Iraq. In the book, translated from French, Satrapi describes her life from age eight to fourteen, starting with a school photo in which she shows a series of girls in their veils (who later whip them off on the playground) to the moment her parents leave her at the airport, sending her to the safety and academic rigour of a school in Austria.

The book is drawn in a simple black and white style. Small details — an arched brow, the curve of a simple line mouth — convey an immense range of emotion. For Satrapi, the emotion is often bewilderment. Bewilderment at having to wear the veil when she was ten years old, at the photo with Uncle Anoosh's ex-wife's head scratched out, at first love, at the concept of god and justice. She struggles with the changing political realities of Iran, with the way her parents and their friends talk and act; she wants them to be heroes, though she isn't sure what that means.

Everything I know about Iran, really, I've learned from reading, and then only from a few books... okay, two: this one and Reading Lolita in Tehran. Both these books are written by people who are, I suspect, atypical: upper middle class, intellectual. I don't mean atypical for Iran; even here, people with that degree of comfort and education have a level of privilege that distances them from the experiences of those without such gifts. Though Satrapi loses friends and family to Iran's political turmoil, though it eventually leads to her separation from her family, she seems lucky. She has more options than many others.

Inevitably, reviewers draw comparisons to Maus, Art Spiegelman's exploration of the Holocaust through the lens of his father's experience. In Persepolis, that idea is reversed; this is Satrapi's coming of age, as seen through the lens of Iran's revolutions. We watch as Satrapi moves from blissful, middle-class ignorance, to righteous indignation to an adult ambivalence, almost a kind of burnout with her world.

It is interesting to see Iran through a child's eyes, through those realizations that we make as we move from childhood to adolescence, realizations that are intensified by the missiles and the religious dictums of Satrapi's times. Still, it is an incomplete picture, like a glimpse through the slats of a blind.

Satrapi's work is touching, but there is a continual sense that you haven't seen the big picture. The book whets an appetite; it's not bad, but it isn't quite enough to satisfy, and you are left with an awareness that this book could have been more. This is, in it's way, a compliment. Satrapi's work is strong enough that I wish she had connected a few more dots, even if they were connections she didn't make as a child. Even with simple pen and ink, a full, three-dimensional picture could emerge.