Book Review: Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi - Page 2

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.

Article Author: Bonnie

Bonnie writes about books every Thursday at Fourth-Rate Reader, about everything else at Signifying Nothing, and sometimes she resorts to pictures. She lives in Toronto.

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