Narrative Analysis: Persepolis

Narrative Analysis: Persepolis In ‘Moscow,’ Marji receives a visit from her paternal uncle Anoosh, who she has never met – he had been imprisoned for her entire life. She is quite drawn to him, immediately seeing in him the heroism she wishes she saw in her father. Up to this point in the novel, she is portrayed as very independent-­‐minded, and is not one to ‘play the child’ around adults; this changes around Anoosh, who she venerates. By cozying up to him, she also gains control over him – he allies himself with her rather than her parents, and remains silent as her parents give up on trying to put her to bed for the evening before she’s had a chance to hear his stories. Anoosh, for his part, seems very eager to play the role of the loving uncle, and we later learn why: he has long been separated from his own children, and it is unclear if or when he will be able to see them again. Anoosh spends the evening with Marji recounting the story of his adult life. He tells her how he left home at the age of 18 to join his uncle Fereydoon at the justice ministry of Azerbaijan, which had recently proclaimed independence. As he says this, the narrative form of the illustrations changes – Anoosh ‘takes over’, and his reflective voice appears in the omniscient boxes on top of each drawing. This is one of the rare instances where Marji is willing to cede her control over the reflective pulse that runs through Persepolis. Upon arriving to work one day, he tells, Anoosh saw soldiers surrounding the Ministry, preparing to arrest his uncle. He fled on foot, making a long trek through the snow to his parents’ house; he didn’t stay long, knowing that the Shah’s police were looking for him, and shortly thereafter he went into exile in the USSR. As this point, Anoosh’s control of the narrative ends as Marji interrupts to ask what happened to Fereydoon. Here we begin to see a shift in both of the characters’ roles in the dialogue – Marji begins to gain agency and maturity in the exchange, and Anoosh becomes more somber. He recounts that Fereydoon was arrested and sentenced to death; on the evening before his execution, he arranged for a visit from his girlfriend with the intention of making a child. She became pregnant, and left for Switzerland soon after. Anoosh is now shown facing away from Marji for the first time, looking lost in reverie. Of his cousin, he is able to say only that “I heard he looks a lot like his father.” Clearly, he would have liked to have known the boy, and the impossibility of this serves to further undermine the strong, cosmopolitan character Marji first saw him as, and he becomes more vulnerable as he actively engages with his past. Marji offers to make Anoosh hot chocolate in exchange for more stories. We move to the kitchen, where Marji assumes the role of inquiring hostess as Anoosh fields her questions at the kitchen table. She asks about his life in the USSR; when he says that he worked towards a doctorate in Marxism-­‐Leninism, she knowingly mentions dialectic materialism, eliciting a shocked response from her uncle. Asked how she knows about that, she says “I read the comic book version.” Here, Satrapi slices through the narrative and wryly nudges the reader. This brief comment alone 1 allows  Satrapi  to  remind  us  what  we’re  learning  and  how,  and  encourages  us  to  take   the  inquisitive  attitude  of  a  child  like  Marji  to  the  story  she’s  telling.  By  situating  her   reading  of  the  comic  book  within  a  larger  narrative  learning  experience,  Satrapi   reminds  the  reader  that  the  history  is  ultimately  one  that  we  have  to  discover   ourselves,  and  that  we  cannot  rely  solely  on  what  she  gives  us.  Rather,  she  suggests,   we  should  use  it  as  a  basis  from  which  to  engage  with  those  whose  experiences   might  otherwise  be  inaccessible  to  us.    This  interjection  hints  at  a  broader,  more   political  defense  of  the  graphic  novel  form.  Rather  than  being  ‘high-­‐brow’  and   exclusive  as  a  form  of  knowledge,  the  graphic  novel  makes  “serious”  subject  matter   accessible,  lends  itself  to  a  broader  reception  and  engagement.     In  the  context  of  Persepolis,  the  graphic  novel  or  comic  book  form  allows  a   child  like  Marji  to  interact  with  her  uncle  on  a  far  more  level  playing  field.  Its   mention  signals  a  broader  shift  in  the  relationship  between  Marji  and  Anoosh  as  the   chapter  progresses.  It  begins  with  Anoosh  carrying  her  in  his  arms  to  tuck  her  in,   but  at  this  point  she’s  becoming  the  “mature”  one  and  the  voice  of  calm  reason  in  a   discussion  that  has  begun  to  make  her  uncle  very  emotional.  He  becomes  the   confused  one,  and  to  an  extent,  they  switch  roles:  Marji  begins  to  guide  him  through   his  recollection.  The  body  language  illustrated  at  this  point  also  conveys  the  same   shift  in  the  relationship  –  Anoosh  is  seated  and  looks  sullen,  rather  than  animated  as   he  did  before,  and  Marji  is  standing,  either  with  her  arms  crossed  or  her  hand  on  her   uncle’s  shoulder  as  he  looks  off  into  the  distance.  Anoosh  allows  himself  to  be   vulnerable  with  Marji,  and  in  doing  so,  establishes  a  far  more  open  and  trusting   relationship  than  that  between  an  other  adult-­‐child  pairing  in  the  book,  including   that  between  Marji  and  her  parents.  It’s  as  though,  through  this  shifting   vulnerability,  Satrapi  is  suggesting  that  such  violent  histories  carry  so  much  weight   that  to  participate  in  their  sharing  (as  teller  or  told),  the  burden  must  be  shared:  the   participants  take  turns  feeling  light  and  feeling  heavy,  feeling  comfortable  and   feeling  powerless.  This  trading-­‐off  exhibits  a  mutual  responsibility  and  respect  for   the  other,  and  the  trust  that  in  agreeing  to  help  bear  your  burden,  the  listener  won’t   let  you  down.     Anyways,  Anoosh  carries  on  with  his  story,  and  the  relationship  between  the   two  of  them  quickly  reverts  to  the  original  adult-­‐child  dynamic.  Anoosh  is  again  the   one  with  knowing  eyes,  and  Marji  appears  in  the  illustrations  as  much  smaller,  all  of   a  sudden.  She  compares  her  uncle’s  experience  with  that  of  Laly’s  father,  which   seems  childish  again,  sits  cross-­‐legged  on  the  floor,  and  is  eventually  carried  back  to   bed  and  tucked  in  by  her  uncle.  The  burden  has  shifted  back,  and  Anoosh  closes  the   window  on  his  past.  As  he  does  this,  he  explains  to  Marji  why  he  shared  so  much:  it   is  important  to  him  that  the  family’s  memory  is  not  lost,  whether  or  not  it’s  difficult   and  whether  or  not  she  understands.  This,  to  the  reader,  implies  a  sense  of  finality:   Anoosh  knows  that  he  may  not  have  another  chance  to  tell  this  story,  that  his  time   with  Marji  is  limited.  Marji  promises  never  to  forget  what  she’s  learned,  in  effect   promising  to  bear  the  burden  when  her  uncle  no  longer  can.  These  seem  like  simple   words  from  a  child,  and  the  reader  is  left  uncertain  as  to  whether  this  is  a  promise   she  will  keep.  I  suspect  that  Satrapi  is  aware  of  this,  setting  up  remembrance  as  a   challenge  rather  than  a  given.   2