Cancer Made Me a Shallower Person: A Memoir in Comics

Review

Miriam Engelberg’s intriguing graphic memoir Cancer Made Me a Shallower Person: A Memoir in Comics takes an unexpected and effective approach towards portraying her struggle with breast cancer. She depicts the entire story – from diagnosis to treatment to surgery – with complete and open honesty. This devotion to transparency adds a complex humanity that almost anyone, regardless of whether or not they’ve suffered a harrowing disease, can relate to. Engelberg is not afraid to write about her frequent bouts of self-pity or her reluctance to put forth any effort to recover. With a light tone steeped in hefty amounts of self-deprecation and pessimism, she writes of how the experience negatively impacted her life in a manner that almost completely subverts the content and emotions present in other memoirs by cancer survivors. Her suffering does not lead to strength; it does not lead her to appreciate what she has in life; it does, as the title suggests, makes her a shallower person. The comics stand as the epitome of gallows humor as she grapples with ways to come to terms with the ravaging illness and finds solace in turning it into jokes and snarky commentary on her failings as both a woman and as a person.

Obviously, however, this tongue-in-cheek approach is not entirely indicative of her reality. It does take strength and self-assurance and bravery to not only survive breast cancer, but be able to write about it with a brevity that never crosses over into offense. She even includes numerous resources for charities, support groups, and other resources which promote awareness of breast cancer. For as much as she puts herself down, the fact that she can find light and humor in even the darkest, most desperate of times is a signifier that her willpower is not nearly as minimal as she makes out. Though there are moments when awareness of her true inner strength peek through and the facade of goofily endearing self-effacing drops to the ground. She talks openly about her earnest and frustrating attempts to jump-start a sex life with her husband when chemotherapy wrecks her libido. And she’s not afraid to discuss her annoyance with people’s constant questions about the disease in her writing, but at least maintains an air of politeness when actually dealing with them. In spite of playing her breast cancer for laughs, there is an undercurrent of genuine suffering and yearning layered beneath it that adds texture and pathos. The complexity of the writing underscores the complexity of her condition.

My only complaint was with the artwork. While the simple, untrained figures certainly pair well with the honest and raw portrayal of humanity, they were something of a distraction. They were appropriate, but the hand-written words in the hand-ballooned panels occasionally twist and turn in ways that detract from the strength of the writing itself. The eye is too busy positioning itself to properly appreciate what Engelberg has to say.

Bibliographic Information

Engelberg, Miriam. Cancer Made Me a Shallower Person: A Memoir in Comics. New York: HarperPaperbacks, 2006.

Further Reading

Miriam Engelberg cites Harvey Pekar as one of her inspirations in the introduction to Cancer Made Me a Shallower Person: A Memoir in Comics. I’ve sung the praises of Pekar on this blog before (and will continue to do so), as I consider him not only one of the best independent comic writers of all time, but probably one of the most underrecognized and underappreciated writers of the latter half of the twentieth century. The man is a masterful writer, able to eke out intelligent, philosophical questions about existence and the human condition from the most mundane anecdotes. Along with his wife, Joyce Brabner, and artist Frank Stack, Pekar related his own battle against testicular cancer with the same brutal honesty as Engelberg in Our Cancer Year. Like many of his works, it’s highly political and opinionated, and occasionally veers off into diatribes regarding Operation Desert Storm unrelated to the topic at hand. Nevertheless, though, it’s a grand read.

~Riot

Maus: A Survivor’s Tale, Vol. I & II

Review

Very rarely does a book jar me to the marrow to the point I lose sleep, have difficulty eating, and cry at particularly shocking intervals. Maus: A Survivor’s Tale, the Pulitzer Prize-winning graphic novel by legendary avant-garde cartoonist Art Spiegelman, is the most recent book to effect me on such a visceral, existential level. Judging by the tsunami of accolades, awards, and general positive regard the work has received, I know that I am not the only one who holds Maus in such high regard.

The story is taken directly – almost verbatim – from the life of Spiegelman’s father, Vladek, and his sickening, harrowing experiences in Auschwitz, Birkenau, and Dachau. A man of patience and almost superhuman resourcefulness during his time of imprisonment, Vladek represents the true durability and resilience of the spirit. Staring into the decomposing, demonic face of mass genocide, his desire to reunite with frail wife Anja and live a life free from the possibilities of a fate more nauseating and tormentous than death forces him to push himself forever forward and survive a literal hell on earth.

Vladek of the past is juxtaposed with Vladek of the (then) present. Spiegelman uses a framing device that I particularly appreciated and enjoyed, and with it he recounts the actual process of collecting and arranging the stories that eventually became Maus. His relationship with his father is heavily strained and marked by personal tragedies and conflicts. Following Anja’s suicide, Vladek eventually metamorphoses into a miserly, cantankerous husk of a man, prone to ill health, obsessive-compulsive tics, and near-epic guilt trips aimed towards his family. Almost an entirely different man from the innovative, level-headed hero chronicled in the Holocaust flashbacks.

Spiegelman allegorically represents different races as anthropomorphized animals who are almost universally uniform in their appearance. Jews, regardless of nation of origin, are portrayed as mice; Germans are, appropriately, cats. And so forth. I certainly adored the brilliance of his symbolism and attempts to forge satire and commentary from stereotypes of racial identity, but one of his more subtle devices was what revealed his true, painstaking attention to detail and keen observations of humanity and its nuances. The book was written and published in English, and much of the narration is pulled directly from tapes Spiegelman records of his father speaking. Vladek speaks in heavily accented, grammatically incorrect English – his voice becomes permanently cemented and intertwined with his character. But in flashback panels where it is implied that he is speaking Polish, the word balloons are free of his accent and grammar difficulties. It’s a small detail that does nothing but add texture to the piece and solidifies Spiegelman’s love for this project.

However, it is the artwork that drives home the sense of dread and terror that characterizes the story. Though drawn as cats, generally a species that conjures up images of “Hang in There!” posters and overly happy cheeseburger connoisseurs, the Nazi Germans appear sinister and nightmarish. Spiegelman’s chosen medium is pen and ink, but most of Maus is executed in a jagged style reminiscent of scratchboard drawings. His harsh use of line and shadow is perfectly suited for scenes of the horrors experienced within concentration camps – bodies dead from typhus carpeting the bathroom floor, mass graves where the barely living are burned alive, train cars for 50 housing 300 or more, etc. It’s absolutely sickening imagery, but entirely necessary. Without learning of the torments and mistakes of the past, how are we to prevent such events in the future?

Bibliographical Information

Spiegelman, Art. Maus: A Survivor’s Tale, Vol. I: My Father Bleeds History. New York: Pantheon, 1986.

Spiegelman, Art. Maus: A Survivor’s Tale, Vol. I: And Here My Troubles Began. New York: Pantheon, 1992.

Further Reading

Coincidently, the only other book I can remember that shook me to the core to the point I nearly succumbed to a panic attack also involved the true story of a Holocaust survivor. Night, by Eli Wiesel, is an essential read for anyone seeking stories of how one person can triumph over tortures almost too unspeakable to ever mention.

~Riot

Embroideries

Review

I’m not being hyperbolic when I make the claim that I believe Marjane Satrapi is one of the most creative and intelligent independent graphic novelists currently active. Her simplistic, flat drawing style can conjure up any emotion from joy to terror, and her stories are often both humorous and touching. Because of this, I carried high expectations going into Embroideries, only to ultimately end up disappointed when I discovered that it was little more than a sparse example of “chick lit.”

The story centers around Satrapi’s observations of the women in her family as they sit around after a meal discussing sex, love, and marriage. However, the talks quickly devolve, for the most part, into vitriolic and toxic depictions of men and their behavior. Satrapi has proven time and time again that she is a consummate, evocative storyteller with a slew of intriguing source material straight from her own life, and I am baffled as to why she elected to illustrate this particular scene. The comic has its moments of insight and entertainment, but for the most part relies too heavily on the tired clichés that often plague literature targeted towards women. Men are frequently presented as a common enemy, the cruel or illicit actions of a few swelling to reflect upon the many. Cosmetic surgery is glorified as the most effective method of securing a husband’s attention. And most of the stock contemporary female archetypes are present as well – the worldly artist liberated by her trips abroad, the obedient, sheltered wife, and the silent neighbor with a tragic secret all make appearances here.

For all of its weaknesses, Embroideries is not entirely without strengths, either. The Iranian setting injects concepts into the story that are unfamiliar to “Western” audiences, therefore adding an element of cultural curiousity. While the majority of opinions and attitudes presented seem to be assumed as universal amongst women (they’re not), there are a few snapshots of distinct differences that prevent it from forever sinking into the same quagmire as the insipid works of Meg Cabot or Sophie Kinsella. Iranian attitudes towards a woman’s virginity is a prominant theme in Embroideries, and because most women in America or Europe cannot relate to the desperation that leads to the titular procedure (which involves the “restoration” of the hymen with a few strategic stitches), Satrapi provides for them a glimpse into the machinations and nuances of her own society.

Though I was not terribly impressed with the work as a whole, I believe what renders it distinct from other women’s literature is the undercurrent of helplessness common to each character’s memories. Women in contemporary American or European literature are limited only by their grating insecurities and personal issues, whereas women in Iran still find themselves subservient to a patriarchal system. I got the impression that the only means through which the central characters of Embroideries could cope with their experiences is this private discussion. A far cry from having the freedom to whine about your boyfriend’s XBOX with the girls over margaritas, or telling yourself you need a new pair of designer pumps because that cute guy in your pilates class is totally married.

Bibliographical Information

Satrapi, Marjane. Embroideries. Trans. Anjali Singh. New York: Pantheon, 2005.

Further Reading

As I said earlier, Marjane Satrapi is a gifted, mesmerizing graphic novelist. Though Embroideries is saved only by the silent underpinnings of cultural subjugation that prevent it from tumbling headfirst into the empty pit of “chick lit” despair, her autobiographical Persepolis frequently involves the same theme, but depicts it in a far more intriguing – often shocking – manner. Likewise, in Chicken With Plums, Satrapi steps back from the forefront to relate a story from her family as she does in Embroideries. Centering on her uncle, it is a quieter, more tragic tale that does not rely on popular conventions to make the narrative flow.

~Riot