Persepolis

First and foremost, a disclaimer: Any and all polemical scribblings contained herein are very strictly non-antipathetic. i.e., The author would like to state that, for all intents and purposes, he attacks ideas, not people.
Thank you for your time.

-The Management (c/o Y.S.R.)

One thing I found interesting -- surprising, even -- about Marjane Satrapi's Persepolis, beyond my own immediate reaction(s) to it, was the kind of reactions it aroused in others, the broad spectrum which they covered. These responses ranged from warm appreciation for the author/artist's achievement in her attempt to communicate across multiple cultural boundaries and call attention to the common ground shared by the many sides to, conversely, sentiments bordering on knee-jerk aversion to that same attempt. It's in this line of thought that a misguidedly and blindly insular, uniquely American mentality so unfortunately apparent in so many other places comes to light. The story deals with a time and place in which those who were in power did not think too kindly of the United States or its interventionism, and in portraying the presence of these ideas, in spite of the book's distinctly neutral stance, it offends the delicate sensibilities of a number of people.
However, the suggestion that these depictions should be removed from the novel is not only a malignant strain of censorship, but is tantamount to a falsification of the history portrayed in the book. This attitude towards the text showcases not only a callous disrespect towards the difficult circumstances and traumatic experiences through which Ms. Satrapi lived, but also a very fundamental misunderstanding of the book's message and subject matter.
And that message, no matter how simplistic in its presentation -- if its depths be properly plumbed, rightly understood -- is so rich and resonant, so alive! So tragic, yet somehow triumphant!
Simply stated: by refusing to acknowledge the humanity we share with Ms. Satrapi and those close to her as seen in the novel, we, to a degree, negate our own.

The Moviegoer

My initial reaction to Walker Percy's The Moviegoer was one of remote appreciation. The more I really began to get a feel, though, for the story and for Percy's prose, that appreciation became less guarded. I started to see in his writing much of what I've loved in that of Flannery O'Connor — the eye for detail, the mind that knew which details were important; the ear for voice; the coexistence of the seemingly dichotomous realms of high-minded literary craftsmanship and uniquely southern mannerisms (“No'm,” a colloquial shortened form of “No ma'am,” comes to mind).
The more I've learned about Percy — his underlying religious conviction, and his being a religious writer but not one whose target audience is necessarily religious — the more this comparison made sense.
I identified with the novel on a few different levels: with Binx at several points in his search, and with Percy in some aspects of the novel's composition and his approach to it.
I found it particularly interesting how, beyond the major events that occurred in Binx's life and undoubtedly influenced him as he was growing up, it was his aunt that seemed to hold great sway over his early development, and his aunt who was so frustrated by who he became. She told him all he had to do was be a soldier, and then later in his life, when he is an actual soldier rather than a figurative one, he is wounded. This, of course, is the jump-off point of sorts for his 'search'.
Some of the characters, the names (i.e. the celebrities, for most readers today), and the terms (“Negress,” for example) have certainly dated, but the novel is still, I think, a work for the ages.