A few days ago, Marjane Satrapi’s face kept appearing on my screen. Again and again. The Iranian French graphic novelist, the woman who had drawn an entire generation’s grief in rebellion in black and white. My first thought was that she must have won something. It would not have surprised me.
But then I read the headline: Marjane Satrapi had died.
Four words. I read them, and then I read them again.
She had gained fame for her 2003 autobiographical graphic novel, Persepolis—which, a few years later, was adapted into a film. She passed away Thursday at age 56. Her family said she died of sadness, more than a year after losing her husband, Mattias Ripa, the love of her life.
