So today in Autobiography, we were talking about Persepolis and getting to the truth of author Marjane Satrapi through her pictures and text. But that seemed like such strange rhetoric, to me, to be using for a living, breathing person. As a literary scholar, I'm used to referring to authors as those who are...dead. And it's hard for me to picture them as a human being and not some black and white screaming up to me from a page. Sometimes I forget that authors were and are people with feelings, emotions, and opinions-- that change. Referring to Satrapi's truth as a person kinda freaked me out because sometimes I forget to make the connection of an author to her text. And Satrapi is still alive, and we are talking about getting to the truth of her. Weird.
It is known that literature is more of a mirror reflection onto oneself. So when I was trying to think of Satrapi's truth, I was ultimately contemplating who I was-- what my truth was. And it occurred to me what an odd phrase that seems to me-- the truth of me. Do I even have truth? How on earth do I find it? Where do I go looking for it? My past? My present? My future? All of the above?
Some days, I feel like a dog chasing its tail.