In Art
Spiegelman’s Maus, the character of
Vladek is treated in a manner such that the reader is highly aware of the flaws
that make him a well-rounded human, as opposed to a saint-like victim of the
Holocaust which Jews are often depicted as in modern World War Two literature.
The fact that Spiegelman takes this route with the anthropomorphised avatar of
his father has been praised by many critics for its realism: it is not uncommon
for children of wartime victims to become exasperated by the traits their
parents accumulated as a method of survival years after the fact. As such, it
can be argued that the strained relationship which Art and Vladek are shown as
having is an incredibly raw, honest reflection of these familial situations.
Despite
Vladek’s anal-retentiveness and impassably high expectations, however, it is
shown that the apple does not fall far from the tree. This is to say that while
Art does not explicitly share his father’s flaws, he has more than enough of
his own. Perhaps the most evident of these faults thus far is his dishonesty,
as shown when Vladek asks that his son not record the portion of his story that
involved his relationship with Lucia Greenburg, and Art does not honour this
wish. It can be theorised that Art does this due to his desire to record the
entirety of his father’s story in its purest, truest form – and while this may
seem an honourable pursuit, whether it is more honourable than keeping a
promise to one’s father is entirely up for debate. Thus far, neither of the
narrators of Maus – those being Art
and Vladek – have managed to preserve a perfect image of themselves for the
reader’s consumption, and I feel that this is incredibly telling of the picture
of humanity which the graphic novel’s writer wishes to impart: there is no such
thing as someone who is truly evil or truly good, and humanity must instead be
viewed in shades of grey.
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