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Susceptible
Geneviève Castrée, dessinatrice et musicienne d’origine québécoise, a auparavant publié des recueils de dessins et un livre-disque (Pamplemoussi) chez l’Oie de Cravan, des disques chez K records et des planches dans Lapin. Susceptible, qui paraîtra simultanément en anglais chez Drawn & Quarterly, est son premier projet de longue haleine : résolument autobiographique, elle y fait le récit de son enfance, enchaînant les saynètes dont la dureté contraste avec un dessin et des lavis tout en finesse. Ayant grandi au Canada dans les années 80 et 90, Geneviève décrit une relation mère-fille difficile, voire extrême, et comment à l’âge de quinze ans, elle décide de partir retrouver son père, punk anglophone parti dans la nature.Susceptible est un témoignage aussi fort que fragile sur la naissance d’une sensibilité artistique à fleur de peau, et une forte pierre à l’édifice de la bande dessinée autobiographique, où intime et exorcisme ne sont pas des vains mots.
80 pages, Hardcover
First published September 15, 2012
11 people are currently reading
1230 people want to read
About the author
Geneviève Castrée
10 books27 followersGeneviève Castrée was born in Québec in 1981. She started inventing and drawing characters at the age of two. She did not learn it in school. At the end of High School, she took her diploma and disappeared. Impatient and lazy, Geneviève did not study "art". She made books and had exhibitions in countries such as Canada, the United States, Europe, Australia and Japan.
Castrée added music and performance to her work from time to time. She made records and played concerts under the names Ô PAON and Woelv.
Geneviève Castrée lived in the Pacific Northwest region of the United States with her husband, musician Phil Elverum. In 2015, she gave birth to a daughter, Agathe, and was diagnosed with late-stage pancreatic cancer just a few months later. She died in 2016.
Castrée added music and performance to her work from time to time. She made records and played concerts under the names Ô PAON and Woelv.
Geneviève Castrée lived in the Pacific Northwest region of the United States with her husband, musician Phil Elverum. In 2015, she gave birth to a daughter, Agathe, and was diagnosed with late-stage pancreatic cancer just a few months later. She died in 2016.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 134 reviews
March 17, 2013
Susceptible, a seeming autobiography, explores thematic ground familiar from the graphic autofictions of Lynda Barry, Debbie Drechsler, or Phoebe Gloeckner: that of an unidealized and conflicted girlhood, lived out, from childhood to adolescence, in all its complexity, with little in the way of adult solicitude or guidance—because the adults around are mostly too self-involved or fucked up to take up the work of parenthood or mentoring. Remarkably, it acts as an accusation, a pointed finger, at the protagonist's family, in particular her sotted, desperate mother and coldly dismissive stepfather, without curdling with bitterness. The work is defiantly a declaration of independence from a family that cannot, does not, do what's right, but also a beautifully poetic, evocative, measured work that doesn't quite make a monster out of anyone (well, except maybe for that stepfather). The thematic turf may be familiar, and comics readers may feel that they recognize Julie Doucet in Castrée's small, gnomish figures and tight graphic patterning—or perhaps Renée French in the delicacy of her rendering—but, wow, Susceptible is a lovely, confounding comic in its own right: a great book.
This is the story of Goglu, a Québécois girl whose mother and father split when she is but a toddler. Her father (an Anglophone) disappears to the other side of Canada; her mother falls into a tumultuous partnership with a distant, unreadable man—that "stepfather." Goglu's narration initially questions the relative shares of nature and nurture that have made her who she is, but the book clearly comes down on the side of blaming nurture (Goglu, after all, is "susceptible" to all she experiences). Its resolution depends on her ability to break free. As in many comics of this kind, the protagonist's innocence and vulnerability contrast sharply with the self-indulgence, compulsiveness, false promises, and bad faith of many of the grownups, and Goglu suffers: punished or spurned for her perfectly natural desire to take care of herself and avoid the shame of her drunken and drug-addled mother, Goglu becomes confused, sometimes drug-addled herself, and near suicidal. The book as a whole makes a strong argument that her life depends on her emancipation.
Where Castrée excels is in evoking the memory of memory: that is, she reminded me again and again that, yes, "this is what remembering feels like." Her soft, finely detailed drawings, a mixture of thin, precise linework, soft washes, and textures so fragile that at first I assumed (wrongly, I now think) that large parts of the work had been penciled, not inked, reinforce this sense of memorialization and retrospective sense-making. This exceedingly delicate approach makes Susceptible both accessible and yet challenging, as Castrée plays all kinds of difficult and terrible episodes against the seeming innocence of the style. I found myself hooked right away: in an early sequence, Goglu looks out a window into the darkness of a rainy night and sees her father on his motorcycle, waiting, getting soaked, the headlamp of his bike providing the only light source. That nimbus of light, in the middle of panels filled with dark, is evoked with such fineness, such discretion, and such a sense of mystery—in sum, such frightening loveliness—that I felt entranced. Everything about the book partakes of that mystery, and so Susceptible is a rich, beautiful, stunning book, one in which darkness and light are combined with fragile yet breathtaking grace.
This is the story of Goglu, a Québécois girl whose mother and father split when she is but a toddler. Her father (an Anglophone) disappears to the other side of Canada; her mother falls into a tumultuous partnership with a distant, unreadable man—that "stepfather." Goglu's narration initially questions the relative shares of nature and nurture that have made her who she is, but the book clearly comes down on the side of blaming nurture (Goglu, after all, is "susceptible" to all she experiences). Its resolution depends on her ability to break free. As in many comics of this kind, the protagonist's innocence and vulnerability contrast sharply with the self-indulgence, compulsiveness, false promises, and bad faith of many of the grownups, and Goglu suffers: punished or spurned for her perfectly natural desire to take care of herself and avoid the shame of her drunken and drug-addled mother, Goglu becomes confused, sometimes drug-addled herself, and near suicidal. The book as a whole makes a strong argument that her life depends on her emancipation.
Where Castrée excels is in evoking the memory of memory: that is, she reminded me again and again that, yes, "this is what remembering feels like." Her soft, finely detailed drawings, a mixture of thin, precise linework, soft washes, and textures so fragile that at first I assumed (wrongly, I now think) that large parts of the work had been penciled, not inked, reinforce this sense of memorialization and retrospective sense-making. This exceedingly delicate approach makes Susceptible both accessible and yet challenging, as Castrée plays all kinds of difficult and terrible episodes against the seeming innocence of the style. I found myself hooked right away: in an early sequence, Goglu looks out a window into the darkness of a rainy night and sees her father on his motorcycle, waiting, getting soaked, the headlamp of his bike providing the only light source. That nimbus of light, in the middle of panels filled with dark, is evoked with such fineness, such discretion, and such a sense of mystery—in sum, such frightening loveliness—that I felt entranced. Everything about the book partakes of that mystery, and so Susceptible is a rich, beautiful, stunning book, one in which darkness and light are combined with fragile yet breathtaking grace.
June 6, 2013
23 year old Canadian woman's memoir about growing up with a drunk stoner Mom and emotionally abusive mom's boyfriend... Dad figures in, too... everything happens: bulimia, drug abuse, depression and SO much more... and in some ways this would feel really unremarkable, just a little too depressing a train wreck to watch, a kind of Mommie Dearest for for the 21st Century, a companion piece for Calling Dr Laura (which tries to be funnier than this one does...) or How I Made it to Eighteen, but it is worth looking at, gorgeously drawn...the art carries this one...
July 18, 2016
Heart-breaking and beautiful - I didn't even realize that I was reading it right around the time that the author died. Or that she has a lot of connections with my community.
Is it a life neglected? Maybe.
This has the feeling of only-slightly-fictionalized autobiography. I was particularly hit by the treatment of substances and their (ab)use.
But I've read lots of stories about difficult childhoods.
The thing here is her beautiful illustration work. The dad's beard. The variety of layouts.
It's fairly episodic and seems like snatches of memories.
I do wish it had won me over just a bit more.
Is it a life neglected? Maybe.
This has the feeling of only-slightly-fictionalized autobiography. I was particularly hit by the treatment of substances and their (ab)use.
But I've read lots of stories about difficult childhoods.
The thing here is her beautiful illustration work. The dad's beard. The variety of layouts.
It's fairly episodic and seems like snatches of memories.
I do wish it had won me over just a bit more.
February 28, 2023
A semi- or fully-autobiographical sketch of the author's childhood, I guess? Young Goglu is buffeted by her parents' various changing relationships and infidelities and substance abuse issues, with her mother and father ending up basically on opposite sides of Canada and her falling into the chasm between, repeating their mistakes and coming up with plenty of her own as she flails about in life.
A lot of the developments are unfortunately too common in too many people's life stories to really stand out in the crowd. The string of vignettes has some compelling moments but mostly skims past without much impact beyond simple schadenfreude. Perhaps if all the childhood trauma had been connected to how the character/author turned out as an adult it would have helped, but the book simply ends when she's 18 and moves out on her own (with all her teeth).
Appalling side note: Castrée sadly died from cancer at 35. Her official web site, https://www.genevievecastree.com as listed on her Goodreads and LibraryThing author pages, was apparently allowed to lapse and has been taken over by another entity that rebranded the page as "Genevieve Castree: Gambling the Smart Way," a blog offering tips for improving your betting strategies.
A lot of the developments are unfortunately too common in too many people's life stories to really stand out in the crowd. The string of vignettes has some compelling moments but mostly skims past without much impact beyond simple schadenfreude. Perhaps if all the childhood trauma had been connected to how the character/author turned out as an adult it would have helped, but the book simply ends when she's 18 and moves out on her own (with all her teeth).
Appalling side note: Castrée sadly died from cancer at 35. Her official web site, https://www.genevievecastree.com as listed on her Goodreads and LibraryThing author pages, was apparently allowed to lapse and has been taken over by another entity that rebranded the page as "Genevieve Castree: Gambling the Smart Way," a blog offering tips for improving your betting strategies.
June 26, 2017
This was a graphic memoir that I didn't expect to enjoy as much as I did. It's definitely a pretty sad read becuase the author's life has not been the easiest and actually she didn't live too long in the grand scheme of things. I think when you read this you can see some of her story in savage and raw detail, and I loved moments of it - equally there were some kind of dull bits I couldn't relate to. Overall a good read but not my favourite standalone graphic work. 3*s
January 25, 2016
"I'm eighteen. I have all my teeth. I can do whatever I want."
Thus ends the harrowing story of Goglu's troubled young life, on a vaguely positive note. As if surviving with all of one's teeth is the best a young adult can hope for before escaping their childhood world.
For some of us, these are the sad facts. And when our caretakers are neglectful and abusive, and we are short on friends, survival is no small feat.
"Susceptible" is a dense, slightly fictionalized, graphic memoir with beautiful art, a sad story to tell, and tiny cursive writing that a lot of people on gr struggled with (though at least one gr member said they loved the tiny cursive writing. They are, it seems, in the minority.)
The Comics Journal reviewer starts by describing the book as no more than a series of complaints: "Reading Geneviève Castrée’s childhood memoir is not unlike watching someone pull at every one of their old scabs and scars, leaving themselves bleeding and torn. And I do mean every one, as Castrée chronologically documents every hurt, every slight, every refusal of affection, and every thoughtless maternal dismissal. "
But the reviewer appreciates the writer's artistry -- he is not alone in comparing her style to Julie Doucet. "There is a heavy Julie Doucet influence at work here in more ways than one, but especially in terms of her figure drawing (while lacking Doucet’s almost neurotic need to fill up every panel with details). Indeed, it’s the negative space that most often brings home Goglu’s sense of alienation, like one beautiful page with Goglu at its center, with some art supplies and paper slowly sprawling out from around her, with nothing else on the page."
And in the end he seems to appreciate her courage.
So, some questions are:
What is the value of a book that is in many ways a catalogue of hurts?
What makes a book about family dysfunction, and childhood neglect and abuse, have value to its readers? Does it make good literature because of or despite its content? Is documenting the specificity of these experiences on its own the important act, or is weaving them into a story with more universal wisdom or appeal, the important thing? Or is doing the one nearly the same as doing the other?
People often seem either very drawn in by or very frustrated by stories whose purpose is to expose abuse. But is it this book's purpose to expose abuse? To show the specificities and fairy-tale like awfulness of this abuse? Or to show the small ways in which comfort arrives, and despite the dire consequences of emotional starvation, to show the possibility of escape and of finding a way to redefine for oneself what certain important and basic words mean, such as "home" and "friendship", "trust", "loyalty" and "love."
I have mixed feelings about this book. It doesn't have the wisdom, poetry or comedy of Lynda Barry. It has a sense of humor, but not a generous one. (Perhaps the funnyest thing in the whole book is the fact that the protagonist calls her father egghead the entire time.) It is episodic and refuses to offer the comfort of an overarching narrative. I imagine that is intentional, a way to mimic the discomfort of a structureless life with little emotional guidance.
Is this, in the end, a catalog of hurts? And if so, is it still a book worth reading? If the artist were to take these hurts and turn them into something more consumable would that take away from the raw power of such a book or make it something more like art (that which transcends person wisdom? Or at least uses a personal story to connect to larger truths?) I don't know the answer to any of these questions.
I did love the art in this book, and how vivid the moments were, and the absurdity and painfulness and strangeness of these episodes (the visits with egghead, the mother hooking up with a random guy and setting the room on fire, the mother forcing Goglu to stay in her room without anything to do -- no reading, no drawing, because Goglu called her a drunk), even if they didn't seem to reach outside of themselves and build or connect in a way that made sense to me.
Thus ends the harrowing story of Goglu's troubled young life, on a vaguely positive note. As if surviving with all of one's teeth is the best a young adult can hope for before escaping their childhood world.
For some of us, these are the sad facts. And when our caretakers are neglectful and abusive, and we are short on friends, survival is no small feat.
"Susceptible" is a dense, slightly fictionalized, graphic memoir with beautiful art, a sad story to tell, and tiny cursive writing that a lot of people on gr struggled with (though at least one gr member said they loved the tiny cursive writing. They are, it seems, in the minority.)
The Comics Journal reviewer starts by describing the book as no more than a series of complaints: "Reading Geneviève Castrée’s childhood memoir is not unlike watching someone pull at every one of their old scabs and scars, leaving themselves bleeding and torn. And I do mean every one, as Castrée chronologically documents every hurt, every slight, every refusal of affection, and every thoughtless maternal dismissal. "
But the reviewer appreciates the writer's artistry -- he is not alone in comparing her style to Julie Doucet. "There is a heavy Julie Doucet influence at work here in more ways than one, but especially in terms of her figure drawing (while lacking Doucet’s almost neurotic need to fill up every panel with details). Indeed, it’s the negative space that most often brings home Goglu’s sense of alienation, like one beautiful page with Goglu at its center, with some art supplies and paper slowly sprawling out from around her, with nothing else on the page."
And in the end he seems to appreciate her courage.
So, some questions are:
What is the value of a book that is in many ways a catalogue of hurts?
What makes a book about family dysfunction, and childhood neglect and abuse, have value to its readers? Does it make good literature because of or despite its content? Is documenting the specificity of these experiences on its own the important act, or is weaving them into a story with more universal wisdom or appeal, the important thing? Or is doing the one nearly the same as doing the other?
People often seem either very drawn in by or very frustrated by stories whose purpose is to expose abuse. But is it this book's purpose to expose abuse? To show the specificities and fairy-tale like awfulness of this abuse? Or to show the small ways in which comfort arrives, and despite the dire consequences of emotional starvation, to show the possibility of escape and of finding a way to redefine for oneself what certain important and basic words mean, such as "home" and "friendship", "trust", "loyalty" and "love."
I have mixed feelings about this book. It doesn't have the wisdom, poetry or comedy of Lynda Barry. It has a sense of humor, but not a generous one. (Perhaps the funnyest thing in the whole book is the fact that the protagonist calls her father egghead the entire time.) It is episodic and refuses to offer the comfort of an overarching narrative. I imagine that is intentional, a way to mimic the discomfort of a structureless life with little emotional guidance.
Is this, in the end, a catalog of hurts? And if so, is it still a book worth reading? If the artist were to take these hurts and turn them into something more consumable would that take away from the raw power of such a book or make it something more like art (that which transcends person wisdom? Or at least uses a personal story to connect to larger truths?) I don't know the answer to any of these questions.
I did love the art in this book, and how vivid the moments were, and the absurdity and painfulness and strangeness of these episodes (the visits with egghead, the mother hooking up with a random guy and setting the room on fire, the mother forcing Goglu to stay in her room without anything to do -- no reading, no drawing, because Goglu called her a drunk), even if they didn't seem to reach outside of themselves and build or connect in a way that made sense to me.
January 17, 2019
A tough book that feels very personal. I had a hard time connecting with the book at times but maybe that's the point. Castrée doesn't owe us anything and we're lucky to go along for the ride.
November 21, 2025
https://www.drawnandquarterly.com/blo...
just read that the author has cancer. damn. I love this book and her contribution to the d+q anthology last year was top notch. it's late, I was just doing some reading before bed when I saw the news. this was a must read... even more so now - she needs all the love, and I'm sure you guys will love this.
just read that the author has cancer. damn. I love this book and her contribution to the d+q anthology last year was top notch. it's late, I was just doing some reading before bed when I saw the news. this was a must read... even more so now - she needs all the love, and I'm sure you guys will love this.
May 28, 2013
This was completely wonderful. I'd be happy if it were forty times longer. Fifty! So scrumptious.
September 8, 2017
J'ai tellement honte de l'avouer: je ne connaissais pas Geneviève Castrée. C'est sa mort - elle était trop jeune, ça n'a aucun sens, mourir à 35 ans d'un cancer du pancréas - et les témoignages d'admiration qui ont abondé par la suite qui me l'ont fait découvrir.
J'ai le cœur serré. Si ça fait du sens, j'aurais aimé la lire en sachant qu'elle écrit, qu'elle dessine, qu'elle continue de créer quelque part dans le monde.
Découpé en courtes séquences, ce roman graphique fait mal. La petite Goglu, qui grandira sous nos yeux et aura 18 ans dans les dernières pages, tente de survivre et de grandir dans une famille mal foutue. La mère, imprévisible, ne sait pas comment materner ni comment s'aimer. Le conjoint de cette dernière choque par sa froideur et son calcul. Son père, tellement loin, reste un oasis tremblotant à l'autre bout du pays...
Le choix d'utiliser une écriture cursive (qu'on pourra regretter qu'elle ne soit pas plus lisible), le noir et le blanc, le silence des paysages, tout ça fait ressortir l'immense solitude de Goglu et sa rage aussi froide que l'hiver. Une lecture percutante pour qui aime l'autofiction dans le roman graphique.
J'ai le cœur serré. Si ça fait du sens, j'aurais aimé la lire en sachant qu'elle écrit, qu'elle dessine, qu'elle continue de créer quelque part dans le monde.
Découpé en courtes séquences, ce roman graphique fait mal. La petite Goglu, qui grandira sous nos yeux et aura 18 ans dans les dernières pages, tente de survivre et de grandir dans une famille mal foutue. La mère, imprévisible, ne sait pas comment materner ni comment s'aimer. Le conjoint de cette dernière choque par sa froideur et son calcul. Son père, tellement loin, reste un oasis tremblotant à l'autre bout du pays...
Le choix d'utiliser une écriture cursive (qu'on pourra regretter qu'elle ne soit pas plus lisible), le noir et le blanc, le silence des paysages, tout ça fait ressortir l'immense solitude de Goglu et sa rage aussi froide que l'hiver. Une lecture percutante pour qui aime l'autofiction dans le roman graphique.
May 3, 2018
Liked the story and drawings but the print was so teeny tiny and in a loopy handwriting that hurt my eyes. Sad to know that the author is no longer alive. She had a rough go of it in childhood. :-(
November 8, 2013
I'd never heard of Geneviève Castrée when I saw her give a talk at a small gallery in Victoria, British Columbia, Canada. Generally, artist talks make me nervous, insofar as the writer or the musician in the flesh often constitutes a rather precarious entity. What if they turn out to be an asshole? Or a charlatan? Or worst of all: what if they turn out to be terribly dull?
But with Castrée, something of the opposite happened. Although I was unfamiliar with her work, I found there to be something irresistibly intriguing about this shy—albeit very funny—individual. Maybe it was her quasi-philosophical insights on the topics of art (especially biographical narrative), sadness, family and even the ferry out to the Island ("Ferries always smell like poo and French-fries. I think that's all people do on the ferries: eat and then poo"). Or maybe I was swayed by the black and white drawings—somewhat child-like, but not childish—that were projected against the wall as she spoke. Whatever is was, when I got home I immediately put her most recent publication—Susceptible—on hold from the local library.
It's hard to know how much her talk informed my reading of this book. I was surely influenced by her claim that its content—excepting the characters' names—is entirely factual, by her admission that she remains estranged from her parents to this day, by her general ambivalence towards the medium of biography and by her regret that the book ended up being so damn depressing ("I don't want to seem like I think my childhood was particularly hard; many kids have to go through what I did").
But context aside, Susceptible has lots to recommend it. Like any successful memoir, it achieves a sense of honesty without presuming completeness, a sense of satisfaction without necessarily providing closure. And the illustrations are quite charming. But be warned: Susceptible is also sad. Really fucking sad.
But with Castrée, something of the opposite happened. Although I was unfamiliar with her work, I found there to be something irresistibly intriguing about this shy—albeit very funny—individual. Maybe it was her quasi-philosophical insights on the topics of art (especially biographical narrative), sadness, family and even the ferry out to the Island ("Ferries always smell like poo and French-fries. I think that's all people do on the ferries: eat and then poo"). Or maybe I was swayed by the black and white drawings—somewhat child-like, but not childish—that were projected against the wall as she spoke. Whatever is was, when I got home I immediately put her most recent publication—Susceptible—on hold from the local library.
It's hard to know how much her talk informed my reading of this book. I was surely influenced by her claim that its content—excepting the characters' names—is entirely factual, by her admission that she remains estranged from her parents to this day, by her general ambivalence towards the medium of biography and by her regret that the book ended up being so damn depressing ("I don't want to seem like I think my childhood was particularly hard; many kids have to go through what I did").
But context aside, Susceptible has lots to recommend it. Like any successful memoir, it achieves a sense of honesty without presuming completeness, a sense of satisfaction without necessarily providing closure. And the illustrations are quite charming. But be warned: Susceptible is also sad. Really fucking sad.
September 8, 2016
This book is like an autobiographical exorcism. In Susceptible, Castrée illustrates episodes from her own childhood and adolescence, while being raised by a young mother whose own emotional maturity never surpassed either of those stages. The loneliness and disorientation Goglu feels are painfully clear, and utterly devastating. The moments of joy are so few and far between they just break your heart even more.
I have to make one criticism: the handwriting is incredibly cramped and dense. Though it was appropriate for the diary-like nature of the book, and complements Castrée artwork beautifully, the cursive was so small it was difficult to read for any sustained period of time. I have to wonder if the original French edition was published in a larger size, or if I'm just getting that old.
Goglu's closing declaration in the final three pages is kind of quietly magnificent: "I'm eighteen. I have all my teeth. I can do whatever I want." At eighteen, I might've had that tattooed on my body. I still might.
I have to make one criticism: the handwriting is incredibly cramped and dense. Though it was appropriate for the diary-like nature of the book, and complements Castrée artwork beautifully, the cursive was so small it was difficult to read for any sustained period of time. I have to wonder if the original French edition was published in a larger size, or if I'm just getting that old.
Goglu's closing declaration in the final three pages is kind of quietly magnificent: "I'm eighteen. I have all my teeth. I can do whatever I want." At eighteen, I might've had that tattooed on my body. I still might.
July 22, 2014
I've loved Castree's comics since I first discovered them, and this book was long awaited and unfortunately a little overlooked, I think. Including me, since I should've reviewed it a year ago. Castree's honesty is as much with who she is, and where she came from, as it is to the reality of any events from her youth. Her style is perfect for capturing emotion without becoming melodramatic, and her pacing is just right for capturing the fractured nature of memories and meaning.
June 30, 2019
Geneviéve Castrée crafts a melancholy and personal look into her past in this semi autobiographical collection of memories. It’s a very relatable story about growing up and adolescence and found myself choked up plenty of times throughout the books 70+ page count. The art is uniquely Castrée’s and matches the tone and writing of the story very well. This book is amazing because of how relatable it really is. It’s both heartbreaking and heartwarming as you follow Goglu grow up.
May 19, 2021
"i wonder if it is possible for a sadness to be passed from one generation to the other..."
a small and powerful story. about growing up, depression, the wound we all get from our parents. it really spoke to me as someone with a love as bottomless as an ocean for my mother but also confusion, frustration, and hurt. excellent.
a small and powerful story. about growing up, depression, the wound we all get from our parents. it really spoke to me as someone with a love as bottomless as an ocean for my mother but also confusion, frustration, and hurt. excellent.
March 12, 2013
This is a nice companion to Nicole Georges' CALLING DR LAURA (another book about a mother not acting very motherly). I like seeing these memoirs that don't pull punches or try to make excuses for other people's bad behavior (or their own). It's refreshingly honest.
October 22, 2015
I have read a lot of graphic novels and this is my favorite. Cried so much. She is my favorite illustrator and teller of stories.
September 10, 2018
Very accurate of childhood but also I wanna file a small complaint about those tiny letters
September 27, 2021
So good, didn't want it to end.
November 30, 2023
heartfelt and raw coming of age graphic novel. at first, i struggled reading the cursive text but am glad i stuck with it!
January 12, 2023
sobbing omg
February 15, 2023
Whew!
What an upbringing. Goglu draws and and someone survives as a child of a single mother who is less than adult.
It was hard to see all she went through, and the pain.
The teeny tiny writing is neat, but made reading a challenge.
Drawings are so strong.
What an upbringing. Goglu draws and and someone survives as a child of a single mother who is less than adult.
It was hard to see all she went through, and the pain.
The teeny tiny writing is neat, but made reading a challenge.
Drawings are so strong.
December 27, 2017
A beautifully told story of mental illness, the price of drugs and alcohol, and a disrupted family life in a gorgeously illustrated, very matter-of-fact way. This was such a compelling book with a lot of quiet power.
January 3, 2019
This is a beautiful collection of childhood stories and memories told thru graphic form. I kept thinking of Rupi Kaur’s “Milk and Honey” while reading this. I definitely recommend it.
August 2, 2016
Me, walking around at SDCC 2016, I suddenly see Peggy Burns at the D&Q table, I approach her and tell her how much I enjoyed her words at the Eisner she thanks me deeply, and asks if she can give me a book. Duh, I accept. She hands me this. It's one of Geneviève Castrée books, one of the members from D&Q who passed away recently.
I went into it completely blind, and I was really surprised. I am a person who enjoys memoirs, and even more, the genuine heart felt, Bad times, good times memoirs.
Few spoilers, but the opening lines of the book left me speechless, I have been pondering about that a lot recently:
"I wonder if it is possible for a sadness to be passed from one generation to the other... if my depressions could be caused by emotions accumulated by me, but also by my parents, my ancestors even"
Even though this is a memoir, there is a lot you can relate to, perhaps not going through the same situations, but feeling the same intense feelings, sadness, joy, despair.
I appreciate this honesty, because it let's the entire world that you are not alone, and that your pain has been felt before, in different ways, but equally as meaningful.
I recommend this to anyone who enjoys memoirs.
I went into it completely blind, and I was really surprised. I am a person who enjoys memoirs, and even more, the genuine heart felt, Bad times, good times memoirs.
Few spoilers, but the opening lines of the book left me speechless, I have been pondering about that a lot recently:
"I wonder if it is possible for a sadness to be passed from one generation to the other... if my depressions could be caused by emotions accumulated by me, but also by my parents, my ancestors even"
Even though this is a memoir, there is a lot you can relate to, perhaps not going through the same situations, but feeling the same intense feelings, sadness, joy, despair.
I appreciate this honesty, because it let's the entire world that you are not alone, and that your pain has been felt before, in different ways, but equally as meaningful.
I recommend this to anyone who enjoys memoirs.
March 14, 2013
Felt a little rushed towards the end but the ending itself was beautiful, and hopeful. I have a few minor quibbles with other things (e.g. the font) but really this is a great book and the author really nailed the chaotic nature and formative structure of the things that happen to us as we grow up - I loved the part where Goglu and her boyfriend were fooling around in a homemade fort and she says, basically, the stuff we're doing in here isn't that serious but I want to keep it private. I thought that summed up the desire for secrecy and for something of your own when growing up very well.
Thanks for putting me on to this Monica!
Thanks for putting me on to this Monica!
March 2, 2013
This long-awaited work from multi-talented artist & musician Geneviève Castrée is simply gorgeous. It's a step away from Castree's more poetic and metaphorical works like the previous Tout Seul Dans la Forêt en Plein Jour, Avez-Vous Peur? but the more directly narrative approach is well-suited to her talents. This book displays an ambition, a subtle politics, and depth of emotion that many autobiographical comics lack. It's funny, tender, emotionally gripping and honest about the darker parts of childhood and adolescence. And the art is peerless; every delicate line seems infused with subtlety and grace.
September 11, 2016
A sometimes harrowing, beautifully modulated coming-of-age graphic memoir. Castrèe's drawings are gorgeous - they put me in mind of early 90's-era Julie Doucet, only with a more controlled and deliberate line. I only wish the book had been published in a larger format to not only allow the drawings more breathing space but to help make Castrèe's tiny, dense, cursive text easier to read - that's the one flaw in this otherwise recommended title. Really look forward to seeing what Castrèe does next.
September 4, 2018
I feel so overwhelmed, like I'm reading a book from a different time, but it wasn't written too long ago. It most intensely reminded me of Julie Doucet, one of my absolute favorite comics authors who will always have a very special place in my heart.
I'm so sad that Castree is no longer with us. I would have loved to see more of her work. This book is sad and sweet and heartbreaking. So beautiful.
I'm so sad that Castree is no longer with us. I would have loved to see more of her work. This book is sad and sweet and heartbreaking. So beautiful.
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