On the surface it would appear this pretty remarkable book is a biography of the author's grandfather. It can't be literally true, as much of it appears to take place as dream/fantasy or fantasies of various kinds. It's beautifully and uniquely drawn and as a story sometimes ominous, sometimes funny, with a central focus on Arsene's obsession on his cousin's wife, which is kind of hilarious.
Some colonialist excursion takes place in dreamlike fashion, a trip into a foreign land. It is for me a commentary on the art of biography itself, the impossibility of knowing one's grandparents (or anyone) in any meaningful fashion at all, especially those who lived their lives a long time ago, whose stories come to us in fragments, reported by our parents and other relatives. We have to make things up, we have to fictionalize, of course, though ALL of this tale may be fiction, as far as I know. Much of this is, for sure, including Oliver's presumptions about what his grandfather was thinking and saying.
It reminds me in a way of the crazy magical films of Werner Herzog, only more surreal, less grounded in something like "the human spirit". Funnier than Herzog, maybe. It's a fascinating read, long and ambitious. Very beautiful artifact, this book production. Surreal in its overall effects. "Kafkaesque" is a cliche, but fits. He's in Kafka's club, that's for sure. This sticks with me. It for my tastes is one of the best graphic novels ever, which is quite a claim considering the author is still a young man.