David B.'s stunning comic Epileptic tells the
story of David's youth through his late thirties, largely
through the lens of his relationship with his epileptic
brother Jean-Christophe. L'Ascension du Haut Mal
(literally: "The Rise of the High Evil"), as it
was titled in the author's native France, is nominally about
Jean-Christophe and the Beauchard family as they vainly
struggle to find a cure for his condition, through a series
of charlatans and quacks, none of whom prove to be more
than a temporary salve. But the focus of this memoir is
really David — born Pierre-François Beauchard
— himself: how he defines himself in terms of his
brother's illness and his struggle between either escaping
from that identity or embracing it and attempting to understand
it.
Even when Jean-Christophe is largely absent, such as in
the later years, his specter hangs over David, shaping the
whole of David's existence. We first see Jean-Christophe
on page one as an adult: fat, oafish, his body riddled with
scars from so many falls. He talks more like a child than
an adult. When we jump back to the brothers' childhood in
the following pages, we struggle to connect that shadow
of a human being with the vibrant, imaginative boy we see
between the early seizures. That first glimpse of Jean-Christophe
haunts us as we watch the disease slowly overtake him, as
he retreats from any meaningful relationship with the world
around him, armoring himself in Mein Kampf, '70s
metal and his mother.
Early on, Jean-Christophe's disease is depicted as a shadow-like
ghost and later as a stylized, demon-like lizard. Still
later, the lizard disappears almost entirely when the disease
fully consumes Jean-Christophe, his monstrous form now rendered
in bold, harsh lines. Late in the book, we catch a pair
of glimpses at David's own shadow/demon, "(his) past
and its agonies." At first, it is simply another lizard-like
demon, like the one representing Jean-Christophe's epilepsy,
but the second time it is simply Jean-Christophe himself.
As Jean-Christophe grows increasingly insular, David B.
develops his artistic aptitude, fueled by his interest in
the fantasy novels and esoterism that so strongly influence
his work. The disparity between the two brothers is sublimely
illustrated when L, a friend of the family's, takes the
Beauchards to the school for the handicapped where she works.
At first, David sits in the corner drawing, but the children
take an interest in him and solicit him for drawings. Soon,
David plays with the children, walking around on a track
of winding lines. Twice, Jean-Christophe attempts to join
in, but the children are merely perplexed by him. Each time
he tries to join into one activity, such as walking on the
lines, they have already moved on to a new one. Eventually,
he goes to sit in a corner, sulking, and makes one of many
empty pronouncements: "I want to be an educator for
handicapped children."
His mother dismisses this at once, replying, "You
can't even take care of yourself. You didn't interact with
the children at all. At least David did some drawings for
them." This comment is descriptive of how the brothers
relate to the outside world, as well, but more importantly,
David's drawings are his mechanism for deciphering his own
life. David describes his art as his way of "trying
desperately to save myself by doing something." Elsewhere,
he talks about his art in poetic terms: "I perform
the magic to acquire strength and valor. I forge the weapons
that will allow me to be more than a sick man's brother."
It's somewhat ironic, though: writing and drawing comics
is a time-consuming and solitary practice. So even as comics
are David's lifeline to the outside world, they are a protection
from the it, as well.
As moving and profound as Epileptic is, to reduce
the book to merely a sequence of events is to do it an enormous
disservice, for these are small moments made epic through
David B.'s visual genius. One of the most innovative --
and important -- works of comics illustration in the history
of the medium, Epileptic resembles David Mazzuchelli's
City of Glass (adapted from Paul Auster's novel
with co-scripter Paul Karasik) in how it transcends literalist
storytelling techniques, employing nonrepresentational imagery
to convey larger truths than any filmic reconstruction could
manage. One simple, three-panel sequence contains the narration:
"He's my grandfather on my father's side. I like him
but he's strict. All he talks about is eating. He's partly
responsible for my distaste for meat."
The panels depict a miniscule David next to an oversized,
seemingly dazed version of his grandfather, representative
of his grandfather's overbearing attitude. The two are behind
a mound of steaks. After pressing David to eat some food,
which David politely refuses, his grandfather's jaw pops
back in a hinge-like fashion while David begins to look
a bit squeamish. This tiny moment in the story couldn't
have been conveyed as elegantly with solely representational
imagery, or through prose.
Originally published as four 7.5" x 10.2" volumes,
Pantheon's hardcover edition of Epileptic has been
reduced to a more wieldy 6.8" x 8.9". The significant
size difference unfortunately results in some of David B.'s
more delicate lines falling out in some places, although
only on a small number of pages. But this minor drawback
is a small price to pay for the only English edition containing
the whole, wonderful, singular masterpiece.
Epileptic by David B.
Pantheon Books
ISBN 0375423184
361 pages
