She was like that. Like the character in his comics. Direct, without filter. When you were doing his interview, it was in your interest to prepare your answers, too. She wasn’t there to laugh.
“No.â€
The last time was in November 2023. She opened the door to her apartment in eastern Paris and, when she saw me, accompanied by the photographer Bruno Arbesú, the response burst forth. She didn’t want to be photographed. That was out of the question. And there was no point even trying to change her mind.
“It’s not to make me interesting. But every time someone takes a photo of me, I feel a little like those Africans in the 19th century.e century, I feel like my soul is being stolen from me. I don’t even let my friends take photos of me, they know it. And, if they do, I take their phone and delete it.â€
Such was Marjane Satrapi, dead “sadness†on Thursday June 4, a little more than a year after the death of her husband, Mattias Ripa. She was like that: direct, biting, transparent, overflowing, brilliant. Identical to herself, to Marjane Satrapi of Persepolis, the Persian Mafalda, one of those little literary miracles which enlighten an entire world: that of the little girl who grew up under the revolution, under the repression, under the hatred of the ayat
