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Fun Home: A Family Tragicomic Paperback – January 1, 2006
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Meet Alison's father, obsessive restorer of the family's Victorian home, funeral director, high school English teacher, icily distant parent and closeted homosexual, who, as it turns out, is involved with his male students and a babysitter.
Through a narrative that is alternately heartbreaking and fiercely funny, we are drawn into a daughter's complex yearning for her father. When Alison comes out as homosexual herself in late adolescence, the denouement is swift, graphic -- and redemptive.
- Print length240 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherMariner
- Publication dateJanuary 1, 2006
- Dimensions5.91 x 0.59 x 8.98 inches
- ISBN-100224080512
- ISBN-13978-0224080514
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Product details
- Publisher : Mariner (January 1, 2006)
- Language : English
- Paperback : 240 pages
- ISBN-10 : 0224080512
- ISBN-13 : 978-0224080514
- Item Weight : 2.31 pounds
- Dimensions : 5.91 x 0.59 x 8.98 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #2,843,082 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- Customer Reviews:
About the author
ALISON BECHDEL has been a careful archivist of her own life and kept a journal since she was ten. Since 1983 she has been chronicling the lives of various characters in the fictionalized “Dykes to Watch Out For” strip, “one of the preeminent oeuvres in the comics genre, period” (Ms.). The strip is syndicated in 50 alternative newspapers, translated into multiple languages, and collected into a book series with a quarter of a million copies in print. Utne magazine has listed DTWOF as “one of the greatest hits of the twentieth century.”
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I had the experience of working in the upstair apartment of a funeral home temporarily. My first husband's law practice was there. The wallpaper and carpet were funeral home style. The worst part was that I know where the caskets had been.
Alison's farher was eccentric and a perfectionist, not one to give warm hugs. He had affairs with the men he hired and I will never forgive for demanding help with the embalming of a client. Not much help but just being there with a naked corpse is not a good experience for any child.
This book is one of deeply troubled childhood. The graphics and writing was top notch and now I want to read her book about her mother.
Bruce Bechdel, a man who loves literature (in his early days he identified with F. Scott Fitzgerald; in his final days he reads Proust), an aesthete with a taste for the baroque detail of the Victorian era, and a creative and versatile designer of interior and exterior landscapes, is born and lives in rural central Pennsylvania, running the family funeral home and teaching at the local high school. He never quite fits in. Always sun-tanned and exquisitely dressed (no plaid hunter's shirts or chewing tobacco for him), persnickety and a bit prissy, but at the same time speaking with a back-country twang, Bruce seems uncannily out of place in Beech Creek.
And he's a closeted gay man, who has occasional affairs on the side and otherwise sublimates his repressed sexuality by obsessively restoring the Victorian-era house in which Alison grew up. The tension of his closeted life makes him aloof, prone to violent temper tantrums, controlling, and sometimes cruel to both wife and children.
Alison's Bechdel's memoir of him, and the way in which her own identity both became the inverse of his and yet in many respects parallels his, is a sophisticated narrative that underscores just how complex personal identity is. Alison is who she is, just as her father was who he was, because of the convergence of Beech Creek, sexuality, alienation, fun, repression, the need to be creative, the yearning for affection, the factuality of history and the re-creation of memory. There's no formulaic happy ending here, no artificial structuring to make more sense of the relationship between herself and her father than there really was. Instead, what the reader is offered is a profound, sensitive, bittersweet effort to explore memory in search of identity--an effort which throughout is punctuated by Bechdel's references to both Proust and James Joyce--and an appreciation for the ironies of fate which make us who we become.
Other reviewers have mentioned that they read the memoir at one setting. I found it so intense that I could only take it in small portions, and even then I sometimes felt overwhelmed. For in sharing her own identity-forming memories with us, she invites us to plumb more deeply into our own. And both exercises, although potentially liberating, can also be harrowing.
The novel is a testament to her father, and she leaves no part of him, or her own emotions about each part of their relationship, unexplored. She presents him in his entirety: the good, the bad, the disturbing, the endearing. Through reading it I could feel her love of him, and because of this sympathy I found myself not wanting to remember his baser acts. One scene expresses her frustration at the dishonest portrayal of people at funerals, where people feel that only good can be spoken about the person. She would rather have a brutally honest representation to show all her father’s flaws and all the love he received anyway. This is what this book is.
The characters are all very real. I was able to get a full idea of the father, and all the secondary characters acted believably. Of course, it is an autobiography. More than that, all of them are portrayed through compelling details, and every scene shown feels significant. The story is not told chronologically, rather it jumps between scenes relevant to each chapter’s theme. This allows every idea to be explored entirely when it is first introduced, rather than hoping it will stay in the mind of the reader until it is addressed again. Together, they paint a rich, full picture. As the story nears its end, many moments resurface, each for a single panel, drawing everything together. This pattern builds to a climax until the final scene, which is one continuous and simple moment. I had been expecting some grand finale, and the solitary scene was not quite enough. I did not feel the significance the author was trying to attribute to it. This stood out more because I had not felt that the rest of the book fell short, and the ending must, by placement, be particularly meaningful.
The balance of text and image, good and bad, was masterfully executed. My only complaint is that the ending panels did not live up to the resonance of the rest of the book. I rate this book 8/10.