Beruflich Dokumente
Kultur Dokumente
Hathaway
249
250 Journal of Folklore Research Vol. 48, No. 3
1986 Spiegelman himself explicitly requested that the New York Times
Book Review move the first volume of Maus from the fiction to the
non-fiction bestseller list (Miller 2003, 48).
In fact, a number of the most acclaimed and commercially success-
ful “graphic novels” of recent years have not been novels at all, but
non-fiction memoirs in comics form, such as Marjane Satrapi’s Perse-
polis (2003), Harvey Pekar’s American Splendor (1986a), and Alison
Bechdel’s Fun Home (2007). I would like to posit, however, that Maus
differs even from works like those by Satrapi, Pekar, and Bechdel,
beside which it is often discussed. While those autobiographical ac-
counts do also attempt to capture a specific sense of place and time,
they are at heart really about how the writer/artist’s own personal
experiences relate to larger historical and cultural contexts. Granted,
Art Spiegelman himself is a central character in Maus: it is his story
that frames and frequently disrupts the tale, and to that degree, Maus
is somewhat autobiographical.1 Many critics have also commented on
the ways in which the Maus books underscore the phenomenon of
postmemory: Art’s own stories often focus on the ways in which his
family’s Holocaust trauma has become his trauma, and the ways in
which he has inherited his parents’ survivor guilt.2 Consequently, Maus
is often framed in terms of historiography.
Because the focus of the story is on Spiegelman’s father, Vladek,
and his memories of the Holocaust, it is tempting to describe Maus
as a graphic oral history or biography—and in fact, the first volume
of Maus was nominated for the National Book Critics’ Circle award
for biography in 1987 (Witek 1989, 96). However, just as Maus is not
really autobiography, it also differs significantly from traditional modes
of biography and oral history. To be sure, Vladek’s voice dominates
the text, and (as in any good oral history) it is only through Vladek’s
story that the reader comes to understand the magnitude of the larger
historical events being described in miniature. But Spiegelman’s nar-
rative also pulls away from Vladek’s story, sometimes even challenging
or subverting it. In the process, the text reveals how powerfully the
past influences the present and the future, articulating “a conception
of past historical events that includes the present conditions under
which they are being remembered” (Young 2000, 24).
Where Maus differs from traditional oral histories, however, is in the
ways it exposes and examines its own constructedness and the biases of
its creator. Critic James E. Young characterizes this as “received history,”
Rosemary V. Hathaway Reading Art Spiegelman’s Maus 251
arguing that “in an era when absolute truth claims are under assault,
Spiegelman’s Maus makes a case for an essentially reciprocal relationship
between the truth of what happened and the truth of how it is remem-
bered” (2000, 39). Young’s description, while apt, still couches Maus in
the limiting generic context of historiography; the more crucial point
lies in Young’s use of the word “reciprocal,” and in his larger discussion
of the ways in which narrative and traditional modes of historiography
come into conflict. Insofar as it is useful to find a specific generic lens
through which to read Spiegelman’s texts, I posit that it is perhaps most
productive to classify Maus as an exercise in ethnography. Spiegelman’s
emphasis on the process of textual production, and the ways the pub-
lished volumes deconstruct, reconstruct, and mediate source material,
suggest that Maus is a form of “new” or “reflexive” ethnography.
In this essay, I refer to this type of writing as postmodern ethnography,
because I want to highlight the ways in which Maus resists and actively
challenges notions of objectivity, truth, and authenticity. Furthermore,
the work actively calls attention to itself as an artificial construct and
offers metacriticism about its own manufacture. It is especially useful
to read Maus as postmodern ethnography because doing so can clarify
some critics’ confusion about the work’s structure and also make sense
of the volumes’ frequent concern with issues of representation.
Charles Hatfield describes Maus as “an extended essay on trying to
represent the unrepresentable” (2005, 139), which is a brilliantly succinct
way to define any postmodern ethnography. Though Hatfield is refer-
ring specifically to the difficulty of representing the events of the Holo-
caust, the question of “representing the unrepresentable” is at the heart
of all contemporary ethnographic inquiry, which almost has to start
from a place of defeat: how can a single account convey the dynamic,
multivalent, contested nature of any cultural group or phenomenon
with any accuracy or objectivity? Historian and ethnographer James
Clifford—who, along with Clifford Geertz, George Marcus, and others
pioneered the “new ethnography”—describes ethnographic inquiry as
the presentation of “partial truths,” noting that “[e]ven the best ethno-
graphic texts—serious, true fictions—are systems, or economies, of
truth. Power and history work through them, in ways their authors cannot
fully control” (1986, 7). Notably, Spiegelman echoes this precise senti-
ment in MetaMaus, a 2011 multimedia collection that brings together a
range of Maus sources and commentaries. He remarks, “Maus, like all
other narrative work . . . is streamlined and, at least on that level, a
252 Journal of Folklore Research Vol. 48, No. 3
fiction. There are fictions that usefully steer you back directly to reality”
(2011, 150). Maus exists in a space between genres, and it is precisely this
interstitial character that makes it such a rich text, one that clearly chan-
nels the kind of “power and history” Clifford describes.
Many critics have noted the ironic self-reflexivity of Maus, and in
fact some early reviewers accused Spiegelman of being too self-ab-
sorbed, too interested in his role as artist and not objective enough
about the history his book was trying to tell. Robert C. Harvey claims
the work is “not so much about the experience[s] of the Auschwitz
survivor as it is about the obsessions of the artistic temperament”
(1996, 243). Harvey Pekar famously lambasted the work in a 1986
Comics Journal review, in which he wrote that “the major defect in
Maus . . . is Spiegelman’s biased, one-sided portrayals of his father,
himself, and their relationship”; further, he “question[s] [Spiegel-
man’s] ability to portray Vladek accurately” (1986b, 56). Certainly, as
Clifford notes, “extreme self-consciousness . . . has its dangers—of
irony, of elitism, of putting the whole world in quotation marks” (1986,
25). But as Clifford also reminds us, philosophers from Dilthey to
Ricoeur to Heidegger acknowledge that even “the simplest cultural
accounts are intentional creations, that interpreters constantly con-
struct themselves through the others they study” (10). At its core,
postmodern ethnography questions whether it is possible for anyone
to portray another accurately; consequently, proponents of “new”
ethnography ask practitioners to “show their work”: to describe their
fieldwork and their interpretive process, thereby allowing readers to
witness, critique, and become part of that process.
One would be hard-pressed to find a text that more clearly shows
us the intentionality of its construction than Maus. Its very nature as
an illustrated text, as well as Spiegelman’s choice to draw animals rather
than human figures, visibly and immediately alerts the reader to the
work’s constructedness. In addition to these obvious methods, Spiegel-
man uses more subtle and provocative forms of reflexivity to remind
us that we are not hearing an unmediated account of the Holocaust;
rather, the story is being filtered through a very specific, partial observer.
In fact, Spiegelman has long been ambivalent when it comes to telling
stories. In the afterword to the 2008 reissue of his early collection
Breakdowns, Spiegelman writes that from the beginning of his work in
comics, he sought to reject the notion of narrative or at least try to
disrupt its unifying tendencies: “I became consumed with finding out
Rosemary V. Hathaway Reading Art Spiegelman’s Maus 253
All kinds of elisions and ellipses and compressions are a part of any
shaped work, and my goal was to not betray what I could find out or what
I had heard or what I knew but to give a shape to it. But giving shape
also involves, by definition, the risk of distorting the underlying reality.
Perhaps the only honest way to present such material is to say: “Here are
all the documents I used . . . and here’s like thousands of hours of tape
recording, and here’s a bunch of photographs to look at. Now, go make
yourself a Maus!” (Spiegelman 2011, 34)
Spiegelman could not align his task more clearly with that of the post-
modern ethnographer: confronted with an assemblage of raw material
and challenged to create a coherent “text” out of it, he wrestled with
“finding what one can tell, and what one can reveal, and what one can
reveal beyond what one knows one is revealing” (73).
This self-reflexivity is evident even in the project’s earliest mani-
festations. In 1974, Spiegelman published a three-page comic entitled
“Maus” in the underground comic Funny Aminals.3 This early version
of his father’s story uses a more traditional and simplistic narrative
technique: Spiegelman frames Vladek’s experiences as a “bedtime
story.” The 1974 text begins, “When I was a young mouse in Rego Park,
New York, my poppa used to tell me bedtime stories about life in the
old country during the war . . . ” (51; ellipses in original, here and
throughout). “Poppa mouse” then takes over the narration, the words
of his bedtime story hovering in quotation marks over frames depict-
ing incidents easily recognizable to readers of the later Maus books.
However, Spiegelman uses several devices to take the short comic out
of the realm of the autobiographical: already he depicts Jews as mice
and their oppressors as cats, and while it is clear that he refers to
Poland and World War II, he never cites these historical places and
events; instead, he uses the more general “old country” and “the war.”
The young mouse hearing the tale is named “Mickey,” and he only
appears three times in the story; in each instance, he is lying in bed,
his head either on his father’s lap or on the pillow as he falls asleep.
The character’s words echo his physical passivity: he speaks only to
respond to part of his father’s story (“Golly!”), or to ask a question to
propel the story along (“But poppa—what happened to the rat that
snitched on you?”). In the final frame, Mickey is half asleep as his
254 Journal of Folklore Research Vol. 48, No. 3
father tearfully ends the story by saying, “I can tell you no more now”
(Spiegelman 1974, 53).
We see the germs of the genius of the later, full-length work in this
1974 version, but the differences between the early comic and the
Maus books underscore the deep significance of the dramatic narra-
tive changes Spiegelman made a decade later. In Maus, not only does
Spiegelman clearly name specific places and events, but more impor-
tantly, he names the major characters. Poppa becomes Vladek, and
Mickey becomes Art. Auschwitz is called Auschwitz, not “Mauschwitz”
(though the name “Mauschwitz” does appear on the title page of Maus
II, chapter one). The drawings also take on a sketchier, more realistic
quality in the later work. These changes suggest that Spiegelman
recognized that a distanced, “bedtime story” approach to his father’s
experiences would not be adequate to convey either their horror or
their ongoing effect on Vladek’s life in the United States. Instead of
portraying himself in the full version as passive and able to sleep
through stories about the Holocaust, in Maus Art is a child fully grown,
capable of expressing an incredibly complicated range of responses
that effectively convey an inherited trauma.
There seems to have been a reckoning sometime between the 1974
version and 1980, when Spiegelman began publishing in RAW magazine
the strips that would later comprise Maus I. In the intervening years,
Spiegelman appears to have decided that portraying himself as an in-
nocent child would be not merely disingenuous, but dishonest. This,
too, reflects the ethical rationale behind postmodern ethnography,
which holds that not including oneself in the cultural description one
has overtly and consciously constructed is deeply suspect. Distant “ob-
jectivity” implies that the author is an empty vessel through which other
people’s stories are channeled, rather than a thinking, agenda-ridden
“re-purposer” of other people’s stories. And of course, the “culture”
Spiegelman is reworking in Maus is his own family’s; there is no ethical
way to tell such stories without first declaring his complex and biased
relationship to them. As Spiegelman himself has written, “Telling a
story as if I was the invisible hand that allowed Vladek to make a comic
about Auschwitz would have been so fraudulent. . . . Better to give the
problematics of reconstructing that experience” (2011, 208).
Reading Maus as postmodern ethnography, then, is a way to address
critics’ assertions that the text is narcissistic: to some extent, Spiegel-
man’s narrative has to court self-involvement in order to be a truly
Rosemary V. Hathaway Reading Art Spiegelman’s Maus 255
with how it characterizes history itself. In what is perhaps the most famous
series of drawings in Maus II, Spiegelman depicts himself wearing a
mouse mask, sitting at his drawing table and describing the writer’s block
he experienced when writing the second volume of his father’s story.
Again he struggles with the reflexive ethnographer’s necessary confusion
about how his authorial subjectivity intersects with that of his subject:
“Vladek started working as a tinman in Auschwitz in the spring of
1944 . . . I started working on this page at the very end of February 1987.
In May 1987, Françoise and I are expecting a baby . . . Between May 16,
1944 and May 24, 1944 over 100,000 Hungarian Jews were gassed in
Auschwitz” (Spiegelman 1991, 41). As Art continues, expressing his guilt
about the critical and commercial success of Maus I, the view pans out
until, at the bottom of the page, the reader sees that Art and his drawing
table are perched atop a pile of naked, dead bodies (41). Issues of guilt
and representation become hopelessly intertwined, and while on some
level Art recognizes that his guilt is the very thing that makes him the
best chronicler of his father’s story, he is also diminished by that guilt.
Nowhere is this clearer than in the scene where, while listening to a
taped interview with his father, Art shrinks with shame at hearing himself
badger his father into staying on-topic (47).
In fact, Spiegelman’s visual depictions of the mechanics of field-
work—interviewing, taping, transcribing, interpreting—offer addi-
tional support for reading Maus as reflexive ethnography. Just prior
to the scene in which Art replays his tapes, Art notes that he is strug-
gling with the tin-shop scene because he “hates to draw machinery”
(Spiegelman 1991, 46); ironically, in the very next panel, the tape-
recording machinery looms large. Over the course of several panels,
Art shrinks down to toddler size as the tape recorder that is playing
his father’s voice gets larger. The “machinery” of fieldwork, in fact,
plays an active role in the narrative. Early scenes depicting Art and
Vladek’s conversations in Maus I clearly show Art taking handwritten
notes; at one point he even says, “My hand is sore from writing this
all down” (Spiegelman 1986, 40). Shortly thereafter, Art turns up at
Vladek’s house with a tape recorder, explaining that “writing things
down is just too hard” (73). However, Art’s transition to available
technology does not make him any less fastidious an ethnographer:
he still takes written notes and continues to seek out additional docu-
mentation, just as in Maus I he seeks out his mother’s wartime diaries
in hopes of adding another dimension to his account.
258 Journal of Folklore Research Vol. 48, No. 3
a CD-ROM entitled The Complete Maus, which included not only the
full text of Maus I and Maus II, but also early sketches of Spiegelman’s
drafts of Maus, as well as photos, video clips from a trip Art Spiegelman
made to Poland, and—most notably—audio clips from Spiegelman’s
interviews with his father. The very existence of the recordings tanta-
lizes the curious reader with the promise of hearing Vladek’s unvar-
nished, “authentic” account. Voyager effectively dissolved in the
mid-1990s, and rapidly changing technology rendered the CD-ROM
more or less inaccessible for a number of years. However, the 2011
publication MetaMaus includes all of the materials from the CD-ROM,
along with an enormous range of other resources, including digitized
images of Spiegelman’s notebooks, notes from his interviews with
women who were in the camps with Anja, and complete, unedited
transcriptions of his interviews with Vladek in 1972, 1978, and 1979.
Most notably, the DVD includes roughly four hours of unedited, con-
tinuous audio from the 1972 interviews, which Spiegelman says consti-
tute most of the raw material for Maus (2011, 23).
The publication of this material will forever change the face of
Maus criticism. With access to source materials and Spiegelman’s own
extensive printed and audio commentaries, there is very little about
Spiegelman’s process that is left to question. MetaMaus theoretically
delivers on Spiegelman’s suggestion that “the only honest way to pres-
ent such material is to say: ‘Here are all the documents I used . . . and
here’s like thousands of hours of tape recording, and here’s a bunch
of photographs to look at. Now, go make yourself a Maus!’” (2011, 34).
And yet the reality is that even with all of the documents and inter-
views and photos, no one else could “make a Maus,” a point that high-
lights both the utility and the aesthetic qualities of postmodern
ethnography. What makes an ethnographic text speak to readers is,
paradoxically, the very ways in which it “narrativizes” its source mate-
rial—the ways in which it translates and mediates raw data into a com-
plex “fiction” that “usefully steer[s] you back directly to reality,” as
Spiegelman describes the process (2011, 150). Without that kind of
“streamlining” and “shaping” (to borrow Spiegelman’s words again), all
you have is source material—and source material that has already been
shaped both by the person who amassed it and by his or her collabora-
tors: the interviewer and interviewee, the photographer and the pho-
tographic subject. All ethnography is inherently biased; in its very bias,
however, it also carries the capacity to “reveal beyond what one knows
264 Journal of Folklore Research Vol. 48, No. 3
one is revealing” (73). The irony of MetaMaus is that for all the informa-
tion it provides about Spiegelman’s choices, his artistic process, and the
“meaning” of the books, having all that information in no way supplants
Maus or diminishes its power. If anything, it reminds us—as good eth-
nographic writing should—that processes of cultural expression are
infinitely complex and depend as much on the interpretive skills of the
reader as they do on those of the composer.
In an essay about the 1994 CD-ROM materials, John C. Anderson
and Bradley Katz suggest that “the ‘uncut’ Maus does not actually offer
a more whole version of the object,” despite being called The Complete
Maus (2003, 159). As they explain, the original work’s “combinations
of personal narrative and historical documentary, comic book form
and survivor testimony, remain fundamentally open-ended and un-
resolvable” (165). MetaMaus, too, meets these aims of postmodern
ethnography: Spiegelman’s original recordings, transcriptions, and
documents remind us that Maus is neither a verbatim transcription
of his interviews nor a mimetic representation of history. It is, rather,
a heavily mediated and self-reflexive ethnographic reconstruction of
the complex culture of one family.
The open-endedness of the text and the lack of resolution that
Anderson and Katz describe continue right through the ending of Maus
II. In the final scene, Vladek is depicted in bed, exhausted, telling Art
about what happened after the war—a scene that neatly inverts Spiegel-
man’s initial depiction of father-to-son tale-telling in the 1974 comic:
now it is Vladek who wants to sleep, and it is his son standing beside his
bed who demands more stories. Perhaps it is Vladek’s desire to shut
down the narrative that compels him to end the story by framing his
postwar reunion with Anja as a fairy tale: “We were both very happy,
and lived happy, happy ever after” (Spiegelman 1991, 136). Art and
readers know, however, that the couple’s post-war life was no fairy tale:
Anja commits suicide twenty years later, Vladek’s second marriage to
another Auschwitz survivor is unhappy in the extreme, and Art and
Vladek’s relationship is contentious at best. Vladek’s inappropriate
evocation of fairy tale rhetoric here calls to mind Mickey’s description
of his father’s accounts as “bedtime stories” in the 1974 comic. Both
generic labels are woefully inadequate and ill-fitting. Spiegelman seems
to sense that there is no extant genre into which either his father’s stories
or his retelling of them can possibly fit. While fairy tales and bedtime
stories often end with a moral—if only an implied one—Maus has no
Rosemary V. Hathaway Reading Art Spiegelman’s Maus 265
such sense of closure or resolution. As Hillary Chute writes, “As its stun-
ning last page makes apparent, Maus eschews the closure implied by
the concept of a moral text, offering instead multiple layers representing
time as space; an unstable interplay of presence and absence; and pro-
ductive, cross-discursive traditions” (2009, 352).
Even though Vladek’s last words are “it’s enough stories for now”
(Spiegelman 1991, 136), this recursive story cannot ever truly end. Just
as a well-constructed postmodern ethnography often leaves its readers
more intrigued than sated about the subject in question, Maus, too,
leaves readers wondering if they truly got the whole story—and more-
over, what kind of story it was. Ultimately, Maus resists simple generic
categorization; like ethnography, it exists “between powerful systems
of meaning” (Clifford 1986, 2). As Clifford tells us, ethnography—and
by extension, Maus—“poses its questions at the boundaries . . . [it]
decodes and recodes . . . it describes processes of innovation and
structuration, and is itself part of those processes” (2–3). Spiegelman’s
innovative “structuration” of his father’s stories may continue to baffle
those who need to find one generic pigeonhole for it, but that elusive-
ness is also the source of its continued narrative power.
West Virginia University
Morgantown, West Virginia, USA
Notes
1. Throughout this essay, I will refer to Art Spiegelman as “Art” when he appears
as a character in the text and as “Spiegelman” when I refer to him as the author
and artist of the text. That this is necessary underscores the texts’ ethnographic
qualities: here, as in any reflexive ethnography, the author is not passively reflect-
ing the stories he has collected verbatim, but is instead the very visible (in this
case, literally visible) creator of the account as well as one of its central figures.
2. “Postmemory” is a term coined by Marianne Hirsch to describe “the experi-
ence of those who grow up dominated by narratives that preceded their birth,
whose own belated stories are evacuated by the stories of the previous generation
shaped by traumatic events that can be neither understood nor recreated” (1997,
22). See also James Young’s At Memory’s Edge: After-Images of the Holocaust in Con-
temporary Art and Architecture (2000).
3. In addition to its appearance in Funny Aminals and Comix Book 2, “Maus” is
reprinted in Spiegelman’s 2008 collection Breakdowns: Portrait of the Artist as a
Young %@&*!.
4. There is a second “real” photo in Maus II: that of Art’s brother Richieu, who
died in the war. However, because this photo appears on the book’s dedication
page, it is not as integral to the text as the photo of Vladek.
266 Journal of Folklore Research Vol. 48, No. 3
5. This story is also included in the recordings on the MetaMaus DVD. However,
it is not presented there as an isolated excerpt, as it is in the NPR story.
6. Archived online at http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId
=1611731.
7. The MOMA exhibit “Projects: Art Spiegelman” ran from December 1991
until January 1992, and it featured “all the original pages for both parts of Maus,
as well as ancillary sketches, preparatory drawings and layouts of individual sec-
tions, and source materials used by Spiegelman” (Museum of Modern Art 1991,
1). Deborah Geis discusses the PBS special in the introduction to her Considering
Maus: Approaches to Art Spiegelman’s “Survivor’s Tale” of the Holocaust (2003).
References Cited
Anderson, John C. and Bradley Katz. 2003. “Read Only Memory: Maus and its
Marginalia on CD-ROM.” In Considering Maus: Approaches to Art Spiegelman’s
“Survivor’s Tale” of the Holocaust, edited by Deborah R. Geis, 159–74. Tusca-
loosa: University of Alabama Press.
Bechdel, Alison. 2007. Fun Home. New York: Mariner Books.
Chute, Hillary. 2009. “History and Graphic Representation in Maus.” In A Comics
Studies Reader, edited by Jeet Heer and Kent Worcester, 340–62. Jackson:
University Press of Mississippi.
Clifford, James. 1986. “Introduction: Partial Truths.” In Writing Culture: The Poetics
and Politics of Ethnography, edited by James Clifford and George E. Marcus,
1–26. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press.
Geis, Deborah R., ed. 2003. Considering Maus: Approaches to Art Spiegelman’s “Sur-
vivor’s Tale” of the Holocaust. Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press.
Harvey, Robert C. 1996. The Art of the Comic Book: An Aesthetic History. Jackson:
University Press of Mississippi.
Hatfield, Charles. 2005. Alternative Comics: An Emerging Literature. Jackson: Uni-
versity Press of Mississippi.
Hirsch, Marianne. 1997. Family Frames: Photographs, Narrative and Postmemory.
Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
Miller, Nancy K. 2003. “Cartoons of the Self: Portrait of the Artist as a Young
Murderer—Art Spiegelman’s Maus.” In Considering Maus: Approaches to Art
Spiegelman’s “Survivor’s Tale” of the Holocaust, edited by Deborah R. Geis, 44–59.
Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press.
Museum of Modern Art. 1991. “Projects: Art Spiegelman.” Press Release No. 88,
December. http://www.moma.org/docs/press_archives/6990/releases/
MOMA_1991_0119_88.pdf?2010.
National Public Radio. 2004. “Vladek Spiegelman on the Death of Art’s Aunt.”
Intersections: Of Maus and Spiegelman. Last modified 26 Jan.; accessed 19 April
2011. http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=1611731.
Pekar, Harvey. 1986a. American Splendor: The Life and Times of Harvey Pekar. New
York: Doubleday.
Pekar, Harvey. 1986b. “Maus and Other Topics.” The Comics Journal 113:54–57.
Rosemary V. Hathaway Reading Art Spiegelman’s Maus 267
Pratt, Mary Louise. 1986. “Fieldwork in Common Places.” In Writing Culture: The
Poetics and Politics of Ethnography, edited by James Clifford and George E.
Marcus, 27–50. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press.
Satrapi, Marjane. Persepolis. 2003. New York: Pantheon.
Spiegelman, Art. 1974. “Maus.” Comix Book 2:51–53.
———. 1986. Maus I: My Father Bleeds History. New York: Pantheon.
———. 1991. Maus II: And Here My Troubles Began. New York: Pantheon.
———. 2008. Breakdowns: Portrait of the Artist as a Young %@&*! New York:
Pantheon.
———. 2011. MetaMaus. New York: Pantheon.
Witek, Joseph. 1989. Comic Books as History: The Narrative Art of Jack Jackson, Art
Spiegelman, and Harvey Pekar. Jackson: University Press of Mississippi.
Young, James E. 2000. At Memory’s Edge: After-Images of the Holocaust in Contemporary
Art and Architecture. New Haven and London: Yale University Press.