I never thought I’d feel someone had an OK life in revolutionary Iran until I read this disappointing sequel. Satrapi recounts being in Austria during the latter half of the Iran-Iraq war and her life in Iran upon returning to little dramatic affect. Her brief sketches of events never allowed me to connect with her sufferings and feeling of alienation despite her having prime material to engage with. She also purposely keeps the reader at a distance, glossing over and ignoring various intimate events. Only during her brief homelessness in Vienna did I truly empathize (even if that suffering was of her own accord). Often I found Satrapi’s tale oddly one of a typical spoiled bourgeois when it should—given the backdrop—be filled with poignancy. I realize that she is attempting to express the confusion of her teen years, yet does so ineffectually and without depth. Read the first book and forget this one’s existence.