There is an enigmatic quality to Art Spiegelman's survival guilt, a guilt that presents itself subtly in Book I and much more palpably in Book II. This ambiguity, so to speak, arises from a disconcerting concept. I mean, how could one of the few characters in Maus who wasn't involved in the Holocaust have any guilt about surviving? How, of all those portrayed throughout the work who have seen their friends and families massacred, could Art Spiegelman be the one guilty of having survived? Ironically, it is the fact that Spiegelman was not involved in the Holocaust that violently facilitates his guilt over survival. His supposed inability to understand the genocide, combined with the arduous task of representing millions of unheard victims, creates within him a sense of guilt for not having been there, which is only increased by the burning of Anja's diary by Vladek. Of course, this guilt also manifests itself clearly in his brother's ghost. In the end, he could never be Richieu, benevolently carved in stone, and would always represent what his father could not get back: his family. Say no to plagiarism. Get a tailor-made essay on "Why Violent Video Games Shouldn't Be Banned"? Get an Original Essay While this discussion will primarily concern the confines of Book II, it is important to note the catalyst of Book I that not only amplifies the guilt Spiegelman feels, but also heightens the very nature of his guilt, a nature who moves undecidedly between self-pity and outward aggression towards others. This catalyst, of course, is the revelation at the end of the first part of the series, that of the burning diary. To understand the importance of the burning diary, one must first address the author's uncertainty in addressing his topic. How can it capture, in some way, the most tortuous and dissolute manifestation of humanity in history? This is, as is often seen, a difficult situation faced by many who have written about the Holocaust, and Primo Levi is perhaps the best example. For Spiegelman, however, this uncertainty is exacerbated by his distance from the Holocaust. That is, he has never experienced concentration camps, thefts, the bitter cold, the smell of burning flesh. In this way, only two things can connect Spiegelman to Auschwitz: his father and his mother's diary. The first of these sources is the most subjective, especially considering the relationship Spiegelman has with Vladek. The latter, however, is empirical, objective footage that he can use to effectively portray his parents' ordeal. So when Vladek reveals that he burned the diary, Spiegelman screams, "You're a murderer!" not only because the father murdered Anja's memory, but because he massacred the last chance the author had to fully understand what so many say no one could ever understand (Maus I 159). In the first pages of Book II, and then immediately thereafter, the burning of the diary is disclosed and the reader is given the first clear representation of Spiegelman's guilt over survival. The uncertainty alluded to through the tone of the first book is now made evident by Spiegelman's question: "How am I supposed to make sense of Auschwitz?" (Maus II 14). His tortuous conversation with his wife – from which parent he would save to how diligent, even slightly psychotic, his parents were in their search for Richieu – is a testament to his now overwhelming guilt. The sense of guilt, however, is now shifting from a sense of passive self-consciousness to one of violence and guilt. His father “drives him crazy,” and it is this strained relationship that leads him to think this way/10.1080/15240657.2017.1383072)