chai (thelibrairie on tiktok) ♡'s Reviews > The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue

Oh, to be a French girl who knelt in the woods, on the eve of a wedding she did not want, and prayed for freedom to a god—or perhaps a devil—who made her a deal that'll grow to be like a thorn in her, a goad: she will live forever, but she will be forgotten by everyone she meets, always slipping out of reach. An eternity of flitting from one place to another, never feeling quite at home anywhere, and from one person to another, leaving behind only the phantom feel of her touch, and the faint memory of seven freckles dotting her cheeks, like a scattering of stars.

That is, until a boy born with a broken heart says, “I remember you”, and it feels like a prayer. Like a crack in the mortar of her curse.

“Why would anyone trade a lifetime of talent for a few years of glory?” Luc’s smile darkens. “Because time is cruel to all, and crueler still to artists. Because vision weakens, and voices wither, and talent fades.” He leans close, twists a lock of her hair around one finger. “Because happiness is brief, and history is lasting, and in the end,” he says, “everyone wants to be remembered.”

That is possibly one of the sexiest premises for a book that I've read, and having read many of Schwab’s books, I can confidently say that this is undoubtedly the single best piece of writing she’s ever produced.

The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue is beautifully written. The novel teems with passages of transfixing description, and I could not but let myself sink into the velvet-soft embrace of the author’s voice, as cozily as into a beloved sweater. Even now, days after I’ve read it, I find myself returning to parts of the book to re-read passage, and re-experience the heady prose within, to open up those moments and stretch them out full length, see what new effects they might have on me.

I should say that this is not a novel of thrilling conflicts so much as it is a story of poignant and unforgettable encounters. The novel breezes by at a leisurely pace as the story slowly takes shape before its reader like smoke poured into an invisible mold. This could potentially be frustrating for readers who prefer propulsive plot-lines and clear-cut resolutions as the novel offers neither, but I honestly loved it precisely for that. The real strength of The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue lies in the way the author manages to tug so many difficult themes into a heart-wrenching whole, making you feel the characters' depth of anguish, their loneliness and longing to be seen.

Three hundred years is a long time to be alone. In three hundred years, that aloneness grows deep roots; it works its way into every crevice, it gnaws at you from within. It was longer still for Addie LaRue who moved through the world like an apparition, unseen and unacknowledged by everyone except the devil who condemned her to this life of invisibility. His stare, however, brings little comfort, as he reminds her at one point: “Do not mistake this—any of it—for kindness, Adeline. I simply want to be the one who breaks you.”

Twenty-eight years, too, is a long time to be alone. Henry, our other protagonist, was born into a world he felt only halfway inside of. Full to the brim with desires, Henry yearned to be loved, to be wanted, to be enough, and he wanted it all with the greed of someone starved. For years, Addie and Henry both formed the same crooning, desperate, yearning plea in their minds: to not be alone. They had long been wandering in the same labyrinth—both comfortless, lonely, and empty—and had finally rounded the corner that brought them face-to-face. It was the feeling of being invisible and lost and searching and then suddenly neither—and it was heady. But it’s that loneliness that drew Luc’s—the devil’s—eye like a blight on the horizon. Perhaps, because it reminded him of his own.

It's a dangerous thing to be alone after all, but as the reader soon realizes, it's even more dangerous to want. There is so much fear at the center of this novel, like a thorn deep in a festering wound: Will you always drift through life more than you walk, feeling less like yourself and more like a kind of lost and wandering mist? Will your heart always hurt for the wanting of someone? Will you be remembered or will your memory be washed away as though it never were? What will survive of us? Of all the profound ideas echoing throughout this novel, that last one was its most resonant.

Still, hope is a small heated ball at the heart of The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue, and the answers the characters find for themselves at the end ((view spoiler)[‘Were the instants of joy worth the stretches of sorrow? Were the moments of beauty worth the years of pain? […] “Always.”’ (hide spoiler)]) feel like a weight released at last after long hours of bearing it up. Three hundred years is indeed a long time to be alive, but for three hundred years, Addie LaRue twirled around the world, holding her eyes wide open, and always found something new. Addie LaRue learned to love it, all of it, even when it pounded over her in waves that left her gasping, even when it hurt, because it was wonderful too. And always, always worth it.

But this is how you walk to the end of the world. This is how you live forever. Here is one day, and here is the next, and the next, and you take what you can, savor every stolen second, cling to every moment, until it’s gone.