Set against the backdrop of a tiny, nondescript village in 18th century France, The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue begins with a young woman’s desperate plea for freedom and autonomy. Faced with the grim prospect of an arranged marriage and a life defined by confinement, Addie strikes a desperate deal with the darkness itself. Her wish – to live freely, beholden to no one – is granted, but at a terrible, twisted cost: she is cursed to be forgotten by everyone she meets.
“It is sad to forget. But it’s a lonely thing to be forgotten.”
Much like its transient protagonist, the essence of Schwab’s story lingers long after the finer details have faded, inspiring a quiet, contemplative rumination on what it means to live, to love, and to be remembered. The first half of the book is a slow burn, dedicated mostly to laying the emotional groundwork by exploring the boundary between a life of consequence and one that slips quietly away. Addie, burning with restless ambition and a longing to explore the world, struggles to find her place amongst the people of Villon-sur-Sarthe, who find comfort within the narrow boundaries of familiarity and are content to be “born and buried within the same ten meter plot”.
“Small places make for small lives. And some people are fine with that. They like knowing where to put their feet. But if you only walk in other people’s steps, you cannot make your own way.”
Without a doubt, one of the most poignant aspects of Addie’s youth is her gradual awakening to the limitations of her gender. As she grows up, she begins to understand that her world – already small enough – is even further restricted by the roles she is expected to play: obedient daughter, dutiful wife, eventual mother. The realisation creeps in slowly, like a shadow stretching across her life. By the time her wedding day arrives, Addie is fully, horribly aware of what awaits her on the other side of it – the small, suffocating existence of “a marriage bed, then a deathbed, and perhaps a childbed in between”. What I particularly enjoyed here was Schwab’s clever, illustrative symbolism and the richness it brought to the imagery within the story. Addie’s wedding day passing “like a sentence” paints a vivid image of the confinement that awaits her. When the sun “falls like a scythe”, bringing her closer to the final hour before the ceremony begins, it marks not just the dying of the day, but also of Addie’s youth and freedom. Here, Schwab utilises Addie’s echo of the timeless female struggle, where autonomy is traded for conformity, and societal roles triumph over individual ambition.
“The world should be getting larger. Instead, she feels it shrinking, tightening like chains around her limbs as the flat lines of her own body begin to curve out against it, and suddenly the charcoal beneath her nails is unbecoming, as is the idea that she would choose her own company over Arnaud’s or George’s, or any man who might have her.”
One of the most complex and richly-layered characters in Schwab’s novel is Luc. An ancient, primordial god, he embodies the dark side to life and human experience. He appears at a person’s lowest point, offering seductive bargains. At first glance, the terms of these deals are superficial – promises of greatness, wealth, and fame. Yet beneath their filigreed surface lies a far simpler wish. The bargains are not truly about glory; they are about escape, the offer of a fleeting reprieve from pain, from loneliness, and the ache of never being enough. Addie’s wish for immortality is, at its core, a desperate plea for freedom from a lifetime of imprisonment. Henry’s gift – that everyone loves him – is simply a yearning to feel worthy of the things he deems himself undeserving of. Even Beethoven’s famed bargain, of being a renowned musician, is rooted in a fundamental human desire: to share his passion and be heard. In this way, Schwab reveals that what we often seek in grandeur is merely a reflection of our basest, most intimate needs.
“Because time is cruel to all, and crueler still to artists. Because visions weaken, and voices wither, and talent fades. Because happiness is brief and history is lasting, and in the end, everyone wants to be remembered.”
The deals that Luc makes, though clearly dangerous, are always accepted – either out of desperation, or simply because the pain of the present eclipses the fear of the future. Henry trades the rest of his life for a single year of happiness, because the ache of feeling unloved is unbearable. Addie relinquishes her soul for a life of being forgotten because the thought of living without freedom is more suffocating than a lifetime of loneliness. In both cases, Schwab illuminates the emotional vulnerability that hardship breeds, and how suffering can distort one’s judgement, pushing us towards destructive choices and behaviours, all in the faintest hope of reprieve.
“He has asked the wrong god for the wrong thing, and now he is enough because he is nothing. He is perfect, because he isn’t there.”
The pacing shifts abruptly in the second act, with the narrative accelerating into a flurry of memories interwoven with the present. Though this can be jarring at times, the fragmented structure draws the reader directly into Henry Strauss’s experience, allowing us to feel the mounting anxiety and helplessness that comes with watching life slip through our fingers, accelerating beyond our control.
“Blink, and you’re twenty eight, and everyone else is now a mile down the road, and you’re still trying to find it, and the irony is hardly lost on you that in wanting to live, to learn, to find yourself, you’ve gotten lost.”
Schwab delves into the complexities of freedom by presenting a compelling contrast between Addie and Henry’s desires. For a young Addie, the world feels too small and confining, lacking exploration and depth. She longs for more everything: time, freedom, and life. Her bargain with Luc reflects a desire for quantity over quality – a yearning to stretch time endlessly so she can explore every possibility. In contrast, Henry feels the world is too vast, too demanding. He is overwhelmed by the sheer number of avenues open to him and the pressure to be everything all at once. His wish is not for more time; rather a shorter, more meaningful life. He seeks relief from the burden of decision, from the fear of choosing wrong in a world brimming with options. Through Henry, Schwab captures the familiar coming-of-age anxiety: the paralysing weight of possibility and the fear of inadequacy and failure. Just as Addie aches for the freedom of choice, Henry longs for freedom from choice, highlighting how both the absence and the excess of freedom can be equally suffocating.
“There isn’t enough time, and he knows of course that there never will be. Time always ends a second before you’re ready. Life is the minutes you want minus one.”
In conclusion, The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue poignantly explores the transience of life and the many ways in which we strive to leave our mark upon it. Through Addie, we learn that there are many ways to matter, and even the smallest imprints can linger long after we have gone. Whilst vulnerability and hardship may make us susceptible to temptation, there is a quiet, persistent beauty that endures in fleeting moments and human connection, giving us the courage to keep going. The story lingers long after the book is closed, urging us to find meaning not in permanence, but in presence – and to never stop seeking out the light, even when darkness falls and the shadows press in.
“Do you know how to live three hundred years?” she says. And when he asks how, she smiles.
“The same way you live one. A second at a time.”
Abbie Roberts 