Rene Descartes’ entire massive output of philosophical thought is usually distilled down into one singular and simply stated expression: “I think, therefore I am.” Which is all well and good as a means of justifying one’s actual material permanence in a world marked by the ambiguous nature mortality as it applies to the theoretical construct of existence from the perspective of a personal affirmation of meaning in a relativistic world notably lacking unambiguous universality. Alas, it just does not really seem up to the job of convincing anyone else of the factual conditions of your existence, especially in respect to those making the query in the aftermath of your demise. You may be certain you are because you think, but how is that going to be of any help in convincing others?
Such the conundrum facing the titular heroine of The Invisible Life of Addie Larue. In response to a perhaps ill-conceived negotiation with one of those agents of satanic intent who are constantly looking to barter for the possession of human souls, Addie trades acknowledge of her existence to others in exchange for immortality. In other words, she can go on living for as long as she wants, but nobody she ever meets will ever remember having met her. From a certain perspective, of course, this could be perceived as a win-win situation. That perspective is not which marks Addie’s story, of course. And, after all, what is the point of living a long life if you know going in that nothing you do will leave any kind of mark on anybody, for good or bad. Even heartless narcissists pursuing everything for their own personal gain would have trouble with that one eventually. After all, what’s the point of being rich and powerful despite being bad at business and incredibly stupid to boot unless people are impressed enough by your con to remember you?
Consider how someone who would like to leave a positive imprint upon the world through the simple act of their existence would respond to this challenge. Even the most basic act of human reproduction not for the purpose of reproduction becomes a nightmare for the person desperately hoping to find love. Five-hundred days of Summer? Consider five-hundred years of always being someone the person you wake up next to in bed considers an absolute stranger. Addie’s deal with the devil’s agent has consequences that speak to the ignoble quality of the transaction she has made. Eventually, she takes the agent as her lover mainly because he is the only entity on the planet capable of remembering her. And, after all, what is identity anyway but memories? Think if you woke up tomorrow and every personal memory you had was gone. A blank slate except for what you have learned. Are you still the same person? How can you be if everyone presented to you from your past is a complete mystery?
The book offers up such profound and philosophical questions about identity and existence throughout, but in a much more allusive and subtle manner. First and foremost it is basically a sort of Faustian time-travel tragedy of a sort. Beneath the strict confines of its storytelling narrative, however, are questions which will prod and poke at the subconscious even if the conscious mind does not at first apprehend them. It makes you think, therefore it is a bit more than a mere fiction.
