The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue

by V.E. Schwab

There is a rhythm to moving through the world alone. You discover what you can and cannot live without, the simple necessities and small joys that define a life. Not food, not shelter, not the basic things a body needs—those are, for her, a luxury—but the things that keep you sane. That bring you joy. That make life bearable.

But a life without art, without wonder, without beautiful things—she would go mad.

Stories are a way to preserve one’s self. To be remembered. And to forget.

Books, she has found, are a way to live a thousand lives—or to find strength in a very long one.

But it is a lonely thing, to be forgotten. To remember when no one else does.

There is a defiance in being a dreamer.

“Addie.” She swallows, hard. “My name’s Addie.” It hangs in the air between them. And then Henry smiles. “Well, okay,” he says. “Goodnight, Addie.” As simple as that.

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.

She wanted to believe. She listened, and waited to hear His voice, to feel His presence, the way she might feel sun on her shoulders, or wheat beneath her hands. The way she felt the presence of the old gods Estele so favored. But there, in the cold stone house, she never felt anything.

ok now we’re getting too close to home

Were the instants of joy worth the stretches of sorrow? Were the moments of beauty worth the years of pain? And she turns her head, and looks at him, and says, “Always.”