The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue

What is a person, if not the marks they leave behind?

There is a freedom, after all, in being forgotten

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

“But isn’t it wonderful,” she says, “to be an idea?”

“These are the words of a man—Voltaire. But they are also the hands that set the type. The ink that made it readable, the tree that made the paper. All of them matter, though credit goes only to the name on the cover.”

To find a way, or make your own.

This is where the thinkers are. This is where the dreamers live. This is the heart of the world, and the head, and it is changing.”

And Adeline understands—and still does not understand at all—feels as if she’s being punished for simply growing up.

She wants only to go to Le Mans, and once there, to watch the people and see the art all around, and taste the food, and discover things she hasn’t heard of yet.

But Adeline does not know how to be like Isabelle.

She does not want to be like Isabelle