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2.5 stars. Started so well but went steadily, boringly, downhill with each successive chapter.
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The Last Life
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Claire Messud's piercing second novel asks questions most are too fearful to face. Moving between the South of France, the East Coast of the U.S., and Algeria, The Last Life explores the weight of isolation and exile in one French family. Of course, the adjective French is already inadequate, as at least some of the LaBasses still long for the paradise lost of Algeria. And Alex LaBasse's wife, Carol, try as she might with her Continental impersonations, will always be an American sporting a metaphorical twin set. The narrator, Sagesse, too, soon finds herself equally stranded. Only her autocratic grandfather, Jacques, is ostensibly comfortable with the identity he has wrought: successful owner of the Bellevue Hotel and head of his dynasty. It is thanks to this man that 14-year-old Sagesse comes to crave invisibility. Having lost all of her friends, she sees herself as "a member of the Witness Protection Program, surrounded by an odd human assortment chosen only for the efficiency of disguise; but somehow, nevertheless, inescapable."
The cause of this loss? Jacques, fed up with Sagesse and her pals' late-night noise at the hotel pool--or perhaps with their failure to take him seriously--shoots at one girl. This incident ruptures life for each LaBasse, the Bellevue no longer "their bulwark against absurdity." Looking back on the crucial two years following the patriarch's "target practice," Sagesse possesses both a teenager's slant self-interest and an older, acute eye for the mechanisms of shame. The Last Life is that rare thing, a fast-moving philosophical novel masquerading as a bildungsroman. In her efforts at identity and affection, its heroine is increasingly alive to the subterfuges of narrative, forcing herself to sort through versions of reality. Her grandmother, for instance, relates one myth about her husband, only to have Carol undercut it entirely. And Sagesse herself can't figure out whether Jacques is "sentimental or heartless." What if both, she realizes, are possible?
As Messud's narrator navigates her way through the past--and the Algerian sections are among the book's most extraordinary--there is everything to savor in her wavelike sentences, many of which possess a dangerously witty undertow. And the scenes of familial tedium are the opposite of tedious. The dialogue snaps with subverted emotion, anxiety, and irony. At one of the LaBasses' bleaker fests, much is made of the mouna, a special (if dry) Algerian cake. Nonetheless, the grandmother does her best to fob it off at evening's end. "I've never cared for it myself, although it's a lovely memory." Retrospect, as Sagesse realizes, is "a light in which we may not see more clearly, but at least have the illusion of doing so."
The cause of this loss? Jacques, fed up with Sagesse and her pals' late-night noise at the hotel pool--or perhaps with their failure to take him seriously--shoots at one girl. This incident ruptures life for each LaBasse, the Bellevue no longer "their bulwark against absurdity." Looking back on the crucial two years following the patriarch's "target practice," Sagesse possesses both a teenager's slant self-interest and an older, acute eye for the mechanisms of shame. The Last Life is that rare thing, a fast-moving philosophical novel masquerading as a bildungsroman. In her efforts at identity and affection, its heroine is increasingly alive to the subterfuges of narrative, forcing herself to sort through versions of reality. Her grandmother, for instance, relates one myth about her husband, only to have Carol undercut it entirely. And Sagesse herself can't figure out whether Jacques is "sentimental or heartless." What if both, she realizes, are possible?
As Messud's narrator navigates her way through the past--and the Algerian sections are among the book's most extraordinary--there is everything to savor in her wavelike sentences, many of which possess a dangerously witty undertow. And the scenes of familial tedium are the opposite of tedious. The dialogue snaps with subverted emotion, anxiety, and irony. At one of the LaBasses' bleaker fests, much is made of the mouna, a special (if dry) Algerian cake. Nonetheless, the grandmother does her best to fob it off at evening's end. "I've never cared for it myself, although it's a lovely memory." Retrospect, as Sagesse realizes, is "a light in which we may not see more clearly, but at least have the illusion of doing so."
400 pages, Paperback
First published January 1,1999
This edition
- Format
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400 pages, Paperback
- Published
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September 28, 2000 by Mariner Books
- ISBN
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9780156011655
- ASIN
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0156011654
- Language
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English
About the author
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Claire Messud is an American novelist and literature and creative writing professor. She is best known as the author of the novel The Emperor's Children (2006).
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Rating(4.1 / 5.0, 100 votes)
5 stars
39(39%)
4 stars
33(33%)
3 stars
28(28%)
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100 reviews All reviews
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The story begins with a shooting, then moves back and forth between generations, their past in pre-revolutionary Algeria, their present in France. In spite of numerous pretensions and lies (lies they tell others and lies they tell themselves) they never find a happy fit. As the primary character grows to adulthood, she understands how the family is trapped in the past, but even she cannot escape it. Messud skillfully weaves a haunting web of memory, desire and loss.
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Generous use of commas and parenthesis resulting in long rambling sentences. Lots of commentary, very slight story line. Toward the end I started skimming, was tempted to put it down, probably should have done.
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Couldn't wait to finish it so I could read something enjoyable! Verbose and depressing.
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very good,. I like this author. Will try emperors children again. took a long time to read. finished in Lima after Peruvian ceviche and my first pisco sour.
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Can’t say that I actually enjoyed this novel but I still think Messud is an impressive writer. I find it hard to respond emotionally to most of her stories, though possibly that is changing with time. Couldn’t get past the first 100 pages of The Emperor’s Children (ugh, perhaps my least favorite regardless of high reviews), whereas I quite liked The Woman Upstairs. Who knows? I may eventually love something she writes.
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Loved it
This is a relatively long book at 400 pages, but I was sorry when it ended. The protagonist had become a sort of friend and I was sad to say good-bye to her.
This is a relatively long book at 400 pages, but I was sorry when it ended. The protagonist had become a sort of friend and I was sad to say good-bye to her.
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Claire Messud's prose is enough to make one gasp, ruminate, grab a dictionary, or all three at once. Her writing is so robust, this book can not be read quickly. It demands a slower pace, all the better to absorb the audacious phrasing.
This is the story of Sagasse, told in first person, and her coming of age. She learns to think for herself as her mother reveals some less than stellar family history. Her mother is American, her father French-Algerian, and he works for her grandfather at a high-end hotel in the south of France.
Go forth and read. Savor. Enjoy.
This is the story of Sagasse, told in first person, and her coming of age. She learns to think for herself as her mother reveals some less than stellar family history. Her mother is American, her father French-Algerian, and he works for her grandfather at a high-end hotel in the south of France.
Go forth and read. Savor. Enjoy.
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