Book Review: Last Words from Montmartre can be read as several different books, all written by a single author. It's the turbulent story of a failed love affair; for anyone who doubts, an affirmation that lesbians too are human beings; an honest memoir; a 146 page cry (un grito) of despair; a 146 page suicide note; a textbook example of histrionic personality disorder; an intense, detailed analysis and over-analysis of the emotional ramifications of a couple uncoupling; a study of love and need become obsession and pain. No doubt there're more variations, but that should give you an idea of what's contained in here. I was enthralled by Qiu's first book, Notes of a Crocodile, less so by this "novel" (or memoir?). Last Words from Montmartre has the weaknesses of Notes, without its attendant virtues. Virtually every page of the book is a lament over being dumped by a lover. There's no growth, no change in tone, no self-awareness, no plot shift from page one to page 146. The tone consists of the same sorrow, regret, anger that we all suffered (usually in high school) the first time we were dumped by someone. Although in her mid-twenties, and after several adult relationships, it all seems like a teenage diatribe, as when we thought we would never love again, and worse, that no one would ever love us again. She loves, she hates, the lover is cruel, is perfect, she attacks, will never love again, will always love, she readily misunderstands, she longs for death. She stalks; hits her lover; she willfully injures herself. Our narrator is not only guilty of the same wrongs she attributes to her lover, but operates at a level of narcissism and emotional overreaction that is scarcely credible, certainly irrational: "Your inner life will never be complete with anyone but me," "to whom I prostrate myself in worship," "I can't understand why you would toss away the treasure that is my presence in your life." She admits that "everyone I've ever loved has treated me poorly," which makes one wonder, what is the common denominator here? All the characters, except for the narrator's French lover, are shadowy and vaguely sketched. But Qiu is passionately committed to the life of the artist. At one point the narrator describes the book: "It won't be a great work of art, but it could be a book of true purity; the detailed, thorough excavation of one very small field of a young person's life." She says, "I'm not brave enough to face every detail of the past three years of beauty and pain (the main plot of the novel). The beauty was too blinding, the pain too cruel." [parenthetical in the original] She also notes that "an artist's work only really moves me if the artist has suffered through profound tragedy and death -- only then can greatness be achieved." All of this is complicated by the biographical fact that Qiu Miaojin committed suicide in Paris the year after her first book was published, a year before Last Words from Montmartre was published. As an insight into the author, much like Sylvia Plath, additional levels of meaning have been placed on this book by Qiu's fans, apart from its worth as a novel alone. Those conversations are beyond this review. The translation seems uncertain, especially in Qiu's metaphors: "I've found my way through the labyrinth and left the jungle behind"; is that Qiu or the translation? This must've been quite difficult, however, to translate, though I'm curious how Bonnie Huie, the translator of Notes of a Crocodile might've done. If you're ready to read a book-length description of an open wound, to dig deep into emotion, this is the novel for you. I'm glad I read it, but wouldn't read it again. For me it needed something more. [2½★]
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