Last Words from Montmartre – Qiu Miaojin (tr. Ari Larissa Heinrich)

Qiu Miaojin’s Last Words from Montmartre is one of those books that had been languishing on my shelves for a long time, and one I wouldn’t have read had it not been selected by Kim for her marvellous “NYRBWomen24” group read. This is a very difficult book to write about given its style and subject matter, but here is an attempt nevertheless…

Last Words from Montmartre begins on an ominous note signaling the author’s intention to commit suicide, evident not only from the title but also from this epigraph – “For dead little Bunny and Myself, soon dead.”

Deeply confessional and an intense, lyrical book about betrayal, heartbreak, passion, breakdown, and death, the novel is structured as a series of letters and diary entries addressed by the unnamed narrator to various lovers, friends, and family members, offering an intimate glimpse into the protagonist’s inner world. Based on the subject matter alone, it is not always an easy read, but the fierce tone and richness of the writing make it pretty compelling.

Qiu Miaojin mysteriously committed suicide after writing Last Words from Montmartre but before its publication fueling discussions about the ‘autobiographical” nature of the novel. This ambiguity is further heightened by these cryptic words at the beginning of the novel…

“If this book should be published, readers can begin anywhere. The only connection between the chapters is the time frame in which they were written.”

The novel begins with a chapter called “Witness” where the unnamed narrator is addressing Yong, one of her earlier lovers, about being betrayed by Xu with whom the narrator was in a passionate relationship.  Xu, it seems, abandons the narrator suddenly one day, leaving her with their rabbit Bunny (“the crystallization of our three years of marriage”). Soon thereafter, Bunny dies, and our narrator is now bereft and on the verge of a mental collapse.

“For a month my body and mind were on the verge of total collapse, and Yong was the one who took me in and cared for me. For the first time she opened up to me, lightening the load of my longing and anguish and offering the passion and connection that I desired so desperately. Only then did I suddenly see what had actually happened this past year.”

Possibly as an act of catharsis, our unnamed narrator begins composing a series of letters written specifically to Xu, the love of her life, enumerating in detail and with piercing analysis, the nature of their relationship characterised by an all-consuming passion (“We can only be either wholly together or wholly apart, otherwise you’ll just keep hurting me and, wounded, I will hurt you again. This is the fundamental pattern of the love we share”), the narrator’s mercurial personality and possessiveness, which likely drives Xu away, but also a relationship that lays bare Xu’s passivity and resistance to volatile confrontations. Seen through the narrator’s lens, the character of their relationship is marked not only by deep love and intense passion but also by insults, cheating, heartbreak, misunderstandings, and lack of communication.

“I welcomed the care you showed me but whenever I sensed that deep down you didn’t love me, I lost it. That’s why my “desire for love” could grow even stronger while I also became suspicious of you, lashed out at you, and developed a neurosis and deteriorated. . . . As this happens, the hostile side of you that you’ve kept hidden began to be cruel, selfish, unfaithful, and declared relentlessly that you were leaving me and, most chilling words of all, that you didn’t love me. I turned into a sniper, as we both became so entrenched in our adversarial relationship that the most negative qualities of our personalities were pushed to their extremes. The sad thing is that neither of us could stop the momentum of careening toward the abyss, though ironically we still yearned to treat (or “love”) each other with kindness…”

As the novel progresses, more characters enter the fray, and it quickly becomes clear that all chapters aren’t necessarily letters, some seem to be diary entries…and not all of them are addressed to Xu but a series of people comprising earlier lovers, and friends and family members (an elder sister is mentioned as are the narrator parents Ma and Ba).

But while our narrator seems to be staring into the depths of an abyss, we are given a glimpse of various moments of happiness in her life too, however fleeting. She has her writing to sustain her, finding solace and expression through her art in a novel infused with references to literature, philosophy, creativity, and music. Repeated references are particularly made to the joys of watching movies made by filmmaker Theo Angelopoulos, and to the enchanting quality of Paris. With a circle of friends and an involvement in politics, she isn’t entirely alienated from society, although inwardly her loneliness only deepens. But for the most part, the narrator grapples with feelings of despair, and disillusionment as she mulls on a variety of themes such as trust, definitions of sex and love, cowardice, emotional maturity, or even finding an anchor, always revealing a mind that is gradually unraveling as she toys with the idea of death and relief. In these letters, the narrator is not afraid of exposing the various facets of her personality – sometimes poignant, sometimes horrifying – and even the erotic quality of her desires, the act of writing evolving into a dialogue with herself.

Throughout this enigmatic text, the identity of the narrator remains slippery. The book’s opening pages feel deceptively straightforward – the narrator is a woman in Paris writing letters to her lover Xu who has abandoned her, Xu being probably now in Taipei. But as the book progresses, this allegedly clear picture begins to get hazy. The reader’s assumptions are always questioned – for the most part, it appears that the narrator is female, sometimes it seems that the narrator has a male identity. Then the figure of Zoë makes a presence – Is Zoë male or female? Is Zoë the narrator or another person altogether? More importantly, is this ambiguity around gender deliberate on the author’s part? Does gender really matter when examining the universal themes of sex, love, infidelity, and heartbreak?

If you are looking for linearity in this novel, there isn’t any, as it flits between Paris, Tokyo, and Taipei, the past and the present; plot has no relevance here, it’s a novel with impressionistic vibes, a piece of art to experience; the only consistent factor is the essence of its themes of love, passion, and despair.

“If a couple’s resentments aren’t vocalized, then their love can’t flow. The mutual resentment in our hearts is the main reason our love cannot move forward.”

Then, there is a lush feel to Miaojin’s descriptions, particularly palpable in her evocative portrayal of a wintery-spring Paris evening (“Dusk in the Latin Quarter was like a fairy tale or a love poem, like a Klimt mosaic, like glowing, rose-colored clouds reaching toward the heavens . . . a swath of gold ringed in a misty-blue halo, this was the Paris that most entranced me”), or while conveying the essence of Tokyo (“And Tokyo is the cherry blossoms, the sunset at dusk, dawn sunlight through her windows, the cry of the crow, the cityscape of darkened rooms on a rainy evening, the depth of feeling in her eyes”), or even while expressing the simple pleasures of companionship…

“I want to take her on my bike to the woods. I want to make breakfast, lunch, and dinner for her; listen to music with her before bed; read poetry to her, and while I work during the day she can wander away and do whatever she likes until dusk when we’ll walk along the Seine or stroll through the streets…I want to go to the Louvre with her, and at night visit the park in Villette; I want to take her to see Angelopoulos movies and to listen to Argerich’s wild concerts; I want to take pictures of us around the fourth arrondissement as we sweep the dust from the cracks of our everyday lives…If she could stay longer, I would finish my novel and write poetry for her, and make art for her.”

In a nutshell, in Last Words from Montmartre, Qiu Miaojin’s lyrical prose and raw, frank, introspective storytelling captures the emotional intensity of the protagonist’s journey, making it a heartfelt exploration of love and identity. Don’t be fooled by the length – though short, this isn’t a novel that can be breezed through but rather like wine is meant to be sipped slowly and savoured. A book I’m very glad to have read and would recommend!