Content
Two women
Marie-Ève Lacasse's novel La vie des gens libres (2025) is a quiet yet highly complex narrative work about the afterlife of guilt, the experience of stigmatization, and the struggle for a new self-image. At its center are two women: Clémence Thévenin—formerly Clémence Robert, a doctor, criminal, and prisoner—and Laura Rolin, a single mother and physician in a precarious transition. The two are not directly connected, either biographically or socially, yet through subtle narrative parallels and symbolic reflections, Lacasse presents a kind of double biography of women, which coalesces into a collective reflection on the possibility of female freedom.
The novel is many things at once: a social critique of class relations, a psychological chamber drama about guilt and loneliness, a poetic mosaic of inner monologues and concrete observations. Its deep political structure reveals La vie des gens libres It can also be read as a critical examination of the French justice and healthcare systems. Questions of social participation, solidarity among women, and the symbolic order of purity and blemish take center stage. What does it mean to be "free"—and who belongs to the "life of free people"?
Marie-Ève Lacasse is an author and journalist who has already published several novels. Peggy in the headlights (Flammarion, 2017) tells the story of Peggy, a young woman growing up in 1970s Canada. She feels different from others and tries to find her place in the world while grappling with the expectations of her family and society. In a poetic, essayistic style, the intense, often painful love affair between Peggy Roche and Françoise Sagan is recounted from the perspective of a first-person narrator who admires Peggy yet feels lost at her side. Here, too, freedom is central. Peggy in the headlights The feeling of not belonging is reflected in the narrator's constant self-diminishment in comparison to Peggy and her sophisticated environment – she always remains on the margins of Sagan's eccentric, literary-artistic world, excluded from its rituals, drug excesses and affairs, desperately trying to become a part of it through observation and imitation.
Autobiography of the Foreigner (Flammarion, 2020), also published by Flammarion, deals with the themes of alienation and uprooting. It is a reflection on the feeling of being an outsider, whether in terms of origin, culture, or personal experiences. The autofictional work, in which Marie-Ève Lacasse describes herself as a stranger in the world, forms an intimate reflection on origin, belonging, language, motherhood, and queer identity. Autobiography of the Foreigner The feeling of being a stranger is described as an ontological state – the author feels “at home” nowhere, neither in her Canadian origins nor in contemporary France, neither in heterosexual norms nor in societal expectations of motherhood or femininity, but lives in a permanent border existence, which she tries to cope with through language and literature.
Les Missquants (Seuil, 2023) tells the polyphonic story of Thomas, who has been missing for two years. And something must be done about this nothingness: alert the police or not, talk about it or remain silent, invent a story. Here, a tendency in Lacasse's work becomes apparent. Thomas's absence raises questions of memory, responsibility, and identity for the women left behind. Les Missquants The idea of freedom lies in the paradoxical right to disappear – Thomas' “liberté de disparaître” poses the question to the women left behind: can freedom also mean irresponsibility? At the same time, they themselves experience a form of emancipation by being forced to redefine themselves beyond their previous roles.
Implicit correlations
The novel centers on Clémence Thévenin and Laura Rolin. The first character is marked by a profound rupture: as a former star doctor in reproductive medicine, Clémence has fallen from grace. She caused a scandal ("les bébés Ino-Syntex") and was a target of the press—publicly stigmatized as "Docteur Frankenstein," symbolically executed. Her return to society comes after three years in prison, but social amnesty eludes her. Clémence is a pariah, an untouchable one, whose past is indelibly attached to her.
Dehors, the pleasure of the air qui s'engouffre dans ses poumons, an air de September chargé d'humus, the fait hoqueter de surprise. Au loin, les arbres scintillent comme de l'or ; Le cri d'un oiseau lui arrache une larme. Le spectacle de la route, de l'herbe séchée, le ciel gris, les voitures indifférentes qui croisent son chemin, tout cela, c'est la splendeur. Elle marche un moment, sans but, en écoutant the noise of the moissonneuses. Clémence Thévenin is sure that he maintains the exorbitant price of his freedom, his cell is now very easy, the naissance, and he is already violating. Marcher dehors, sans surveillance et sans but, this is the anomaly.
Outside, she gasps in surprise at the fresh air filling her lungs. In the distance, the trees glitter like gold; the cry of a bird brings a tear to her eye. The sight of the road, the dry grass, the gray sky, the indifferent cars crossing her path—all of it is splendor. She wanders aimlessly for a while, listening to the sound of the mowing machines. Only now does Clémence Thévenin realize how exorbitantly high the price of her freedom is, a freedom so easily bestowed upon us at birth and so violently taken away. To walk outside, unsupervised and without a destination, is an anomaly.
Laura Rolin, on the other hand, is at the beginning of a different, more subtle decline: As a young mother of a deaf daughter, she struggles to balance personal fulfillment, social advancement, and the suffocating demands of motherhood. She, too, was once part of a medical milieu, which she now finds difficult to re-enter after professional decline and separation. Her social devaluation is less dramatic, but just as effective: Laura is in danger of disappearing due to structural exhaustion.
Lacasse runs these two biographies in parallel through a loose narrative interplay. The two women never meet directly—except in Laura's thoughts, which she learns about Clémence's dismissal from the news. But their stories are more than just comparable: they are linked by implicit correlations. Both bear burdens that are socially associated with femininity: motherhood, guilt, caregiving, nurturing, and discipline. In one character, this burden has been explicitly criminalized; in the other, it manifests itself in quiet self-exploitation.
Silent Subversion
Formally, the novel follows a polyphonic structure: short chapters, shifts in perspective, interior monologues, and poetic descriptions alternate. The narrative stance is close to the characters, but not strictly personalized. It is a mediating, empathetic narrative voice that oscillates between subjectivity and observation. Lacasse achieves a constant shift between concreteness (the search for an apartment, crèches, court documents) and lyrical condensation (perceptions of air, light, sounds, bodies).
The language is permeated with metaphors, but never allegorically heightened. It remains materialistic and corporeal. Recurring are poetic images of purification, skin, breath, light, and silence—signs of a desire for rebirth, for self-annihilation and renewal. In the description of Clémence's shower, for example, where she wants to cleanse herself "to the point of bleeding," this motif becomes painfully concrete: hygiene as symbolic catharsis. Laura's dance training, too, becomes an expression of radical self-discipline—a place where the body is sacrificed to conformity in order to avoid inner collapse.
Thus emerges a poetics of transition, of suspension between past and present, between guilt and new beginnings, between visibility and invisibility. The style is restrained, almost humble, but never speechless. It corresponds to what Clémence longs for at the end of the novel: a quiet, dignified existence on the margins of society, "une existence tranquille," far from scandal, far from fame.
Shame as a fundamental social and existential motive
A central theme of the novel is shame as a structural affect. Shame permeates Clémence's entire existence after her imprisonment. It is also triggered by exposure, the experience of being seen by everyone—as a perpetrator, as a woman, as a failed mother, as a damaged body. The shame is physical: it lives in her posture, her gaze, her gait, and her voice.
Clémence experiences this shame as indelible. Even her cleansing, the radical destruction of her past by throwing away all her clothes, jewelry, and mementos, does nothing to alter the inner scar. "Prison got her," she says matter-of-factly at one point—imprisonment "got" her, physically and psychologically. Laura also experiences forms of shame, for example, towards her deaf daughter when she cannot accept her disability. This shame is not "moral" but structural—the feeling of not living up to societal standards of motherhood, femininity, success, and achievement.
Elle essaie de se concentrer sur ses calculs, mais elle a faim. Frisson de la culpabilité. Corps guerrier, régime sec. C'est plus simple. À l'école de danse, ça sent le vomi in les toilettes. Encore aujourd'hui, elle note ses kilos dans un carnet, vieille habitude depuis l'enfance. When it is in a few months, it is sent voler, and it is a secret part that is not very féministe, is not very courageous. Elle a toujours honte de tout, c'est ça le program de sa vie, avoir honte et s'en vouloir. At the end of the day Laura sat on a bus, she was working too late when Lili was on the couch. Encore deux hours de liberté avant de retrouver sa fille, chaque seconde compte. Elle arrive pile à l'heure pour le cours, fait valser ses affairs dans le vestiaire, enfile ses collants et son body, attrape ses demi-pointes usées et se fait un chignon à la va-vite. Dans le studio, ses doigts se ferment délicatement sur la barre, son corps se redresse. Premieres notes du piano. Premières images of Clémence Robert au process. In this way, the explanation is given to the “rendre service”, the faire de la médecine “pour l'avenir, pour l'humanité”.
She tries to concentrate on her calculations, but she's hungry. A shiver of guilt washes over her. A warrior's body, a strict diet. She dances better when her body is light and her muscles tense, when her body wakes up on its own at five in the morning, when everything is regular, strict, and controlled. It's easier that way. At the dance school, the toilets smell of vomit. Even now, she still records her weight in a notebook, an old habit from her childhood. If it shows a kilo less, she feels light, and that's a secret because it's not very feminist, not very brave. She's always ashamed of everything; that's her life program: to be ashamed and to blame herself. At the end of the day, Laura jumps on a bus; she'll work later, when Lili is in bed. Two more hours of freedom before she sees her daughter again; every second counts. She arrives punctually for class, throws her things in the changing room, puts on her tights and leotard, grabs her worn pointe shoes, and quickly puts her hair up in a bun. In the studio, her fingers gently wrap around the barre, her body straightens. The first notes sound from the piano. The first images of Clémence Robert in court. Her exaggerated way of explaining her desire "to do good," to study medicine "for the future, for humanity."
In both cases, shame is deeply connected to the body: Clémence feels marked, “enlaidie,” aged. Laura experiences her body in dance class as unruly, deformed, never beautiful enough. Thus, female existence in the novel is always also a story of the deformed, wounded body—the body as the bearer of shame, as the surface of history.
The ambivalence of freedom
The title La vie des gens libres The term is deliberately ambiguous. At first, it sounds like a description of those who are "free"—in contrast to prisoners, the excluded, the poor. But as the novel unfolds, it becomes clear: the freedom of the "gens libres" is not a given, but a fragile construct. Freedom here is never self-evident, but always mediated through fear, shame, money, status, and the past.
Clémence experiences her release from prison not as liberation, but as a transition into another form of insecurity: she is "libre," but not rehabilitated. Her movements in public remain hesitant; she fears stares, recognition, and relapse. Laura, too, although never imprisoned, lives in a state of structural unfreedom: the scarcity of time, money, attention, and care work binds her, as do societal judgments.
The supposedly free society appears in this novel as a space of rigid norms. The "life of free people" is a way of life that demands certain conditions: purity, inconspicuousness, functionality. Anyone who falls outside the rules—be it through scandal, poverty, illness, or motherhood—is marked, excluded, pathologized. The novel thus makes it clear that "freedom" is always a social category—and an economic one.
With a new job, this kind of précarité, but also with a little freedom. Elle le sait et danse encore plus et encore mieux, comme si c'était la dernière fois. Elle ressent la force du groupe, derrière elle, dans la glace, en cadence, en rythme. There is no individuality in this type of dance. Pour être dans le corps du ballet, dans la ligne bien dressée et malléable, souple et puissante de la chorégraphie, il faut disparaître. The best tool for the chorégraphe, this architect, is a corps docile. Il voit la danse de loin, c'est-à-dire depuis la loge royale. Les cheveux doivent être tires en chignon pour que rien ne dépasse. The corps does not have the upper hand, it is not plus, it does not appeal to anyone who chose the trait. C'est pour cela que le corps est toujours de face, légèrement torsadé, la poitrine ouverte, la tête vers celui qui commande. Il faut être invisible et visible, là et pas là, like the chat of Schrödinger, like this qui se passe dans la vie de Laura Rolin. An impossible equation.
With her new job, she might escape her precarious situation, but she'll also have less freedom. She knows this and dances even more, even better, as if it were the last time. She feels the power of the group behind her, in the mirror, in the beat, in the rhythm. In this kind of dance, there is no individuality. To be part of the ballet, in the well-trained and malleable, supple and powerful line of the choreography, one must disappear. The choreographer's, this architect's, best tool is a compliant body. He sees the dance from a distance, namely from the royal box. The hair must be tied back in a bun so that nothing is visible. The body must be slender, because here, too, nothing may distract from anything other than the movement. That's why the body is always frontal, slightly turned, the chest open, the head turned toward the one giving the instructions. One must be invisible and visible, present and not present, like Schrödinger's cat, like everything that happens in Laura Rolin's life. An impossible equation.
La vie des gens libres It can certainly also be read as a critical examination of the French justice system. Imprisonment is not portrayed as a place of rehabilitation, but as a machine of destruction: psychologically and socially, and even physically. Clémence repeatedly emphasizes that imprisonment has "broken" her – without, however, restoring justice. The discourse of "reinstatement" appears as a platitude, an institutional placebo.
This critique becomes particularly clear in the depiction of the transition: "libération" is not an act of emancipation, but a leap into the void. No institution, no support, no social integration is provided. Shame remains private, guilt public. Lacasse thus questions the idea that punishment leads to social reintegration—rather, she demonstrates the persistence of social ostracism and the fragility of individual resilience.
The novel also demonstrates how closely medical, legal, and media discourses are intertwined. Clémence is not only legally convicted but also executed by the media. The court is not the end but the beginning of her social death. Here, too, a structural violence becomes visible that extends beyond imprisonment.
Solidarity in the female experience
No direct friendship develops between Clémence and Laura. Nevertheless, the text evokes a latent potential for female solidarity. This solidarity is never blatant or politically appropriated. It manifests itself in small gestures: in the mother's gaze upon Clémence on the train, in the shared silence, in Laura's anger of identification when she wonders why Clémence is still "free" after everything.
The novel doesn't envision a utopian sisterhood, but rather a fragile possibility of mutual understanding. Its subversive potential lies in the spaces between narratives, in the reflections of the characters, in the repetition of female struggles that are never collectively addressed. Lacasse doesn't write a parable of feminist unity, but instead lays bare the differences—age gaps, class differences, disparities in social background—and yet demonstrates that the systems in which both women suffer are structurally interconnected.
The mention of other women—neighbors, caregivers, social workers—reinforces this image: the world of women's work, care, and perseverance runs like an invisible net through the novel. Clémence is surrounded by cleaning staff; Laura is supported by the employees of the crèche, the PMI, and the dance school. These alliances remain precarious, but they are real.
Leitmotifs and metaphorical structures
Lacasse works with a dense network of motifs. Particularly central are:
Cleansing and water: The motif of the shower, of washing, of cleansing recurs. It points to the impossibility of moral purification – guilt remains. Yet at the same time, it harbors the desire for a new beginning.
Body, skin, and clothing: The body is the carrier of history. Clothing represents social roles – Clémence's decision to destroy all her old clothes is an act of symbolically stripping her old identity.
Voice, silence, and language: Both women experience language as precarious – Clémence because she has been rendered mute by shame, Laura because her daughter is deaf. Communication is difficult, fractured, but not impossible.
Movement, dance, and discipline: Movement—walking, dancing, fleeing—becomes a metaphor for inner struggle. For Laura, dance represents self-control; for Clémence, walking through Bordeaux, her tentative rediscovery.
Childhood, motherhood, and daughters: Children play a central role in both biographies – Clémence's estranged son, Laura's deaf daughter. Motherhood is not a place of fulfillment, but a zone of hurt, regret, worry, and hope.
These motifs structure the characters' psychology, spatial perception, and narrative time. Lacasse never uses these metaphors in a blatant way – they emerge from the material itself and are not imposed upon it.
An ephemeral place of rest
The novel doesn't end with a resolution, but with a new form of stability: Clémence moves into a small house in Libourne, surrounded by strangers, anonymous, without possessions and without social functions. Yet in this reduction lies a moment of freedom: no more expectations, no more role to play. Clémence is nobody, and therein lies her opportunity.
The ending is ambivalent: Clémence remains marked by guilt and shame, but she begins to accept her present. Her old clothes are destroyed, the new place still empty, but not hostile. The neighbors are friendly, the children sing, the air is fresh. In the scene where she imaginatively contests the space of an older, deceased woman, a delicate transcendence appears for the first time: the desire for reconciliation—with the past, with death, with herself.
At the same time, the ending remains open: the new existence is fragile, temporary, threatened by memories, by poverty, by loneliness. Yet it is not nihilism, but a mode of quiet hope – and a plea for a radical form of dignity, beyond status, recognition, and power. La vie des gens libres This is a novel about the gray areas of humanity – guilt without pardon, freedom without redemption, but also motherhood without idealization. Marie-Ève Lacasse has created a quiet work that needs no grand gestures to be deeply moving. It shows how the life of "free people" is a deceptive ideal – and how, in the cracks of this ideal, a different kind of life can emerge.
This article is written in German and can be found at https://rentree.de. Automatic translations into English and French are available. English, French.
