A moving, funny, triumphant novel that exalts the quiet victories of the inconspicuous among us.
We are in the center of Paris, in an elegant apartment building inhabited by bourgeois families. Renée, the concierge, is witness to the lavish but vacuous lives of her numerous employers. Outwardly she conforms to every stereotype of the concierge: fat, cantankerous, addicted to television. Yet, unbeknownst to her employers, Renée is a cultured autodidact who adores art, philosophy, music, and Japanese culture. With humor and intelligence she scrutinizes the lives of the building's tenants, who for their part are barely aware of her existence.
Then there's Paloma, a twelve-year-old genius. She is the daughter of a tedious parliamentarian, a talented and startlingly lucid child who has decided to end her life on the sixteenth of June, her thirteenth birthday. Until then she will continue behaving as everyone expects her to behave: a mediocre pre-teen high on adolescent subculture, a good but not an outstanding student, an obedient if obstinate daughter.
Paloma and Renée hide both their true talents and their finest qualities from a world they suspect cannot or will not appreciate them. They discover their kindred souls when a wealthy Japanese man named Ozu arrives in the building. Only he is able to gain Paloma's trust and to see through Renée's timeworn disguise to the secret that haunts her. This is a moving, funny, triumphant novel that exalts the quiet victories of the inconspicuous among us.
Chapter 2: The Miracles of Art
My name is Renée. I am fifty-four years old. For twenty-seven years I have been the concierge at number 7, rue de Grenelle, a fine hôtel particulier with a courtyard and private gardens, divided into eight luxury apartments, all of which are inhabited, all of which are immense. I am a widow, I am short, ugly, and plump, I have bunions on my feet and, if I am to credit certain early mornings of self-inflicted disgust, the breath of a mammoth. I did not go to college, I have always been poor, discreet, and insignificant. I live alone with my cat, a big lazy tom who has no distinguishing features other than the fact that his paws smell bad when he is annoyed. Neither he nor I make any effort to take part in the social doings of our respective kindred species. Because I am rarely friendly though always polite I am not liked, but am tolerated nonetheless: I correspond so very well to what social prejudice has ...
While brimming with audacity and indignation, The Elegance of the Hedgehog is tempered by a smooth infusion of sophisticated humor and a boundless passion for art. This novel speaks not only of film, music, and literature, but also reflects on the more subtle and forgotten arts of relationship, perception, and understanding. This complex mixture results in a searing diatribe on social class divisions and demands that we call into question our own preconceptions and judgments. The concepts of art and discrimination cross cultural lines and Ms. Barbery's frustration with the world and its lack of passion is perhaps why this work translates so well. Both honest and artfully executed, The Elegance of the Hedgehog strikes a universal chord leaving the reader much wiser for the journey.
(Reviewed by Megan Shaffer).
Author Muriel Barbery (who currently lives in Kyoto with her husband) reveals a
passion for the arts and cultural practices of Japan as she incorporates
references to Japanese poets, directors, films, and traditions into The
Elegance of the Hedgehog.
The term wabi-sabi, in its simplest form, is the Japanese view of a simple aesthetic; less is more. Overall, it is a kind of quiet, mellow beauty that is uncluttered and alleviates the weight of the material. Originally two words, they have been paired over time to express harmony, grace, and simple beauty. One who is wabi-sabi has an understated appreciation of nature's beauty and finds peace in simplicity. Likewise, the term can be applied to styles of art, architecture,...
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