On Concierges, Hedgehogs and Life. . .

The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery (translated from French by Alison Anderson), 2006. The story is told by Madame Michel, a 54-year-old concierge, and through journal entries of Paloma, a 12-year-old super-intelligent rich girl. Madame Michel is self taught and cultured in the arts and philosophy. She tries to maintain that illusion of the “typical” French concierge with bunions, a television blaring and odor of cabbage soup emanating from the lodge.

Paloma, the daughter of a French politician, downplays her intellect, describes the difficulty in maintaining her illusion of being an ordinary student. At the same time, she plans to commit suicide on her 13th birthday because life has no meaning. Both the concierge and the young girl self fashion to fit social expectations. That is until the mid point of the book, when a new tenant, a Japanese named Kakuro Ozu, moves in. In his quiet, patient way, he disregards the rigid social hierarchy of the luxury apartment and introduces the concierge and Paloma. The story is filled with defining moments—a misplaced comma in a note, a book from the publisher Vrin in a net shopping bag, quotations from Anna Karenina, the ritual of cups of tea, the joy then discomfort of an invitation that defies social class. One of the most moving sequences occurs as Madame Michel reflects on her friends. At the end of the book, Paloma observes that life has the “odd moment of beauty where time is no longer the same. It’s as if those strains of music created a sort of interlude in time, something suspended, an elsewhere that had come to us, an always within never.” And the title? Paloma says the concierge has “elegance of the hedgehog: on the outside, she’s covered in quills, a real fortress. . but on the inside, she has the same simple refinement as the hedgehog: a deceptively indolent little creature, fiercely solitary—and terribly elegant.” A delightful story (to be enjoyed at many levels) that forces readers to examine their assumptions. . . .