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The international bestseller that has sold over 10 million copies worldwide. The Elegance of the Hedgehog is a moving, funny, atmospheric novel that exalts the quiet victories of the inconspicuous among us. 

We are in an elegant hôtel particulier in the center of Paris. Renée, the building's concierge, is short, ugly, and plump. She has bunions on her feet. She is cantankerous and addicted to television soaps. Her only genuine attachment is to her cat, Leo. In short, she is everything society expects from a concierge at a bourgeois building in a posh Parisian neighborhood. But Renée has a secret: she is a ferocious autodidact who furtively devours art, philosophy, music, and Japanese culture. With biting humor she scrutinizes the lives of the building's tenants—her inferiors in every way except that of material wealth.  

Then there's Paloma, a super-smart twelve-year-old and the youngest daughter of the Josses, who live on the fifth floor. Talented, precocious, and startingly lucid, she has come to terms with life's seeming futility and has decided to end her own on the day of her thirteenth birthday. Until then she will continue hiding her extraordinary intelligence behind a mask of mediocrity, acting the part of an average pre-teen high on pop 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.

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About the Author:
Muriel Barbery is the author of the New York Times bestseller, The Elegance of the Hedgehog (Europa, 2008), and Gourmet Rhapsody (Europa, 2009). She has lived in Kyoto, Amsterdam and now lives in the French countryside.

Alison Anderson's translations for Europa Editions include novels by Sélim Nassib, Amélie Nothomb, and Eric-Emmanuel Schmitt. She is the translator of The Elegance of the Hedgehog (Europa, 2008) and The Life of the Elves (Europa, 2016) by Muriel Barbery.
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Copyright © 2006 by Editions Gallimard, Paris
First publication 2008 by Europa Editions

Translation by Alison Anderson
   Original title: L'élégance du herisson
Translation copyright 2008 by Europa Editions

Cover/Emanuele Ragnisco
www.mekkanografici.com

ISBN 978-1-933372-60-0 (TPO, US)

ISBN 978-1-60945-013-7 (ePub, US)

ISBN 978-1-60945-015-1 (ePub, World)

Muriel Barbery

THE ELEGANCE OF THE HEDGEHOG

 

Translated from the French by Alison Anderson

MARX

(Preamble)

1. Whosoever Sows Desire

Marx has completely changed the way I view the world,” declared the Pallières boy this morning, although ordinarily he says nary a word to me.

Antoine Pallières, prosperous heir to an old industrial dynasty, is the son of one of my eight employers. There he stood, the most recent eructation of the ruling corporate elite—a class that reproduces itself solely by means of virtuous and proper hiccups—beaming at his discovery, sharing it with me without thinking or ever dreaming for a moment that I might actually understand what he was referring to. How could the laboring classes understand Marx? Reading Marx is an arduous task, his style is lofty, the prose is subtle and the thesis complex.

And that is when I very nearly—foolishly—gave myself away.

“You ought to read The German Ideology,” I told him. Little cretin in his conifer green duffle coat.

To understand Marx and understand why he is mistaken, one must read The German Ideology. It is the anthropological cornerstone on which all his exhortations for a new world would be built, and on which a sovereign certainty is established: mankind, doomed to its own ruin through desire, would do better to confine itself to its own needs. In a world where the hubris of desire has been vanquished, a new social organization can emerge, cleansed of struggle, oppression and deleterious hierarchies.

“Whosoever sows desire harvests oppression,” I nearly murmured, as if only my cat were listening to me.

But Antoine Pallières, whose repulsive and embryonic whiskers have nothing the least bit feline about them, is staring at me, uncertain of my strange words. As always, I am saved by the inability of living creatures to believe anything that might cause the walls of their little mental assumptions to crumble. Concierges do not read The German Ideology; hence, they would certainly be incapable of quoting the eleventh thesis on Feuerbach. Moreover, a concierge who reads Marx must be contemplating subversion, must have sold her soul to that devil, the trade union. That she might simply be reading Marx to elevate her mind is so incongruous a conceit that no member of the bourgeoisie could ever entertain it.

“Say hello to your mother,” I murmur as I close the door in his face, hoping that the complete dissonance between my two sentences will be veiled by the might of millennial prejudice.

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 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 collectively construed to be a typical French concierge that I am one of the multiple cogs that make the great universal illusion turn, the illusion according to which life has a meaning that can be easily deciphered. And since it has been written somewhere that concierges are old, ugly and sour, so has it been branded in fiery letters on the pediment of that same imbecilic firmament that the aforementioned concierges have rather large dithering cats who sleep all day on cushions covered with crocheted cases.

Similarly, it has been decreed that concierges watch television interminably while their rather large cats doze, and that the entrance to the building must smell of pot-au-feu, cabbage soup, or a country-style cassoulet. I have the extraordinary good fortune to be the concierge of a very high-class sort of building. It was so humiliating for me to have to cook such loathsome dishes that when Monsieur de Broglie—the State Councilor on the first floor—intervened (an intervention he described to his wife as being “courteous but firm,” whose only intention was to rid our communal habitat of such plebeian effluvia), it came as an immense relief, one I concealed as best I could beneath an expression of reluctant compliance.

That was twenty-seven years ago. Since then, I have gone every day to the butcher’s to buy a slice of ham or some calf’s liver, which I slip into my net bag between my packet of noodles and my bunch of carrots. I then obligingly flaunt these pauper’s victuals—now much improved by the noteworthy fact that they do not smell—because I am a pauper in a house full of rich people and this display nourishes both the consensual cliché and my cat Leo, who has become rather large by virtue of these meals that should have been mine, and who stuffs himself liberally and noisily with macaroni and butter, and pork from the delicatessen, while I am free—without any olfactory disturbances or anyone suspecting a thing—to indulge my own culinary proclivities.

Far more irksome was the issue of the television. In my late husband’s day, I did go along with it, for the constancy of his viewing spared me the chore of watching. From the hallway of the building you could hear the sound of the thing, and that sufficed to perpetuate the charade of social hierarchy, but once Lucien had passed away I had to think hard to find a way to keep up appearances. Alive, he freed me from this iniquitous obligation; dead, he has deprived me of his lack of culture, the indispensable bulwark against other people’s suspicions.

I found a solution thanks to a non-buzzer.

A chime linked to an infrared mechanism now alerts me to the comings and goings in the hallway, which has eliminated the need for anyone to buzz to notify me of their presence if I happen to be out of earshot. For on such occasions I am actually in the back room, where I spend most of my hours of leisure and where, sheltered from the noise and smells that my condition imposes, I can live as I please, without being deprived of the information vital to any sentry: who is coming in, who is going out, with whom, and at what time.

Thus, the residents going down the hall would hear the muffled sounds indicating a television was on, and as they tend to lack rather than abound in imagination, they would form a mental image of the concierge sprawled in front of her television set. As for me, cozily installed in my lair, I heard nothing but I knew that someone was going by. So I would go to the adjacent room and peek through the spy-hole located opposite the stairway and, well hidden behind the white net curtains, I could inquire discreetly as to the identity of the passerby.

With the advent of videocassettes and, subsequently, the DVD divinity, things changed radically, much to the enrichment of my happy hours. As it is not terribly common to come across a concierge waxing ecstatic over Death in Venice or to hear strains of Mahler wafting from her loge, I delved into my hard-earned conjugal savings and bought a second television set that I could operate in my hideaway. Thus, the television in the front room, guardian of my clandestine activities, could bleat away and I was no longer forced to listen to inane nonsense fit for the brain of a clam—I was in the back room, perfectly euphoric, my eyes filling with tears, in the miraculous presence of Art.

Profound Thought No. 1

Follow the stars
In the goldfish bowl
An end

Apparently, now and again adults take the time to sit down and contemplate what a disaster their life is. They complain without understanding and, like flies constantly banging against the same old windowpane, they buzz around, suffer, waste away, get depressed then wonder how they got caught up in this spiral that is taking them where they don’t want to go. The most intelligent among them turn their malaise into a religion: oh, the despicable vacuousness of bourgeois existence! Cynics of this kind frequently dine at Papa’s table: “What has become of the dreams of our youth?” they ask, with a smug, disillusioned air. “Those years are long gone, and life’s a bitch.” I despise this false lucidity that comes with age. The truth is that they are just like everyone else: nothing more than kids without a clue about what has happened to them, acting big and tough when in fact all they want is to burst into tears.

And yet there’s nothing to understand. The problem is that children believe what adults say and, once they’re adults themselves, they exact their revenge by deceiving their own children. “Life has meaning and we grown-ups know what it is” is the universal lie that everyone is supposed to believe. Once you become an adult and you realize that’s not true, it’s too late. The mystery remains intact, but all your available energy has long ago been wasted on stupid things. All that’s left is to anesthetize yourself by trying to hide the fact that you can’t find any meaning in your life, and then, the better to convince yourself, you deceive your own children.

All our family acquaintances have followed the same path: their youth spent trying to make the most of their intelligence, squeezing their studies like a lemon to make sure they’d secure a spot among the elite, then the rest of their lives wondering with a flabbergasted look on their faces why all that hopefulness has led to such a vain existence. People aim for the stars, and they end up like goldfish in a bowl. I wonder if it wouldn’t be simpler just to teach children right from the start that life is absurd. That might deprive you of a few good moments in your childhood but it would save you a considerable amount of time as an adult—not to mention the fact that you’d be spared at least one traumatic experience, i.e. the goldfish bowl.

I am twelve years old, I live at 7, rue de Grenelle in an apartment for rich people. My parents are rich, my family is rich and my sister and I are, therefore, as good as rich. My father is a parliamentarian and before that he was a minister: no doubt he’ll end up in the top spot, emptying out the wine cellar of the residence at the Hôtel de Lassay. As for my mother . . . Well, my mother isn’t exactly a genius but she is educated. She has a PhD in literature. She writes her dinner invitations without mistakes and spends her time bombarding us with literary references (“Colombe, stop trying to act like Madame Guermantes,” or “Pumpkin, you are a regular Sanseverina”).

Despite all that, despite all this good fortune and all this wealth, I have known for a very long time that the final destination is the goldfish bowl. How do I know? Well, the fact is I am very intelligent. Exceptionally intelligent. Even now, if you look at children my age, there’s an abyss between us. And since I don’t really want to stand out, and since intelligence is very highly rated in my family—an exceptionally gifted child would never have a moment’s peace—I try to scale back my performance at school, but even so I always come first. You might think that to pretend to be simply of average intelligence when you are twelve years old like me and have the level of a senior in college is easy. Well, not at all. It really takes an effort to appear stupider than you are. But, in a way, this does keep me from dying of boredom: all the time I don’t need to spend learning and understanding I use to imitate the ordinary good pupils—the way they do things, the answers they give, their progress, their concerns and their minor errors. I read everything that Constance Baret writes—she is second in the class—all her math and French and history and that way I find out what I have to do: for French a string of words that are coherent and spelled correctly; for math the mechanical reproduction of operations devoid of meaning; and for history a list of events joined by logical connections. But even if you compare me to an adult, I am much smarter than the vast majority. That’s the way it is. I’m not particularly proud of this because it’s not my doing. But one thing is sure—there’s no way I’m going to end up in the goldfish bowl. I’ve thought this through quite carefully. Even for someone like me who is supersmart and gifted in her studies and different from everyone else, in fact superior to the vast majority—even for me life is already all plotted out and so dismal you could cry: no one seems to have thought of the fact that if life is absurd, being a brilliant success has no greater value than being a failure. It’s just more comfortable. And even then: I think lucidity gives your success a bitter taste, whereas mediocrity still leaves hope for something.

So I’ve made up my mind. I am about to leave childhood behind and, in spite of my conviction that life is a farce, I don’t think I can hold out to the end. We are, basically, programmed to believe in something that doesn’t exist, because we are living creatures; we don’t want to suffer. So we spend all our energy persuading ourselves that there are things that are worthwhile and that that is why life has meaning. I may be very intelligent, but I don’t know how much longer I’m going to be able to struggle against this biological tendency. When I join the adults in the rat race, will I still be able to confront this feeling of absurdity? I don’t think so. That is why I’ve made up my mind: at the end of the school year, on the day I turn thirteen, June sixteenth , I will commit suicide. Careful now, I have no intention of making a big deal out of it, as if it were an act of bravery or defiance. Besides, it’s in my best interest that no one suspect a thing. Adults have this neurotic relationship with death, it gets blown out of all proportion, they make a huge deal out of it when in fact it’s really the most banal thing there is. What I care about, actually, is not the thing in itself, but the way it’s done. My Japanese side, obviously, is inclined toward seppuku. When I say my Japanese side, what I mean is my love for Japan. I’m in the eighth grade so, naturally, I chose Japanese as my second foreign language. The teacher isn’t great, he swallows his words in French and spends his time scratching his head as if he were puzzled, but the textbook isn’t bad and since the start of the year I’ve m...

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  • PublisherEuropa Editions
  • Publication date2008
  • ISBN 10 1933372605
  • ISBN 13 9781933372600
  • BindingPaperback
  • Edition number1
  • Number of pages325
  • Rating

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Book Description Softcover. Condition: New. 1st. ReviewNEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLERINDIEBOUND TOP TEN BESTSELLERA WASHINGTON POST BEST BOOK OF THE YEARA CHRISTIAN SCIENCE MONITOR BEST BOOK OF THE YEARA BARNES AND NOBLE BET BOOK OF THE YEARA CHICAGO SUN-TIMES FAVORITE BOOK OF THE YEARPraise for The Elegance of the Hedgehog"Gently satirical, exceptionally winning and inevitably bitersweet."-Michael Dirda, The Washington Post"The Elegance of the Hedgehog is about love. But not the sappy, head-over-heels variety. Rather, it's about the love of one's friends. It's about the love you can experience when you connect with strangers. And it's about the possibility-but just that-of romantic love."-The Huffington Post"Both [of the book's protagonists] create eloquent little essays on time, beauty and the meaning of life, Rene with the erudition and Paloma with adolescent brio."-The New York Times"Astute social satire and abstruse German philosophy are rarely found together, but here they are in this ingenious work of fiction."-The Boston Globe"In this supple novel of ideas, a best-seller in France.two autodidacts share an allergy to grammatical errors (the concierge considers a misplaced comma an 'underhanded attack') and a love of tea and moments of ineffable beauty. Barbery's sly wit, which bestows lightness on the most ponderous cogitations, keeps her tale aloft."-The New Yorker"This fable of love, frienship and the beauty of art not only gives innocence a voice, but also shows what a powerful novel can do: transport, educate and, ultimately, console."-The Toronto Star"The Elegance of the Hedgehog is a high-wire performance."-Los Angeles Times"[The Elegance of the Hedgehog tells] a beautiful story with a large cast of fascinating, complicated characters whose behavior is delightfully unpredictable.No idea is too big or small to find a home in the Parisian apartment building where most of the characters live."-The Wall Street Journal"This dark but redemptive novel, an international bestseller, marks the English debut of Normandy philosophy professor Barbery.By turns very funny (particularly in Paloma's sections) and heartbreaking, Barbery never allows either of her dour narrators to get too cerebral or too sentimental. Her simple plot and sudden denouement add up to a great deal more than the sum of their parts."-Publishers Weekly"Hedgehog is really an international book, focused as it is on universal topics of childhood, philosophy, love, and art."-The Daily Beast"This story, like all great tales, will break your heart, but it will also make you realize-or remember-that sometimes the pain is worth it."-Chicago Sun-TimesProduct DescriptionThe phenomenal New York Times bestseller that explores the upstairs-downstairs goings-on of a posh Parisian apartment building (Publishers Weekly).In an elegant htel particulier in Paris, Rene, the concierge, is all but invisible-short, plump, middle-aged, with bunions on her feet and an addiction to television soaps. Her only genuine attachment is to her cat, Leo. In short, shes everything society expects from a concierge at a bourgeois building in an upscale neighborhood. But Rene has a secret: she furtively, ferociously devours art, philosophy, music, and Japanese culture. With biting humor, she scrutinizes the lives of the tenants-her inferiors in every way except that of material wealth.Paloma is a twelve-year-old who lives on the fifth floor. Talented and precocious, shes come to terms with lifes seeming futility and decided to end her own on her thirteenth birthday. Until then, she will continue hiding her extraordinary intelligence behind a mask of mediocrity, acting the part of an average pre-teen high on pop culture, a good but not outstanding student, an obedient if obstinate daughter.Paloma and Rene hide their true talents and finest qualities from a world they believe cannot or will not appreciate them. But after a wealthy Japanese man named Ozu arrives in the building, they. Seller Inventory # DADAX1933372605

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Book Description Softcover. Condition: new. 1st. ReviewNEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLERINDIEBOUND TOP TEN BESTSELLERA WASHINGTON POST BEST BOOK OF THE YEARA CHRISTIAN SCIENCE MONITOR BEST BOOK OF THE YEARA BARNES AND NOBLE BET BOOK OF THE YEARA CHICAGO SUNTIMES FAVORITE BOOK OF THE YEARPraise for The Elegance of the HedgehogGently satirical exceptionally winning and inevitably bitersweetMichael Dirda The Washington PostThe Elegance of the Hedgehog is about love But not the sappy headoverheels variety Rather its about the love of ones friends Its about the love you can experience when you connect with strangers And its about the possibilitybut just thatof romantic loveThe Huffington PostBoth of the books protagonists create eloquent little essays on time beauty and the meaning of life Rene with the erudition and Paloma with adolescent brioThe New York TimesAstute social satire and abstruse German philosophy are rarely found together but here they are in this ingenious work of fictionThe Boston GlobeIn this supple novel of ideas a bestseller in Francetwo autodidacts share an allergy to grammatical errors the concierge considers a misplaced comma an underhanded attack and a love of tea and moments of ineffable beauty Barberys sly wit which bestows lightness on the most ponderous cogitations keeps her tale aloftThe New YorkerThis fable of love frienship and the beauty of art not only gives innocence a voice but also shows what a powerful novel can do transport educate and ultimately consoleThe Toronto StarThe Elegance of the Hedgehog is a highwire performanceLos Angeles TimesThe Elegance of the Hedgehog tells a beautiful story with a large cast of fascinating complicated characters whose behavior is delightfully unpredictableNo idea is too big or small to find a home in the Parisian apartment building where most of the characters liveThe Wall Street JournalThis dark but redemptive novel an international bestseller marks the English debut of Normandy philosophy professor BarberyBy turns very funny particularly in Palomas sections and heartbreaking Barbery never allows either of her dour narrators to get too cerebral or too sentimental Her simple plot and sudden denouement add up to a great deal more than the sum of their partsPublishers WeeklyHedgehog is really an international book focused as it is on universal topics of childhood philosophy love and artThe Daily BeastThis story like all great tales will break your heart but it will also make you realizeor rememberthat sometimes the pain is worth itChicago SunTimesProduct DescriptionThe phenomenal New York Times bestseller that explores the upstairsdownstairs goingson of a posh Parisian apartment building Publishers WeeklyIn an elegant htel particulier in Paris Rene the concierge is all but invisibleshort plump middleaged with bunions on her feet and an addiction to television soaps Her only genuine attachment is to her cat Leo In short shes everything society expects from a concierge at a bourgeois building in an upscale neighborhood But Rene has a secret she furtively ferociously devours art philosophy music and Japanese culture With biting humor she scrutinizes the lives of the tenantsher inferiors in every way except that of material wealthPaloma is a twelveyearold who lives on the fifth floor Talented and precocious shes come to terms with lifes seeming futility and decided to end her own on her thirteenth birthday Until then she will continue hiding her extraordinary intelligence behind a mask of mediocrity acting the part of an average preteen high on pop culture a good but not outstanding student an obedient if obstinate daughterPaloma and Rene hide their true talents and finest qualities from a world they believe cannot or will not appreciate them But after a wealthy Japanese man named Ozu arrives in the building they. Seller Inventory # BKZN9781933372600

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