The Elegance of the Hedgehog/A Review

Many years ago, on a rainy day, I walked through a bookstore and discovered Michael Ondaatje's The English Patient. I hadn't heard of it before—I should have, but I hadn't. I brought it home and made that book my own personal discovery. My touchstone. My measure. My source of redemption when the world seemed too scarred or dark.

The same thing happened yesterday, when I finally found time to read The Elegance of the Hedgehog. Sure, indeed, tens of thousands (hundreds of thousands?) had discovered this second novel by Muriel Barbery before I did—but I hadn't spoken to a soul about it, I hadn't read reviews of it, I hadn't stumbled upon a blogger's commentary, and so it wasn't on any of my must-buy lists. It was simply there, face up, at a bookstore, and I had the urge to bring it home.

Yesterday I read this story of the autodidact concierge who lives the clandestine life of an undiscovered intellectual in Paris. She has a best friend who comes to visit. She befriends a brilliant, beauty-seeking twelve-year-old named Paloma. And then a distinguished Japanese man moves into her building and asserts the possibility of being truly known, truly seen.

I was sitting by a screened-in door as I read this book. The day was perfect. The phone rang and I did not answer. Emails pinged; I left them unattended. The book, which moves slowly, sumptuously, across the terrain of ideas and time, takes such an unexpected turn at the end that I found myself crying. Just sitting there in the breeze, sobbing. For the beauty of the story. For the courage of Barbery. For the very idea that so many people out there have already embraced this story of ideas and heart.

Read it, if you can.