Full title: The Elegance of the Hedgehog
Read The Elegance of the Hedgehog and you’ll find yourself in the proximity of a writer who’s got a score to settle first with the knowledge industry, and then with life in general.
Author: Muriel Barbery, translated by Alison Anderson
Between 0 and 1: Zero (i.e. borrowed from local library)
Genre: Novel
Attributes: 325 pages, paperback
Publisher: Europa Editions (2008)
Attributes: 325 pages, paperback
Publisher: Europa Editions (2008)
Read The Elegance of the Hedgehog and you’ll find yourself in the proximity of a writer who’s got a score to settle first with the knowledge industry, and then with life in general.
In the tone of intelligent social
satire and with the lexical swipe of a philosophical treatise gone mainstream,
the novel has been an enormous success ever since its first French print, in 2006
(Gallimard). Even parts where the prose goes hardcore-existentialist, pondering
the likes of Edmund Husserl, appear to have
found good acceptance among the cohorts of readers whose diversity can only be
vaguely surmised.
The novel has an ease about it in
regards to the inclusion of serious, philosophically pertinent, critically
astute, commentaries on cultural demeanors of the modern world. Barbery, former
teacher of philosophy and so utterly at home with at least the general aspects
of twentieth-century critical thinking, leaves numerous clues in the novel as
to her inclinations. One might find traces of Jean Baudrillard, for instance,
in her treatment of the issue of house pets. Baudrillard, who drew clear lines
between tamed animals of the household type and inanimate objects, classified
both in his “System of Collecting,” and went as far as to say that “pets are a category midway
between persons and objects.”
In Barbery’s novel, where cats
feature prominently, the issue of sentimental attachment leaves no doubts as to
its role in the creation of the modern pet. Renée Michel, concierge in a
Parisian apartment building, has always named her cats after Tolstoy
characters. Monsieur Kakuro Ozu, the rich Japanese tenant whose move into the
building changes the course of the other characters’ lives, also calls his cats
Kitty and Levin – no-brainer references to Anna
Karenina. These onomastic sports indicate precisely the sentimental
connotations of the modern humans’ relationship to their pets. Renée’s philosophy
is, for this reason, very precisely Baudrillard-inspired. Proof:
“The only purpose of cats is that they constitute mobile decorative objects, a concept which I find intellectually interesting,”
says the concierge; and a little
further in the text she continues:
“I concede that the difference between the vacuum cleaner and the cats is that a cat can experience pain and pleasure. But does that mean it has a great ability to communicate with humans? Not at all. That should simply incite us to take special precautions with them as we would with very fragile objects.”
The precaution mentioned here is, of
course, not unlike that feeling of existential embarrassment discussed by
another French philosopher, Jacques
Derrida, who
found a way of talking about continental philosophy by means of an incident in
which his cat watched him emerging naked from the bathroom.
But to get back to The Elegance of the Hedgehog, what is
immediately noticeable, I’m sure, is the way the afore-mentioned character (one
of the two protagonists sharing the dual-narrative pattern of the novel) speaks.
She is intelligent beyond affectation and interested in things of the world
only insofar as they serve good, hearty reflection. In other words, Renée does
not sound at all like a concierge. And that’s precisely the point. Barbery,
with her thinly vailed agenda of satirizing artificially engendered brainpower,
has two autodidacts as the main speakers in the novel. A concierge all her
life, Renée has found her way of learning freely by hiding behind the social
conventions that make her invisible to the bourgeois sycophants. There, she’s always
been free to muse about the shortcomings of the world, while at the same time
enjoying the pleasures of serious reflection. The other protagonist, the young
Paloma Josse, comes from a different class order but shares with Renée the same
feeling that the world is not her match. Unlike Renée, she is thinking of
suicide. A precocious child, at less than twelve Paloma challenges her French
teacher on principial grounds and has well-groomed feelings about everything that
surrounds her. Unlike Renée, who appears to militate (if only internally) for
an aristocracy of the mind, Paloma is of a seemingly socialist streak. She hates
her parents’ well-to-do condition, as well as the pretense of her sister’s and
her sister’s boyfriend. She knows how to see the holes in the impeccable armor
of those who inhabit her immediate environment and is quick to see the merit of
the silent concierge.
These two characters, though, have a
lot in common. First of all this tendency towards transgressing their own milieus.
To her family, Paloma appears as a strange child who hides all the time and
refuses to participate in “proper” social intercourse. To the same, Renée is an
invisible entity: a concierge who cannot be regarded as anything but what her profession
indicates. But what truly unites the two protagonists is their love for
Japanese simplicity. Renée launches repeated exegeses on Oriental aesthetics
and emphasizes the importance of understanding that beauty is an event. She
contrasts this to the Western taste for monumentality, for things made to
survive, for history as a series of recorded actions. Contrary to this, the Japanese
tea ceremony or the simplicity of Japanese art are the definition of what art
should be: carpe diem at its purest. This
is why she is so surprisingly fascinated by a very European genre: Dutch still
life of the seventeenth century. It is there, in the ephemerality of a scene
that’s set up for the pleasure of another, that Renée identifies the source of
beauty.
Muriel Barbery. Source: Semana |
Just like Renée’s passion for the
ephemeral, Paloma is struck by the thought of procrastination,
in fact another way of bringing up the tension of the present moment, a
constant problem for European culture:
“If you dread tomorrow, it’s because you don’t know to build the present, you tell yourself you can deal with it tomorrow, and it’s a lost cause anyway because tomorrow always ends up becoming today, don’t you see?”
Kakuro Ozu, who also happens to bear
the surname of Renée’s favorite director (Yasujiro
Ozu), knows Tolstoy inside-out, understands Paloma’s rebellious tendencies,
and shows sympathy towards the destiny of both his French friends. He manages
to persuade both of them out of their self-destructive tendencies, so that
Paloma ends up convinced that suicide is not the way to go, while Renée agrees
to come out of her protective cocoon. Their friendship is cut short by the
novel’s unhappy ending but it shines so bright while it lasts: a perfect
triangle of French love that’s not sexual but intellectual in nature.
The trio performs against a
background which Barbery is very careful to describe as culturally destitute
and incompetent but socially patronizing and self-aggrandizing. This is the
society made up of the inhabitants of 7, rue de Grenelle, the novel’s only spatial
setting, situated at the very center of Paris. The humans that make up this
society are invariably dumbed down by the protagonists’ remarkable intelligence.
They’re utter biological loss, if we trust the verve of Paloma’s diatribes. Out
of reach of good ideas, burdened by social conventions and common tastes more
than any wish to gain access to knowledge, the tenants form a small-scale replica
of the thing known as humanity. From Paloma’s parents to the deceased food
critic Pierre Arthens, the protagonist of Barbery’s first novel, translated
into English either as The Gourmet or
Gourmet Rapsody, and from them to the
entire fauna of simple-minded bourgeois who boast credentials gained for all
the wrong reasons, the world described in The
Elegance of the Hedgehog is an enclosed ecosystem which allows readers to
feel at home.
This is, perhaps, why the book has
been such a success. Because – let us admit – don’t we love to partake in
criticisms of a world system from which we invariably abstract ourselves? Freed
of sin by way of being on the critic’s side, we’re going to love the game that
shows us the defects we refuse to acknowledge. And that, in itself, is a
perfect recipe for success. Muriel Barbery is a winner. Agreed.