I Read a Book: The Elegance of the Hedgehog

I finally finished reading The Elegance of the Hedgehog. Man, it felt good to concentrate and read something again. Also, the book prompted me to write a book report! Yaay fulfilling two things on my New Year's resolution!

Plot:

In the upper-class French apartment of number 7, rue de Grenelle, fifty-four-year-old Renée Michel works as a concierge for the rich residents. She lives day to day pretending to be a plain, dumb concierge, but she is an avid consumer of high art, enjoying the likes of Tolstoy, Japanese films, and Dutch painting. And she goes about secretly scrutinizing her apartment residents.

In one of the apartments lives Paloma Josse, an intelligent twelve-year-old girl who feels exasperated of the people and world around her. She feels that life is futile and plans to end her life at her thirteenth birthday. Meanwhile she goes about secretly scrutinizing her apartment residents.

And then one day, a Japanese man moves in...


Overall impression: Honestly, I have absolutely no idea what to think about this book.
I don't hate it. But I don't think it's some brilliant masterpiece either. There are things about the plot and characters that I like or dislike which collectively mingles together into a "It was okay I guess...". I'll break it into several parts.


1) Character development at the right direction, but too slow.

Renée:
Here we have Renée, a lower-class concierge trying her best to hide the fact that she actually has taste. Like, she DESPERATELY wants to hide her refined taste as if it was an act of high treason, because... why? Why does she need to hide?

We do eventually learn that a tragic event in the past made her irrationally fear the rich and privileged, and coupled with how the residents regularly treat her like a nonentity, it makes sense as to why she became that bitter, vulnerable woman who fears her brilliance. At least, I'm satisfied enough with the explanation.

But I felt the information came a little too late into the book. Here I am wondering for pages and pages thinking "What is this woman's deal? It's not illegal for a working class person to know Tolstoy! Why is she so afraid?" and then, near the end, "Oh... okay".

Why couldn't the reveal have come earlier? I enjoyed the way Renée was able to finally overcome her past with the help of quirky individuals and open up her self-imposed prison. But it came too late, and as a result, her recovery was more telling than showing. Why couldn't the author have SHOWN her healing?

Paloma:
Meanwhile, Paloma did not come off as a superintelligent suicidal twelve-year-old AT ALL. Maybe it's because I'm twenty-two, but Palmoa just felt like a whiny brat. Oh, boo hoo, I'm smarter than everyone, I live in an upper-class neighborhood with snobby neighbors and an exasperating family who doesn't understand me! The world SUCKS, I'm going to burn the apartment and kill myself!

Then again, she IS only twelve going on thirteen, so perhaps I was SUPPOSED to see how silly she is. But Paloma's character arc is played so painfully straight, and her family is shown having no likable traits whatsoever, that maybe I was supposed to see her as a tortured soul after all; if that's the case, that just failed.

When Paloma does realize what a huge self-centered brat she's been and changes her mind, It's too late into the book. Why can't she have gradually changed for the better THROUGHOUT the actual plot? I feel that all the elements for a complete character development were there for both, but it all came too slow, too late.


2) The discourse about philosophy, art, the beauty and the sublime
The characters often go on philosophical musings in the book. I felt that while sometimes they added to the story, at other times it just felt like I was listening to them prattle on and on with no real connection to the plot. But it might just be because I barely know anything about philosophy.

It also felt hypocritical at times: the protagonists mock the bourgeois for their superfluous tastes, yet they themselves rave about philosophy or nature or the beauty of art, subjects that require enough leisure time to pursue and enjoy. So pray tell, apart from money, how are the protagonists and the rich any different?


3) Translation
I read a translated version because I cannot speak French. But the word choice in the translation was a bit puzzling at times. Does anyone in real life really use words like autodidactic or loge? Maybe the French do, or maybe I have really poor vocabulary for an English major. But at any rate, using big words don't really make a work sound more sophisticated.


4) The Hard-on for Japan, and Orientalism
The book has this huge thing for Japan.

Don't get me wrong, I am rather fond of the Japanese culture myself. But the extent to which it's depicted in this book goes beyond adoration, almost... fetishizing.

Kakuro Ozu, the Japanese man who moves into the apartment, is PERFECT. He's rich, graceful and cultured, but he's so down-to earth! He sees Renée and Paloma for who they truly are (unlike the other snooty rich people!) and happily invites them to tea! He's kind to the servants! He has a home theater in his room! He cooks Japanese food! Even his goddamn cats are "ever so thin and move around without a sound" (150)!

He has no character development from beginning to end, he is just pure awesome, like a mix between the Fairy Godmother and Prince Charming. Kakuro Ozu starts and remains as the mysterious, perfect Japanese gentleman.

Google Image search result for "Japanese gentleman".
Dapper as hell.

HEY GUYS. JAPANESE CULTURE IS NOT A MAGIC WAND FOR YOUR PERSONAL ISSUES.

I wouldn't mind too much it was just Ozu that was made of unicorns and rainbows. But even before all that, the protagonists themselves talk so much about the awesomeness of Japanese culture. For instance, Paloma is the biggest Japanophile ever who thinks France is a "cultural desert" (139) compared to the super awesome Japan:

"in my mangas, people seem to eat differently. It looks simple, refined, moderate, delicious. You eat the way you look at at beautiful picture or sing in a beautiful choir. Neither too much nor too little: moderate, in the good sense of the word. Maybe I'm completely mistaken; but French cuisine seems old and pretentious to me, whereas Japanese cuisine seems... well, neither young nor old. Eternal, divine." (94)

"Tea and mangas instead of coffee and newspapers: something elegant and enchanting, instead of adult power struggles and their sad aggressiveness" (95)

Renée, after watching a Japanese film, believe the Japanese has the meaning of life all figured out while the West, for some reason, haven't:

"this sudden flowering of pure beauty at the heart of ephemeral passion: is this not something we all aspire to? And something that, in our Western civilization, we do not know how to attain?" (101)

She also raves about the brilliance of sliding doors instead of the barbaric Western door with a handle, among other things:

"there is nothing uglier than an open door. An open door introduces a break in the room, a sort of provincial interference, destroying the unity of space (...) When a sliding door is open, two areas communicate without offending each other. When it is closed, each regains its integrity. Sharing and reunion can occur without intrusion. Life becomes a quiet stroll - whereas our life, in the homes we have, seems like nothing so much as a long series of intrusions." (152)

But that's not even worst part. No, the worst goes to the author's strange obsession on things being Eurasian. For instance, see how Paul Nguyen, Ozu's Eurasian secretary, is described:

"[Paul Nguyen] is a strikingly handsome young man. From Asia and his Vietnamese father, he has acquired distinguished manners and a mysterious serenity. From Europe and his mother (a White Russian), he has inherited height and Slavic cheekbones, as well as the light shade of his slightly almond-shaped eyes. He is most manly and delicate, a perfect synthesis of masculine good looks and Asian gentleness." (148)

Out of all the characters, Paul Nguyen is the only one in the entire book described as being this handsome. Also notice how the only things he gets from his Vietnamese father are "manners" and "mysterious serenity", while he's a major hunk because he mostly has Slavic features. That's a passage of unfortunate implications right there.

Ozu's home decor is a mix of Asian and Western furniture, which is supposed to be the best thing ever:

"Monsieur Ozu's place is very grand and very beautiful (...) although there are sliding doors and bonsai and a thick black carpet edged with gray and objects that are clearly Asian - a coffee table in dark lacquer or, all along an impressive row of windows, bamboo blinds drawn at various levels, giving the room its Eastern atmosphere - there are also armchairs and a sofa, consoles, lamps, and bookshelves, all clearly European. It is very... elegant." (211)

Who on earth installs bamboo blinds in a Western apartment? At least, I haven't been to any Asian people's houses where that was a thing. Oh well.

When Renée goes on a dinner date with Ozu, he wears an odd mix of clothing:

"He is very handsome. He is wearing a charcoal gray suit consisting of straight trousers and a jacket with a mandarin collar and ornamental frog fastenings in matching tones; on his feet are soft leather loafers that look like luxurious slippers. The effect is very... Eurasian." (302)

Kakuro Ozu, sexiest man alive

I don't know about anyone else, but the constant manner in which the author waxes lyrical about Japan and Eurasian Things felt kind of creepy to me. Yes, Japanese culture has lots of fascinating stuff, but would it hurt to not talk about it like you wanted to make sweet, sweet love to it? Yikes.

4) The Ending Changes Everything

***THIS SECTION IS FULL OF SPOILERS, AVOID IF YOU DON'T LIKE BEING SPOILED***
The ending needs a special mention on its own because it comes abruptly as a lightning bolt in a clear sky.

Ready?

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Just when things are looking up for Renée (she makes friends, she copes with her past, she may be hitting it off with Ozu), she dies.

SHE GETS RUN OVER BY A LAUNDRY VAN AND DIES.

Renée literally just dies at the last two chapters, and then it ends with Paloma and Ozu  (and her friend Manuela) devastated, the rich residents slightly bothered, and Paloma promising not to kill herself.

Just what was the point of Renée's death?! I cannot comprehend this.

Paloma finally realizes what it means to die when Renée dies, so was this to put a closure in Paloma's character arc and propel her to mature?

Was Renée's death to show how fragile life is, so we should appreciate it?

Was Renée right after all in thinking she should not fraternize with the rich, and this is her punishment?

Or was this a cheap way to tug on the readers' heartstrings?

Maybe I'm missing something, but the ending didn't seem beautiful or heartbreaking to me. It just felt abrupt and almost sadistic, as if the author killed Renée on purpose just when she was starting to be truly happy, just so the readers will cry.


Overall impression #2: And yet, even with all this; the hypocrisy, the slow character development, and all the Orientalism... I don't hate this book.

In the midst of all its flaws, I still felt something genuine somewhere. The hurt and bitterness that the protagonists feel, while silly and hypocritical, is very identifiable: it is the angst of the insecure, the petty and sometimes melodramatic sulk that we all feel every now and then when things don't seem to go our way. If handled masterfully, the insecure bitterness could have told a powerful story. Alas, it fell short.

I did enjoy the parts where Renée and Paloma describe and judge the rich people. Not gonna lie, if I were in their situation and mindset, I would probably resort to making fun of the rich in the exact same way too. The author clearly has a keen eye for observing the people and their movements, and those were the most fun to read.

So... that was my insanely long informal book report blog entry. I felt like I was writing a college English paper all over again!