Book review/rant

I spent the last couple days of my spring break reading a book called The Elegance of the Hedgehog, by Muriel Barbery. I don't usually feel terribly compelled in my free time to put my reaction to a book into words, especially not on spring break when I should be spending my days napping in a hammock on some veranda in some far off destination, having breakfast served in pretty little rose embellished china, but, I'm broke, I'm bored, and I've been terribly effected by this brilliant, although ultimately disappointing piece of art.
So here goes:

The book is narrated by two closeted geniuses inhabiting a wealthy apartment building in Paris. It is a compilation of the journal entries of the autodidactic concierge, who was raised under impoverished and tragic circumstances, and a 12 year old genius who is the daughter of two wealthy bafoons living in a luxury apartment in the building. The two women struggle to find a sense of belonging in a world that they both view as absurd. They are both sensuous, intelligent, and hypersensitive to both humanity and art. The characters use writing as a means of reflection, as a way to confront themselves and their observations,and as a way to make some sense of the thoughts that riddle their seclusion and dominate their lives. Here are some of the quotes that I found carried the most resonance:

"To beauty all if forgiven, even vulgarity."

"Stay centered without losing your shorts."

"Politics, she said, a toy for little rich kids that they won't let anyone else play with."

"In our world, that's the way you live your grown up life: you must constantly rebuild you identity as an adult, the way its been put together it is wobbly, ephemeral, and fragile."

"nobody is a greater schoolgirl in spirit than a cynic. Cynics can not relinquish the rubbish they were taught as children: they hold tight to the belief that the world has meaning and, when things go wrong for them, they consequently adopt the inverse attitude. 'Life's a whore, I don't believe in anything anymore and I'll wallow in that idea until it makes me sick' is the very credo of the innocent who hasn't been able to get his way."

"The peace of mind one experiences on one's own, one's certainty of self in the serenity of solitude, are nothing in comparison to the release and openness and fluency one shares with another, in close companionship..."


These type of insights, both charming and just oozing with the clarity of truth, are abundant in this novel. The writing is so clear and beautifully crafted that you become convinced that these unlikely characters are, in fact, genius', and that they must meet one another. You begin to slowly see the overlapping thoughts and the similarities between the workings of their minds as the book progresses. It is indescribably satisfying when they finally do meet. They discover in one another exactly what their lives were missing, and so much more. They discover a path to true happiness, and a new beginning that challenges the judgments, assumptions, and fears that govern them both.

And then, one dies.

This ending was beyond disappointing to me. There I was, eagerly consuming page after page of this writing that I was just about to categorize as being artistically divine, when all of the sudden I was jarred, not emotionally carried away, but brought back to reality. It was almost as though I was feeling the literary decision being made, and I was arguing with the plot not to be so pretentiously ironic, cliche, banal and altogether over-dramatic.The woman gets hit by a dry cleaning van for god's sake, while trying to save a drunk bum the day after she finds true love and happiness.I mean come on...how could you Muriel Barbery? You not only ruined my entire day, but you also ruined what was shaping up to be a truly effective piece of literature, the kind of book that I would read ten times over, until the binding bursts and the margins just can't stand to fit even a measly little exclamation point more. Oh, and another thing, since you made it perfectly clear throughout the entire book that what I was reading was a compilation of journal entries, and you also stressed the thematic importance of life-after-death being a man made means of coping with the fear of one day having to let go, then how on earth do you expect me to be just fine with assuming that the last journal entry, the one that describes the death of this woman, was,
what?
written by her ghost?

But perhaps I am being a bit harsh, after all, I do feel the better for having read this book, and I would recommend it to anyone, just so long as you stop reading about 312 pages in. This is where the book should end. With a satisfying, although thought provoking resolution. What, might I ask, is it about happy endings that writers are so scared of? What is wrong with leaving people with a smile and tears of gratitude in their eyes after closing the back cover of the linguistic and emotional challenge that you have created? There is nothing cheesy about that.