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My name is Renee, and I’m the first protagonist of this book �� the hedgehog, as it were. I’m a 54-year-old concierge who works in a building populated by rich and powerful people who barely notice my existence. I’m also a closet intellectual and I frequently try to prove that to you by digressing into asides about philosophy, culture, and other topics. I alternate between sniping at the apartment owners for their snobbish indifference to my lowly concierge self (an image I strive to maintain at every opportunity while blaming the rich apartment owners for buying into it), and terror that they may find out that I read loftier books than they do (I’m as much of a snob as they are, if not worse, but I guess we won’t go there �� let’s keep things simple, even though this book is ostensibly higher literature). Given the owners�� apathy toward me, it’s not clear what I fear might actually happen if they learned that I was an intellectual. Probably nothing. But hey, this conflict keeps the book going and maybe makes some kind of a statement about French class differences. I guess you’d have to be French to understand. But you don’t have to be French to feel smug and superior about reading this pretentious novel. In fact, it probably helps if you’re not French because then you’re reading something foreign.

My name is Paloma, and I’m the other protagonist of this book. I’m a brilliant, precocious, underestimated and misunderstood 12-year-old who plans to burn down my apartment and commit suicide on my 13th birthday. I’m not sure exactly why I’m so unhappy. I mean, I can make all kinds of bitter and cynical observations about my parents and sister, but really, I’m not lacking for anything. I can tell you in lofty language about how life truly has no meaning, but for someone so bright, my thinking tends to be pretty two-dimensional as does my personality and my life in general. Although disliking your family is pretty normal in adolescence, it’s not clear why, in all 12 years of existence, I’ve never discovered a friend, teacher, neighbor, or relative who might complicate my unilaterally dark feelings about humanity by actually having some positive qualities. But maybe this is part of what helps me sound like a 50-year-old philosopher even though I’m supposed to be a 12-year-old girl, so I guess that’s something. In fact, I spend so much time sounding intellectual that, except for my melodramatic suicidality, there’s little hint of the fact that, emotionally, I’m really just an early adolescent. A bit more attention to my emotional side might have made my character more interesting, but c’est la vie. I get a little more three-dimensional at the end, but you have to hang in there and I'm not sure it's worth it.

My name is ___, and I’m a reviewer for a snooty periodical. I just finished Muriel Barbery’s The Elegance of the Hedgehog, and my editor is expecting a review from me this week. To be honest, all the pedantic asides left me cold. They took me out of the story and weren’t all that interesting. I kind of skimmed over them, but that’s not something I could ever reveal to my readers. I have to act like I read them, understood them, and appreciated them as only a brilliant reader could. I have to act like they enhanced the novel, rather than detracting from it. Similarly, if I poke holes in the characterization or plot, it might sound as if I didn’t understand or failed to appreciate the depth of this book. When a book comes out that tries to sound like it’s above my head, my job is to rave about it. This way, the snooty readers of my snooty periodical can feel even snootier as they read, even as they also feel alienated by this pretentious book.

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I (Khaya, not one of the characters) wrote the above when I was about halfway through and feeling very negative. Now that I've finished the book, my opinion mostly stands. I will say, though, that the book had some better moments and was quite readable. It's really a 2-going-on-3-star book, as opposed to a solid 2 or a 2-rounded-up-from-1 book. Definitely didn't live up to its hype, though.