Author: Muriel Barbery

Everyone has topics or issues they just don’t want to hear about. Although I am generally pretty open about what I read or watch, the two things I can’t stand are adultery and suicide. It’s the second one that made me put this one down. Although the characters seemed interestingly enchanting and it is a big read for many of my patrons, I stopped reading the moment the thirteen year old narrator admitted she is planning her suicide. Not what I was really in the mood for, especially this close to Christmas. Still, it does have good reviews, so you might pick it up if suicide isn’t one of your triggers.

The elegance of the hedgehog by Muriel Barbery is an elegant little book.

The two narrators of this tale, detailing the interactions of the inhabitants of the luxurious number 7, rue de Grenelle, Paris, are unknowingly, kindred souls.

The first, concierge Madame Renee Michel, was born into rural poverty, and is, to all appearances a card–carrying member of the proletariat. She dresses, acts and talks the way she knows a concierge is supposed to. She even leaves the television on in the front room of her loge, for how will she convince the residents that she is nothing more than she seems, if she does not fit neatly into their narrow-minded stereotype of a concierge?

Occasionally, she makes a mistake. Suggesting that the pampered Pallieres boy read The German Ideology to really understand Marx is one such mistake. But she can usually rely on their afore-mentioned narrow mindedness – it’s true that human beings will go to great lengths to avoid cognitive dissonance, and if a concierge would not say such a thing, then clearly their concierge did not say it.  

The second, Paloma Josse, is a fiercely intelligent young girl, depressed by the hypocrisy of her family’s bourgeois existence. She hides her intelligence from everyone and writes in her journal about her search for reasons not to kill herself – is there more to life than she can see in the superficial and selfish people who surround her? Her description of a Maori rugby player’s perfectly self-contained movements is sheer poetry.

The catalyst within the book that brings about a change in both these characters is a new resident. He is an outsider, and not weighted down by the same cultural and social restrictions that tangibly bind the natives of French society described in The elegance of the hedgehog.

I loved this book – the passion as it questions class conceits and the purpose of education, the way it makes philosophy and great literature accessible and meaningful.  Most of all I liked the laugh-out-loud moments such as the discussion to determine the relative cultural contributions of Britain and France – I love the way the characters laughingly list things like pudding, rugby, habeas corpus and lawns as England’s cultural gifts to the world.

Best of all, I have to note the brilliant rant against Sabine Pallieres’ note which requests Madame Michel sign for her dry cleaning. The note contains a badly misplaced comma. Now even the most severe of the punctuation police, who cheered on Lynne Truss when she wrote Eats, shoots and leaves, may hesitate to take Madame Michel’s stand. She states that Madame Pallieres is wealthy and therefore not entitled to “guilty nonchalance” when it comes to the beauties of language: “for those who have been favoured by life’s indulgences, rigorous respect in matters of beauty is a non-negotiable requirement” …. and, in conclusion, Madame Michel determines that “To the rich, therefore, falls the burden of Beauty. And if they cannot assume it, then they deserve to die.”

Vive la Revolution!

Review by Vicky.

This unusual novel became the French publishing phenomenon of 2007 and it took just 35 weeks to reach the number one bestseller spot and has now spent longer in the French bestseller lists than Dan Brown.

There are two narrators in The elegance of the hedgehog: a fifty-four year old widow named Renee Michel who is construed to be a typical polite, somewhat unfriendly and insignificant concierge, and Paloma Josse, the twelve-year old daughter of one of the wealthy families who live at 7, Rue de Grenelle.

There is an upstairs-downstairs alternating narrative –and like the hedgehog, each character keeps her talents hidden beneath her spikes.

On the outside, she’s covered in quills, a real fortress, but my gut feeling is that on the inside, she has the same simple refinement as the hedgehog: a deceptively indolent creature, fiercely solitary—terribly elegant.

Renee is an autodidact who is passionate about culture, the arts and phenomenology, not that the tenants of a grand Parisian apartment building on rue de Gabrielle would ever notice or suspect. The exception being Paloma, whose intelligence is a burden she has to bear, at least until her thirteenth birthday, when she plans to set fire to her parents’ apartment (when she knows no one will be at home) and then commit suicide.

At times I was tempted to skip through the more laborious philosophical passages but the plot gains momentum following the sudden death of one of the privileged neighbours and the arrival of Monsieur Ozu,

Ozu is very exotic, refined, rich, has exquisite taste, disapproves of class boundaries and has a sense of humour. He quickly recognises the hedgehogs and dramatically alters their lives forever.

From “Bookmobile History and Photo Album“

Now that I live two blocks from the public library in Jackson Heights, I have been ordering books like crazy through their online system since moving here a little over a month ago.

When I’d left NY for CA 13 years ago, this poor little branch library had been trying its best to keep the shelves stocked. Starting a section for “Trade Fiction,” which I would peruse regularly, had been part of their vision to further serve their loyal readership.

But, alas, back then, the book thieves (latent sociopathic types who, lacking a conscience, have no consideration or regard for other people or rules and regulations and are too lazy to check out and return books in the normal fashion) seemed to be winning the library’s ongoing battle to remain viable.

Zoom to the present time and its gratifying to note that the library has been the beneficiary of a large endowment from the city. While their collection by library standards is meager, a state of the art online system has been implemented and, as in amazon. com, you can request a book online and, a few days later, an email will arrive in your mailbox announcing your book’s arrival at the local branch.

And it won’t cost you a cent.

Being so close to the library reminds me of the era of the Bookmobile, that wonderful library on wheels, which, when I was a kid, would show up on my block every week without fail offering a treasure trove of books.

As a result of this marvelous perk in the neighborhood, I have already finished five books during these past few weeks and I’m presently working on the sixth. Here’s the list, in the order in which I’ve read them:

1. The Elegance of the Hedgehog – by Muriel Barbery
2. Fierce Attachments - by Vivan Gornick
3. Nothing Was the Same – by Kay Redfield Jamison
4. Brooklyn – by Colm Toíbín
5. Stitches – by David Small
6. Dear Husband – a short story collection by Joyce Carol Oates

I’d like to begin this series of posts by talking about the first book on my list.

The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery (my last actual “purchase” before joining the library) is a book that has been well-reviewed and which, early on, had piqued my interest.  The novel  is told in alternating chapters and through the voice of its two main characters: Renée, a concierge in an upscale apartment building in Paris; and Paloma, the twelve year-old precocious daughter of one of the tenants.

As the book goes on, their mutual love of Japanese culture and similar character types converge and they become friends.

Why I liked it: I was hooked immediately by the intelligent writing, often hilarious wit of Renée’s character and the inherent humanity within her that was deftly conveyed to the reader. A combination of Mrs. Doubtfire, Miss Jean Brodie and Hyancinth — the main character the PBS British sitcom: “Keeping Up Appearances” — she’s an autodidact and passionate lover of the arts, who possesses heightened powers of observation and discrimination.

In one passage, when musing about her relationship with her cat, Neptune, she thinks: “…we appreciate each other a great deal, no doubt because of that state of grace that is attained when one’s feelings are immediately accessible to another creature’s.”

Or, this: “I smeared my lips with a layer of ‘Deep Carmine’ lipstick that I had bought 20 years ago for a cousin’s wedding. The longevity of such a useless item, when valiant lives are lost every day, will never cease to confound me.”

Or: “The toilet paper, too is a candidate for sainthood.”

Truly funny.

Beautiful writing, authentic sentiment. I wanted so much to love this book.

However, as much as I tried to deny it, I was having a problem with Paloma’s voice. I felt it was too close in age and experience to Renée’s. My mind would often drift as I was reading her sections.

Granted, I’d occasionally be stopped or duly impressed by an acute observation made by her character, for instance: “As far as I can see, only psychoanalysis can compete with Christians in their love of drawn out suffering.”

But, to my taste, Paloma’s voice too closely resembled Renée’s — but without Renée’s sharp humor and undertone of humanity.

Paloma despises her family, rarely has anything good to say about any of them. After a while, it becomes predictable and tiresome. We are told about Paloma’s suicidal thoughts, yet her character seems to lack any believable sense of despair. I also had a difficult time believing that she was twelve years old. If only she would have displayed one or two traits that revealed her chronological age.

At one point, her character says, in describing someone else (though, maybe we are to believe she’s also talking about herself): “…truly nasty people hate everyone, for sure, but most of all themselves. Can’t you tell when a person hates himself? He becomes a living cadaver, it numbs all his negative emotions but also all the good ones so that he won’t feel nauseated by who he is.”

Twelve years old? Really?

That said, it was Renée’s character that kept me reading, and interested — all the way up until about 75 pages before the end. Then, things started falling apart for me.

The love interest (or friendship — it’s not made clear) that had been introduced to Renée earlier in the book (a Japanese man called Ozu), seemed underdeveloped and a bit too perfect — to the point where I’d more than once wondered if he would turn out to be a more sinister character in some way (he didn’t…too bad).

Finally came what I can only describe as the deux ex machina: “the improbable device to resolve the difficulties of the plot.”

I will not give away the ending, but I have to conclude that the events surrounding the outcome of Renée’s fate seemed — I’m sorry to have to say this — cheaply wrought.

Still, there is much to like about this book. Would I recommend it? Yes, for the beautiful writing and gorgeous sentences, the character development of Renée, and also what I learned about transcendental idealism and Japanese culture.

What I’m wondering is, has anyone else read The Elegance of the Hedgehog? Given the positive reviews, I would love to know if I’m the only one who felt disappointed upon closing the back cover?

]]> http://luca1710.wordpress.com/2009/11/23/il-rasoio-di-occam/ Mon, 23 Nov 2009 14:46:33 +0000 luca1710 http://luca1710.wordpress.com/2009/11/23/il-rasoio-di-occam/ http://luca1710.wordpress.com/2009/11/23/universali-in-sicilia-sardegna-e-tra-i-ricci-eleganti/ Mon, 23 Nov 2009 14:16:39 +0000 luca1710 http://luca1710.wordpress.com/2009/11/23/universali-in-sicilia-sardegna-e-tra-i-ricci-eleganti/ http://chiaravitetta.com/2009/11/21/leleganza-del-riccio/ Sat, 21 Nov 2009 14:28:37 +0000 Chiara Vitetta http://chiaravitetta.com/2009/11/21/leleganza-del-riccio/

L’eleganza del riccio è un romanzo di Muriel Barbery del 2006. Inizialmente non mi ha convinta molto, perché ho notato vari difetti, i quali peraltro avrebbero potuto essere corretti con una certa facilità. Mi riferisco a problemi “tecnici” come la scelta di narrare la storia in prima persona. Questa modalità di narrazione pone il problema di cosa un personaggio è lecito che sappia o non sappia (in un contesto di vita reale non può essere onnisciente), ma anche di quanto ognuno conosca se stesso. Se si vuole scrivere in modo realistico, bisogna tenere presente una verità che credo innegabile: difficilmente le persone conoscono a fondo i propri sentimenti e le ragioni delle azioni che compiono. Credo che in questo la scrittrice abbia fatto qualche errore. Quando un difetto è piccolo, di solito non lo nomino neanche, ma se lo stesso difetto è correggibile con facilità, allora diventa un po’ di grande, e parlarne diventa necessario, se si vuole dare un parere completo e sincero. Ad ogni modo, non escludo che possa essere io ad esagerare nella critica.

Il romanzo si snoda alternando il diario di una dodicenne alle riflessioni di una cinquantaquattrenne. Queste riflessioni non costituiscono un diario, sembrano più i pensieri che sgorgano direttamente dalla mente del personaggio, il che mi scoccia se la storia è narrata in prima persona. Anche questo è un problema.

In ogni caso, i personaggi principali sono particolari, interessanti ma forse poco realistici. La dodicenne, Paloma, ha un quoziente intellettivo molto alto ma si nasconde al mondo e alla sua famiglia cercando di apparire poco intelligente. Cerca angoli in cui isolarsi e stare in pace per poter riflettere sul mondo e sui suoi abitanti. Già nelle prime pagine ci informa con semplicità che si suiciderà il giorno del suo tredicesimo compleanno. Paloma ritiene di avere tutte le ragioni per morire e nessuna per vivere. Cambierà idea? Ovviamente non ve lo dico, mica voglio rovinarvi la sorpresa!

La quarantaquattrenne, Renèe, si nasconde in un modo diverso, molto strano. Fa la portinaia da tutta la vita in un palazzo abitato da facoltose famiglie parigine che la vedono come la classica, ignorante, brutta e vecchia portinaia. Lei in realtà è molto altro. Non mi ha convinta la spiegazione della sua smania di apparire perfettamente conforme allo stereotipo della portinaia, di dissimulare al punto da nascondere sotto la spesa i libri di filosofia che porta a casa dalla biblioteca. Nonostante questo e alcune altre cosette tecniche che non ho apprezzato, devo dire che il libro ha un suo perché. Intanto è ricco di spunti per interessanti riflessioni, poi è molto scorrevole e, infine, e non è cosa da poco, il finale mi ha strappato qualche lacrima. Questo non è da sottovalutare, così anche se non so ancora come definirlo, forse perché ho bisogno di qualche giorno per metabolizzarlo (l’ho finito qualche minuto fa), ve lo consiglio. Dà qualcosa, in ogni modo. In un mondo ormai colmo di libri inutili, a volte pieni di grammatica corretta ma privi di anima, spesso privi di qualunque senso, originalità e vita, L’eleganza del riccio è un libro che a mio parere vale la pena leggere. E allora che altro dirvi? Buona lettura e buona fortuna, perché spesso un libro è una scommessa, e non devo certo essere io a dirvi per la prima volta che le scommesse si vincono di rado. In ogni caso, si impara dai libri brutti e da quelli belli, perché come in tutte le cose della vita, l’equilibrio è l’elemento essenziale per vivere bene. Serve il bene e serve il male, servono i bei libri e i brutti libri.

Quello che vi auguro è di avere sempre voglia di scommettere su un libro, qualunque esso sia.

Buona lettura!

Last year, an unexpected hit was The Elegance of the Hedgehog, which was translated from French. Set in an apartment building in Paris, it involves the lives of the tenants.  It was hugely popular.   Well, good news for all you fans, the author’s new book, The Gourmet is just out.   It’s about the most famous food reviewer in the world, Pierre Arthens, who is dying, and on his death bed he is trying to remember the details of the most delicious foods he has eaten.  It is a lovely looking small Hardback and will make a great gift for people who liked the first book, and foodies, $27.95

The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery.

Has anyone read Muriel Barbery’s The Elegance of the Hedgehog yet? A bestseller in France, I have finally discovered this little gem! Meryl Streep would make an outrageous Renee Michel. Although Streep declined the role of Sofya Tolstoy in The Last Station she could, at the very least, settle for Renee (who has the elegance of a hedgehog) and her cat named Leo. Renee, a fifty-four-year-old concierge, describes herself in the following manner: I am a widow, I am short, ugly, and plump, I have bunions on my feet and, if I am to credit certain early mornings of self-inflicted disgust, the breath of a mammoth.  However, there is more to Renee than meets the eyes ….

Brief Synopsis:

We are in an elegant hotel particulier in the center of Paris. Renee, the building’s concierge, is short, ugly, and plump. She has bunions on her feet. She is cantankerous and addicted to television soaps. She is also a ferocious autodidact.

Long Synopsis: 

“We are in an elegant hotel particulier in the center of Paris. Renee, the building’s concierge, is short, ugly, and plump. She has bunions on her feet. She is cantankerous and addicted to television soaps. Her only genuine attachment is to her cat, Leo. In short, she is everything society expects from a concierge at a bourgeois building in a posh Parisian neighborhood. But Renee has a secret: she is a ferocious autodidact who furtively devours art, philosophy, music, and Japanese culture. With biting humor she scrutinizes the lives of the building’s tenants – her inferiors in every way except that of material wealth.” “Then there’s Paloma, a super-smart twelve-year-old and the youngest daughter of the Josses, who live on the fifth floor. Talented, precocious, and startlingly lucid, she has come to terms with life’s seeming futility and has decided to end her own on the day of her thirteenth birthday. Until then she will continue hiding her extraordinary intelligence behind a mask of mediocrity, acting the part of an average pre-teen high on pop subculture, a good but not an outstanding student, an obedient if obstinate daughter.” “Paloma and Renee hide both their true talents and their finest qualities from a world they suspect cannot or will not appreciate them. They discover their kindred souls when a new tenant arrives, a wealthy Japanese man named Ozu. He befriends Paloma and is able to see through Renee’s timeworn disguise to the mysterious event that has haunted her since childhood.”

Check out the Wikipedia description here.

Or … she can just give the role to Kathy Bates and Helen Mirren. Alas, since it is a French book, the role would probably go to an older French actress.

Muriel Barbery (1969 – vivente), scrittrice francese.

Il romanzo è ambientato a Parigi in un elegante palazzo abitato da famiglie dell’alta borghesia. Renée Michel sembra essere la comunissima portinaia: apparentemente sciatta, pigra, perennemente presa dalla cura del suo gatto e dalla televisione.

In realtà, Reneé è una persona coltissima: si interessa di arte, di filosofia, di cinema e soprattutto di cultura giapponese ma preferisce dissimulare la propria cultura.

……..

“Madame Michel ha l’eleganza del riccio: fuori è protetta da aculei, una vera e propria fortezza, ma ho il sospetto che dentro sia semplice e raffinata come i ricci, animaletti fintamente indolenti, risolutamente solitari e terribilmente eleganti.”

……..

“Da dove viene la meraviglia che proviamo di fronte ad alcune opere? L’ammirazione nasce al primo sguardo, e anche se in seguito, nella paziente caparbietà con cui tentiamo di stanare le cause, scopriamo che tutta questa bellezza è frutto di un virtuosismo che si svela solo scrutando il lavoro di un pennello che ha saputo domare luce e ombra e restituire forme e trame magnificandole – gioiello trasparente del bicchiere, grana tumultuosa delle conchiglie, morbidezza luminosa del limone -, tutto ciò non dissolve né spiega il mistero dell’incanto iniziale.

……..

“Stasera, ripensandoci, con il cuore e lo stomaco in subbuglio, mi dico che forse in fondo la vita è così: molta disperazione, ma anche qualche istante di bellezza dove il tempo non è più lo stesso. E’ come se le note musicali creassero una specie di parentesi temporale, una sospensione, un altrove in questo luogo, un sempre nel mai.

Sì, è proprio così, un sempre nel mai.”

Pieter Claesz (c. 1597-1 January 1660) “Tavola imbandita”.

Minha amiga @lu_karam insistia para que eu lesse A elegância do ouriço, da francesa Muriel Barbery. Ela só esquecia (dia sim, outro também) de me emprestar o tal livro. Até que ela lembrou. Comecei a ler meio desconfiada. Não curti os primeiros capítulos. Achei, honestamente, que seria uma daquelas obras que largamos no meio.

Insisti.

E foi só pela insistência que cheguei a isso:

Mas agora, e pela primeira vez, senti dor, tanta dor. Um soco no estômago, a respiração cortada, o coração desmilinguido, o estômago completamente esmagado. Uma dor física insuportável. Perguntei a mim mesma se um dia me recuperaria dessa dor. Sofri de dar vontade de berrar. Mas não berrei. O que experimento, agora que a dor continua mas já não me impede de andar ou falar, é uma sensação de impotência e absurdos totais. Então, é assim? De repente, todos os possíveis se apagam? Uma vida cheia de projetos, de conversas apenas começadas, de desejos nem sequer realizados, apaga-se num segundo e não tem mais nada, não há mais nada que fazer, não se pode voltar atrás? Pela primeira vez na vida senti o significado da palavra nunca. Bem, é terrível. A gente pronuncia essa palavra cem vezes por dia, mas não sabe o que diz antes de ter sido confrontado com um verdadeiro “nunca mais”. Afinal, sempre temos a ilusão de que controlamos o que acontece; nada nos parece definitivo.

Cheguei à parte acima justamente hoje, 2 de novembro, dia de Finados. E eu, infelizmente, já senti tudo isso aí em cima. A autora foi brilhante.

O livro, com 350 páginas e publicado pela Companhia das Letras, conta a história de Paloma e Renée. A primeira é moradora de um dos apartamentos do sofisticado prédio de número 7 da rue de Grenelle; a segunda é a zeladora do edifício. Ambas são narradoras absolutamente apaixonantes pra quem é freak como eu e defende a língua com um certo purismo. Além da óbvia diferença de classes sociais, as narradoras têm uma diferença de idade de 40 anos. Mesmo assim, os caminhos delas se cruzam. E uma muda a vida da outra. Não contarei mais que isso. Leia.

É um romance filosófico (não sou muito afeita a filosofia), mas o modo como a autora descreve coisas, sentidos e pessoas te faz viajar, imaginar cada personagem. É impossível não se deixar levar. Recomendo. Super.

Nádia Lapa

A novel about an arrogant food critic could only happen in France. Bien sûr!

Some time ago, I set myself the challenging and Sisyphean task of reading Muriel Barbery’s first novel, Une gourmandise, in French.  (Barbery’s reputation rests on her extremely philosophical second novel — The Elegance of the Hedgehog [what a title!], which took France by storm. The heavy larding of the text with academic philosophical bits proved to be the downfall of many American readers. But not all.)

Un peu every day. Slog, slog, but of the pleasurable sort. But, finally, in September 2009, the English translation — Gourmet Rhapsody (with its lousy translation of the title, Une gourmandise, IMO) — appeared and, with relief, I read un peu of both versions every day, in little chunks to assure myself that my twisted French à l’ancienne still worked, un peu at least.

Several of the same characters in Hedgehog appear in cameo in Une gourmandise. But center stage belongs to the insufferable food critic and food writer, Pierre Arthens, dead as a plucked pheasant in Hedgehog, but vibrant as a crowing peacock in Gourmet Rhapsody.

Right off the bat, Pierre Arthens calls himself “the greatest food critic in the world.” (Je suis le plus grand critique gastronomique du monde.)

Uh, OK. A little ego thing going there, a big attitude with no adjustment in sight, but people apparently can live with that sort of thing. I mean, stand in any grocery store checkout lane, and scan the headlines of the tabloids and fan magazines displayed oh so subtly for one’s ready pleasure, conveniently placed within an eye’s reach and an arm’s length. We’re a culture that worships large egos.

And so, faced with his impending death, the egotistical Arthens recounts his frantic attempt to recall a certain great taste during his last 48 hours.

Une gourmandise/Gourmet Rhapsody really nails it when it comes to descriptions of food. Arthens, through Barbery’s pen, captures one taste memory after another in seductive, almost pornographic, prose:

The grilled sardines filled the entire neighborhood with their ashy marine aroma.  … In the flesh of grilled fish, from the humblest of mackerel to the most refined salmon, there is something that defies culture. Early man, in learning to cook fish, must have felt his humanity for the first time, in this substance where fire revealed both essential purity and wildness. (Les sardines grillées embaumaient tout le quartier de leur fumet océanique et cendré. … Il y a dans la chair du poisson grillé, du plus humble des maquereaux au plus raffiné des saumons, quelque chose qui échappe à la culture. C’est ainsi que les hommes, apprenant à cuire leur poisson, durent éprouver pour la première fois leur humanité, dans cette matière dont le feu révélait conjointement la pureté et la sauvagerie essentielles.)

And so it goes, for pages, different foods, buried memories, dishes bordering on the divine, more vignettes than traditional story telling, a calling up of last suppers and large regrets. Barbery certainly grasps the power of critics and writers to make and break lives.

Nevertheless, when the last pages fall together, at THE END, images of other unforgettable (but real) food writers and food critics emerge out of the mental stew served up by Barbery.

Take a moment to reflect on this Day of all Souls (La Toussaint). In tribute, remember those saintly souls of the food world who went before, leaving us with profound pleasure on the page and in the pan, those who wrote seductively and winningly of food and the kitchen.

The following are just some of the souls who “preserve” me on the page and in the kitchen. Arthens they’re not …

Elizabeth Pennell

Elizabeth David

M. F. K. Fisher

Roy Andries de Groot

Photo credit Nancy Crampton

Laurie Colwin

And a nod to all the late food-besotted personalities included in Culinary Biographies, as well as those found in the series edited by Holly Hughes, Best Food Writing … even if the writers from the latter still wield their pens.

*As All Saints’ Day and All Souls’ Day are called in France.

© 2009 C. Bertelsen

Um camarão, 2009

Robin J.  Mitchell ( Canadá)

óleo sobre madeira,  17,5 cm x 25 cm

http://robinjmitchell.blogspot.com

Lavou com cuidado o arroz tailandês numa pequena peneira prateada, escorreu-o, jogou-o na panela, cobriu-o com um volume e meio de água salgada, tampou, deixou cozinhar.  Os camarões jaziam numa tigela de louça.  Sempre conversando comigo, essencialmente sobre meu artigo e meus projetos, descascou-os com uma meticulosidade concentrada.  Nem um instante acelerou a cadência, nem um instante a diminuiu. Quando o último pequeno arabesco ficou despojado de sua ganga protetora, lavou conscienciosamente as mãos, com um sabonete que cheirava a leite.  Com a mesma serena uniformidade pôs uma frigideira de ferro no fogo, despejou um fio de azeite, deixou-o aquecer, jogou uma chuva de camarões descascados.  Com jeito, a espátula de madeira os manipulava, não deixando às pequenas meias-luas escapatória, dourando-as de todos os lados, fazendo-as valsar sobre a grelha perfumada.  Depois, caril. Nem demais nem muito pouco.  Uma nuvem sensual embelezando com seu dourado exótico o cobre rosado dos crustáceos: o Oriente reinventado.  Sal, pimenta.  Com a tesoura cortou um ramo de coentro em cima da preparação.  Por último, rapidamente, o conteúdo de uma tampinha de conhaque, o fósforo; do recipiente jorrou uma longa chama rabugenta, como um chamado ou um grito que afinal se liberta, suspiro furioso que se apaga tão depressa quanto se levantou.  

Na mesa de mármore aguardavam pacientes um prato de porcelana, um copo de cristal, uma prataria fantástica e um guardanapo de linho bordado.  No prato dispôs cuidadosamente, com a colher de pau, a metade dos camarões, o arroz previamente comprimido numa minúscula tigela e desenformado como uma pequena cúpula tendo no alto uma folha de hortelã.  No copo, serviu-se generosamente de um líquido cor de trigo transparente.

“Sirvo-lhe um copo de sancerre?”

Fiz que não com a cabeça.  Sentou-se à mesa.

Fazer uma boquinha.  Era o que Jacques Desterres chamava de fazer uma boquinha.  Eu sabia que não brincava, que todo dia preparava assim uma pequena dose de paraíso, que desconhecia o requinte de seu ordinário, verdadeiro gourmet, real esteta na ausência de encenação que caracterizava seu dia a dia.  Eu o observava comer, sem tocar no prato que ele preparara diante de meus olhos, comer com o mesmo cuidado distanciado e sutil que empregara ao cozinhar, e essa refeição que não provei foi uma das melhores de minha vida.

Degustar é um ato de prazer, descrever esse prazer é um fato artístico, mas a única verdadeira obra de arte, definitivamente, é o festim do outro. O almoço de Jacques Desterres revestia-se de perfeição porque não era o meu, porque não transbordava para o antes e depois do meu cotidiano, e, unidade fechada e auto-suficiente, poderia ficar em minha memória, momento único gravado fora do tempo e do espaço, pérola de meu espírito liberado dos sentimentos de minha vida.  Como contemplamos uma peça que se reflete num espelho redondo, e que se torna um quadro, não por estar mais aberto para outra coisa, mas por sugerir todo um mundo sem outros lugares, inscrito estritamente entre as bordas do espelho e exilado da vida ao redor, a refeição do outro é encerrada no quadro de nossa contemplação e isenta da linha de fuga infinita de nossas lembranças ou de nossos projetos. Gostaria de viver aquela vida, aquela que o espelho ou o prato de Jacques me sugeriam, uma vida sem perspectivas por onde se esvai a possibilidade que ela se torne uma obra de arte, uma vida sem outrora nem amanhã, sem arredores nem horizonte: aqui e agora, é belo, é pleno, é fechado.

Em: A morte do gourmet, Muriel Barbery,  São Paulo, Cia das Letras: 2009, p. 59-60.  Tradução de Rosa Freire D’ Aguiar.

Now I am off up north on my own this weekend which involves (as the trains have gotten so ridiculously expensive already in the lead up to Christmas) two almost six hour journeys each way. However the fact I will be seeing my 1 year old twin cousin’s makes the trip very much worth it, though the prospect of looking after them on my own for a day or two is slightly daunting. So being in the fortunate position that I can read on a coach (some people can’t and I feel for them) I am planning on using this as perfect binge reading time and so have had to ponder over what to read for 12 hours.

Now taking books on your travels is always a tough call. You don’t want to be weighed down for a start, though that hasn’t quite worked as you will see below shortly. There is also the worry of what sort of book you will be in the mood for and with twelve hours free who knows? It also doesn’t help that I will be starting a new book tomorrow and so as a rule I always take a few books and this time I decided to take five with me. After much mulling and wandering through my bookshelves (so not planned reading its all been random) I decided on the following…

• 1984 – George Orwell (ok one bit of planned reading as this is for book group on Thursday)
• We Have Always Lived in the Castle – Shirley Jackson (a short book for Halloween evening and have heard some rave reviews)
• The Elegance of the Hedgehog – Muriel Barbery (been tempting me for ages)
• Small Island – Andrea Levy (one of my tomes have been meaning to read)
• The Year of the Flood – Margaret Atwood (something new which I have been meaning to read)

Now if you would like to get your hands on a ‘chilling’ tale for Halloween you can (I have just finished a Halloween related book to discuss tomorrow) get the Shirley Jackson for free (well 90p), as I did, with The Times as its available until the end of today. Just to give you a tip off as its alost a tenner new in the shops.

Speaking of newspapers etc, I am taking some bookish magazines with me such as Books Quarterly which Waterstones publish and I love, plus the wonderful Persephone Biannually which I have half read already (lovely to see lots of you in it). I am also taking a catalogue or two as Persephone and Oxford Classics aren’t just book catalogues but glossy wonderful and delightful magazines that give you much more than a blurb.

So all in all the twelve hours should fly by before I know it! How do you choose the books you take away with you on holiday? Do you have a selection or just one and hope for the best? What bookish magazines do you simply have to get every issue of?

Natureza morta com sardinhas e ouriços do mar, 1880-1882

Adolphe Montecelli (França 1824-1886)

óleo sobre madeira,  81 x 95 cm

Museu de Arte de Dallas, EUA

Estou lendo A morte do gourmet, primeiro livro publicado de Muriel Barbery, a escritora francesa que ficou famosa pela publicação do livro A elegância do ouriço, já aqui resenhado.   Depois de ler a passagem sobre sardinhas, lembrei-me também dessa deliciosa refeição que são as sardinhas grelhadas, tão comuns tanto no Brasil como em Portugal e tive que sair à procura de uma refeição que incluísse pelo menos peixe.  Segue:

As sardinhas grelhadas impregnavam de seu perfume oceânico e cendrado todo o quarteirão.  Uma fumaça espessa e cinza escapava das tuias que cercavam o jardim.  Os homens das casas vizinhas iam dar uma mãozinha ao vovô.  Sobre imensas grelhas,  os peixinhos prateados já estalavam ao vento do meio-dia.  Ríamos, falávamos, abríamos garrafas de vinho branco seco bem gelado, os homens sentavam enfim e as mulheres saíam da cozinha com pilhas de pratos imaculados.  Habilmente, minha avó pegava um corpinho rechonchudo,farejando seu perfume, e o jogava no prato, em companhia de alguns outros.  Com seus bons olhos idiotas ela me olhava, gentil, e dizia: “Tome, ei, pequeno, a primeira é sua!  Virgem, como ele gosta disso, puxa!”.   E todo mundo caía na risada, batia nas minhas costas enquanto o prodigioso pitéu aterrissava diante de mim.  Eu não ouvia mais nada.  Com os olhos saltados, encarava o objeto de meu desejo; a pele cinza empolada, sulcada por longos lastros pretos, já não aderia aos flancos que cobria.  Minha faca fazia uma incisão nas costas do bicho e dividia com cuidado a carne esbranquiçada, cozida no ponto, que se separava em lâminas bem firmes, sem um toque de resistência.

Em: A morte do gourmet, Muriel Barbery,  São Paulo, Cia das Letras: 2009, p. 34-5.  Tradução de Rosa Freire D’ Aguiar.

I’ve done very little writing since Oona was born, but I’m still sending my book out to agents. It’s been rejected by about five (I’ve lost track), and three more have it right now. I took the time to read through it again and decide if I should revise further (in which case I’d hire an editor to help me) or just keep sending it out, and this is what I realized:

A few small edits were needed throughout, like an added sentence here or there
A section in the first chapter feels too rushed/summarized
The first 100 pages aren’t as good as the rest, and slow the book down a bit (and perhaps lose the interest of agents before they get past them?)

So I marked it up and made some of those revisions, and then started to chop the first 100 pages to really delete some chapters. Then I had doubts about deleting those chapters and decided I’d rather have an editor tell me to delete them than for an agent/editor to never have the chance to see them at all. So I left them alone. And I fiddled with the first chapter, then put it back the way it was. Then I read a “How I Got My Agent” post on the Guide to Literary Agents blog and felt so much better about my book. The woman submitted her manuscript, worked on it for another year, submitted again, edited more, submitted again, was still rejected, and on and on until she got offers from two agents, and chose one. Somehow I had it in my head that if the first five agents rejected me, the book just wasn’t good enough and needed more revision, even though I’ve heard a hundred stories about people getting rejected 50+ times before finding an agent. It made me think that I need to put my energy into finding an agent instead of revising my book (although I do still want to make some more small edits.) I haven’t gotten far in creating a list of people to query, but I did query three more, and two requested to see it. So I just need to continue on down that path. My “goal” is to find an agent by the end of the year, but I have so little control over that outcome. A better goal would be to name a number of agents that I’ll query by the end of October, or mid-November. A start would be to create that list.

I’m anxious to get started on my next book, and I feel like I would have made much more progress by now if I a) weren’t still focused on getting an agent for my first book and b) didn’t have a screaming newborn. I guess once I go back to work in a month, that will be my priority. Right now my priority is getting some sleep and remaining sane while caring for a toddler and a newborn (and Martin is going out of town for three days on Monday! Lord help me!)

Meanwhile, I’ve managed to read a little here and there (not as much a I’d like). Just finished The Elegance of the Hedgehog. I liked it. I don’t know if it’s my favorite book, but I did like it. I would have enjoyed more time with Kakuro and less time reading the musings of Mme. Michel and Paloma, but it was entertaining. I haven’t decided which book to read next. I have several on my nightstand, and none of them appeal to me right now. One I DO want to read after reading Elegance, is Anna Karenina. If only I had a Nook, I could download it right now! I think I want a Nook for Christmas.

Signing off to do some chores (THEY NEVER END), and to try to read myself to sleep.

Before the French publishing sensation The Elegance of the Hedgehog, there was Gourmet Rhapsody.  We in English-speaking North America were not aware of such a delicacy until after the translation of Hedgehog was introduced to us.  Too risky to sell to a different palate?

As a first novel, Gourmet Rhapsody, the 156-page collection of short chapters, is like an appetizer to the main dish that is Hedgehog.  It is a foretaste of the more meaty philosophical pondering of the latter.  Now that we have savored the main dish first,  might as well treat Gourmet Rhapsody as the dessert.  Does the cover not make you think of a raspberry sorbet?

If food is a metaphor for life, then the food critic is almost at the status of divinity, especially ‘the greatest food critic in the world’.  That self-ascribed praise is the egotistic utterance of none other than Pierre Arthens, the celeb resident on the fourth floor of the luxury apartment at 7 Rue  de Grenelle, the setting for Hedgehog.

Pierre Arthens’ pen is indeed mightier than the sword.  The knowledgeable and merciless food critic, the ‘true genius of the food world’, is feared from all corners of the world, ‘from Paris to Rio, Moscow to Brazzaville, Saigon to Melbourne and Acapulco’.  He holds the power to exalt a chef and restaurateur to stardom or crush their ego and future like eggshells.

“Between these two extremes — the rich warmth of a daube and the clean crystal of shellfish, I have covered the entire range of culinary art, for I am an encyclopedic esthete who is always one dish ahead of the game — but always one heart behind.”

But what use is the allure of fame and power when one is on deathbed, at 68, given only 48 hours to live.  Alas, from the years of Epicurean pursuits of cream and butter, oil and sauces, games and other culinary delights, the world renowned food critic is dying not from liver or stomach ailments, but cardiac failure.

Gourmet Rhapsody is a collection of Arthens’ own reminiscence of a life with food and his final quest.  The vividly evoked memories are interspersed with poignant commentaries by those who have come into the path of his life, including his wife, children, nephew, granddaughter, restaurateurs, his doctor, his concierge, his mistress, and even his cat.

And alas, what pity it is to find that none of the entries from these people is positive.  His daughter Laura stays in the stairway, refuses to go into his room to see his last.  His son loathes his ego and his ruthless destruction of theirs.  His wife Anna, whom he had loved as an object of possession, is ever more ambivalent at his deathbed.

And what irony, the only positive review of his life comes from his cat Rick:

“… here I am, nineteen years I’ve knocked about as head tomcat on the Persian rugs of my abode;  just me, the favorite, the master’s alter ego, the one and only, to whom he declared his thoughtful, undying love…”

So, what does it profit a man if he gains the whole world but loses the love from his wife and children, or respect from those who have crossed his path?  This ultimate question belies the enticing and delicious offering described throughout the chapters.  As in Hedgehog, Barbery has cleverly created a philosophical concoction without appearing didactic.  Here in Gourmet Rhapsody, food is the delightful sauce bringing up the taste of such rumination.

As a lover of sushi and sashimi, my favorite chapter is ‘Raw’, in which Arthens reminisce on his first taste of these Japanese culinary delights:

“It was dazzling… True sashimi is not so much bitten into as allowed to melt on the tongue.  It calls for slow, supple chewing, not to bring about a change in the nature of the food but merely to allow one to savor its airy, satiny texture… sashimi is velvet dust, verging on silk, or a bit of both, and the extraordinary alchemy of its gossamer essence allows it to preserve a milky density unknown even by clouds.”

But the powerful food critic has but one final quest on his deathbed.  There is one particular food that he wants to taste most before his imminent demise, but which he fails to name.  No, not the coq au vin, or the extravagant pots-au-feu, or poulets chasseur, or the grilled meat of Tangiers, or the Moroccan kesra, or the velvety, melt-in-your-tongue sashimi.  Should I reveal it here?  Alright, Spoiler Alert.

It is the chouquettes, cream puffs, but not from fancy patisserie.  Pierre Arthens wants to taste those chouquettes that are stuffed in plastic bags from the supermarket.  After a life of bourgeois elegance and Epicurean odyssey, it is the mundane, ordinary thing that Arthens seeks on his deathbed.  In the face of mortality, every single moment of mundaneness is something to devour.

If only he had savored that sooner, not just food, but the people in his life, and everything else.

~ ~ ~ Ripples

Gourmet Rhapsody by Muriel Barbery, translated by Alison Anderson, Europa Editions, 2009.  156 pages.         

To read my review of  The Elegance of the Hedgehog, CLICK HERE.

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