Who would have thought the little beast would still be scuffling along so vigorously a year later? “The Elegance of the Hedgehog”: Number 12 on the New York Times Trade paperback bestseller list, number 5 on the Indie Bestseller list, Sales Rank 31 on Amazon (and 632 in the Francophobe UK, pas mal). It seems that such hedgehogly vigor calls for some reflections on the part of the breeder (if a translator can be termed the person who facilitated the creature’s conception and birth into another language…)

Muriel Barbery wrote a great book. Simple as that. Not everyone likes it; my own sister couldn’t finish it. That is the prerogative, and the duty, of Great Books, to be disliked, or misunderstood as much as they are loved and praised. The simplicity of bad books is clear to all; good books provoke controversy and debate. I can still recall the thrill I had after reading a dozen pages or so in the original French; I knew I was on to something that might be great. If the book kept its promise, I told myself, I would like nothing better than to translate it.

It’s hard to explain exactly why there are projects you desperately want to translate, and others that leave you indifferent. I believe it’s not unlike love; wanting to see again a person you think you might fall in love with. Only you fall in love with words. Renée’s self-denigrating irony; Paloma’s wistful gloom. The way the characters come across, through individual words or entire set pieces. And I think I felt that love for the characters’ words because I know, on the best authority, that Muriel Barbery loves words, too, almost more than anything.

I’ve been getting lots of emails from readers, which is very gratifying for a translator who labors alone, in silence most of the time. I worked on the Hedgehog for several months, every morning from six to seven, before going to work. It was a privileged time, the quiet of early morning, the good coffee, the cat still sleeping at the foot of the bed. It was when my brain—my spirit (mon esprit) was at its freshest, undisturbed by noise, by the mindless aggression of other people, in the street, in the bus, at the office. I was at rue de Grenelle, and it was not a bad place to be. Interesting, thoughtful things were going on there. And there was a bit of that euphoria, despite the difficult passages; when I would get to the ones I loved, I knew I was doing what I’d been put on earth to do. (Scuffle, scuffle.)

And humor. Muriel Barbery wrote a very funny book. I was dismayed to see that some readers failed to grasp the entirely tongue-in-cheek treatment of the novel. Of course there are moments that are grave, and sad, but to view this book as a treatise on class in contemporary France, as some have done, is very short-sighted. If you take any of it too seriously—the philosophy, the class relations, Renée and her obsessions about Tolstoy or Ozu or camellias—you will fall flat on the Hedgehog’s prickles. Lighten up, reader.

And for me Muriel’s strength is in the depiction of moments. How to find, if not happiness, a sort of equilibrium, by recognizing the moments that matter. The relationships between people, when they lead to warmth or laughter. A still life. The grimaces–and grace–of a Maori haka dancer. The gouglof you share with a friend. The strains of Satie in the courtyard. That sort of thing; subtle, almost imperceptible sorts of things that may not figure in some people’s definitions of  what makes Great Books, but that make life that little bit more livable, even beautiful.

I’m not digging in the book for these examples; they’re the ones that spring to mind, almost as if I had lived them myself. I cannot go into a lingerie shop without seeing Paloma’s mother fighting with the other woman over that eighty-euro scrap of lace. And as for shrinks:  they all wear brown, and never move a muscle. That was my favorite scene in the whole book, although describing it like that proves nothing; you have to reread it, relive it.

I got very very rich, on this book, as you may expect. A huge bestseller, in English 170,000 copies alone. But you don’t know this when you set out, when you sign a contract; very few translations become bestsellers (Anna Karenina, The Stranger, The Magic Mountain, etc…) So don’t bother with the calculator; figures have nothing to do with my wealth.  No, I got rich on something far better than filthy lucre:  on words, more words, contracts for more great books (check this site for frequent updates!), contact with people, readers, words of praise from others, wonderful, lively exchanges with the author and the editors, encounters with people in Rome and Paris and London who appreciate books and good literature.

Only one person wrote a damning review of the translation, in England, (although she liked the book in French); I confess I lost my cool and wrote back in self-defence. I think she was trying to seem important, to show how well she knew French, and wished she could have done a better job. Who knows. It is a plum of a book to translate (yes it passes the cherry plum test, too); maybe she had translator’s envy. Nevertheless, her damning review filled me with doubt for days. But I suppose you have to have one token bad review, just so you keep on the level.

(My favorite head-shaking moment of mock despair is when I read a reader’s review on Amazon that says, “I didn’t like this book. It was weird. There are too many difficult show-off words. It must be the fault of the translation.”) Passons.

It’s odd, too, to be living in a French-speaking country and to find myself introduced as the “traductrice de l’Elégance du Hérisson.” Most people know the book, and every time I go into my local bookstore there it is, in huge piles by the cash register, its simple white cover with the red trim and now, recently, in paperback. It gives me an odd sort of celebrity in the French-speaking world, but the irony is that I have stacks of copies of the book that no one wants because they’ve all read it in French. So I’m a sort of non-person celebrity, in fact.

I haven’t met Muriel, although I hope to, someday soon (she lives in Kyoto, not exactly la porte à côté). We also worked together on her first book, Une gourmandise, published this week as Gourmet Rhapsody. (Check it out!) A very different book, but filled, succulently, with the love of words.

If anyone cannot see the connection between a hedgehog—basically a snuffly, flea-infested little animal that looks better dolled up in pinneys in Beatrix Potter than in real life—and the rich world of letters, they have forgotten the crucial connecting word:  quill.

3 The shaft of a feather, esp. the calamus; loosely a quill feather. LME. ▸ b A pen formed from a main wing or tail feather of a large bird (esp. a goose) by pointing and slitting the end of the shaft. M16.
4 Any of the hollow sharp spines of a porcupine, hedgehog, etc. E17.

To conclude, I went to see the film “Le Hérisson,” a few weeks ago. It is not the book; it is inspired by the book, as it carefully informs you in the opening credits. It is a visual, cinematographic brushstroke; it has become more Paloma’s story than Renée’s. It does not so much betray the book—although there are some dubious moments—as reinterpret it.

I was immensely glad to be able to do that with the English language–this has been the translation of a lifetime. Besides, I’m not very good with a movie camera.