from Me and My Big Mouth
Hedgehog I started this book in the knowledge that it had sold over a million copies in its native France. That is a merde-load of books by anyone's standard.
For the first third I was seriously wondering what all the fuss was about. Nice premise, but no big deal. Perhaps there is something uniquely French in its appeal. Like Johnny Hallyday. Or horse meat. After all, it outsold the hyped-to-death Les Bienveillantes and spent longer in the bestseller charts than The Da Vinci Code so the French certainly liked it.
During the middle section I was beginning to warm to it. The book was working its charm. It was pretty good after all. Not a classic, mind, but not bad.
By the end I had fallen madly in love with it, the way I have, in turn, with Emanuelle Beart, Vanessa Paradis, Audrey Tatou and Soko. It is bloody marvelous. And yes, there was a tear in my eye as I turned the final pages...
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