Yesterday I went to see the French film called "The Hedgehog" (I've forgotten the French word for it)—fun to see the Parisian neighborhood since I am heading to Paris myself next weekend.

But more than that, it was a treat to watch the performance of the main character, an eleven-year-old girl named Paloma in the film. Some people, in reviews, called her annoying....and she would have been, to live with!...but for me, I watched her with a sense of recognition. Myself at that age. Solitary, secretive, introspective, creative.  There is a scene in which she opens up a project she has been working on: a complex drawing of bookcases...and for a moment I was plunged back into my own child self, tongue between my teeth, concentrating, pens and brushes and papers, doing the same kind of fastidious projects..



OKay, so we didn't look allike though we were both blonde.  She had much better---thicker, wavier---hair than I did.  Nor was I as pessimistic as she.  But in many, many ways my child self related to her, and it made the film a special treat.