I always find it difficult to "like" most literary books. I usually don't "enjoy" the story, but do admire the author's craft: clever word usage, apt metaphors, bold/different structure. But, I also prefer lively, interesting, complicated characters; tight plot, and action in my fiction. Most literary books will have the craft and the characters, but not much in the way of plot or action. This book falls into that category and started very slow for me. The author's introspection in the early chapters seemed to scream "Look how smart I am! I can talk about Art and Beauty and The Human Condition!" I have nothing against philosophic discussions, but prefer to engage in them directly; not read fiction as a thin disguise for the author's views. This book, by its nature, is introspective bordering on navel gazing. It's written in first person from two characters' POV: a brilliant, self-taught, plain, peasant woman working as a concierge at an apartment building for rich Parisians; and a brilliant, suicidal twelve-year-old girl who lives in the building. Both hide their intelligence from the world, but for different reasons. Both are looking for authenticity in others and fail to find it, except in odd corners. The early chapters seem to have more whining about how awful everyone else is in their lives and how banal life is in general; which did not endear them to me, but that is part of the author's craft. Gradually the characters' personalities emerged from behind the intellectual pretensions and captured my attention. They came most sharply into focus once a Japanese gentleman moved into the building and befriended both. For me, the book would have been much better if he had entered the mix earlier and allowed the characters to unfold more fully in a positive light. Also, hated the ending from an emotional point of view, but totally understood it from a writer's choice perspective. For a literary effort, this deserves more than three stars, but in the context of my reading pleasure, I can't give it more than three.