A Gentleman in Moscow

by Amor Towles

“A king fortifies himself with a castle,” observed the Count, “a gentleman with a desk.”

But experience is less likely to teach us how to bid our dearest possessions adieu. And if it were to? We wouldn’t welcome the education. For eventually, we come to hold our dearest possessions more closely than we hold our friends. We carry them from place to place, often at considerable expense and inconvenience; we dust and polish their surfaces and reprimand children for playing too roughly in their vicinity—all the while, allowing memories to invest them with greater and greater importance. This armoire, we are prone to recall, is the very one in which we hid as a boy; and it was these silver candelabra that lined our table on Christmas Eve; and it was with this handkerchief that she once dried her tears, et cetera, et cetera. Until we imagine that these carefully preserved possessions might give us genuine solace in the face of a lost companion.

if a man does not master his circumstances then he is bound to be mastered by them.

The Count took pride in wearing a well-tailored jacket; but he took greater pride in knowing that a gentleman’s presence was best announced by his bearing, his remarks, and his manners. Not by the cut of his coat.

Here, indeed, was a formidable sentence—one that was on intimate terms with the comma, and that held the period in healthy disregard.

After all, what can a first impression tell us about someone we’ve just met for a minute in the lobby of a hotel? For that matter, what can a first impression tell us about anyone? Why, no more than a chord can tell us about Beethoven, or a brushstroke about Botticelli. By their very nature, human beings are so capricious, so complex, so delightfully contradictory, that they deserve not only our consideration, but our reconsideration—and our unwavering determination to withhold our opinion until we have engaged with them in every possible setting at every possible hour.

he couldn’t help but remark on the repetitiveness of the new journalistic style. Not only did the Bolsheviks seem to dwell on the same sort of subject matter day to day, they celebrated such a narrow set of views with such a limited vocabulary that one inevitably felt as if one had read it all before. It wasn’t until the fifth article that the Count realized he had read it all before. For this was yesterday’s paper. With a grunt, he tossed it back on the table and looked at the clock behind the front desk,

For there is nothing more essential to the enjoyment of a civilized lunch than to have a lively topic of conversation.”

“The Metropol Hotel,” he informed the Count unnecessarily, “is host to some of the world’s most eminent statesmen and prominent artistes. When they pass through our doors, they have the right to expect unparalleled comfort, unsurpassed service, and mornings free of mayhem. Needless to say,” he concluded, reaching for his pen, “I shall get to the bottom of this.” “Well,” replied the Count, rising from his chair, “if getting to the bottom is what is called for, I am sure there is no man better suited for the job.”

Every year that passed, it seemed a little more of her had slipped away; and I began to fear that one day I would come to forget her altogether. But the truth is: No matter how much time passes, those we have loved never slip away from us entirely.”

“Well informed is well prepared,”

For what matters in life is not whether we receive a round of applause; what matters is whether we have the courage to venture forth despite the uncertainty of acclaim.”