The Book Review Club - A Gentleman in Moscow

A Gentleman In Moscow
Amor Towles
Adult

Picasso had a blue phase (and a red one). As far as reading choices go, I've had a down under, a WW II, and now, mysteriously, a "communist" phase (is this what happens when your first leave the nest?).

Without realizing it, I picked out both a book to read and listen to set during communist periods--one in Russia and one in China. The one in China is achingly well-written, but since I've had about all the ache I can handle (again, see: first one leaving the nest), I am writing about the more upbeat, A Gentleman In Moscow. However, should you feel a communist phase coming on and need reinforcements, check out: Do Not Say We Have Nothing, by Madeleine Thien. So, so good.

Towles starts his tale with a verdict, a grim one. No, not firing squad (I did promise more upbeat). The year is 1922. The Bolshviks are firmly rooted in power. The old guard is slowly being weeded out, banished, "relieved of their duties" (okay, yes, there is some firing squad-ing going on, but it's off stage) to rid Russia of its entrenched aristocracy.

Except for one Count Alexander Ilyich Rostov, who is, surprisingly, a Bolshevik sympathizer. His 1913 poem decrying the crushing of the 1905 revolt proves this beyond doubt. However, he seems to have since been poisoned by his royal blood, and while a firing squad truly seems the only way to deal with this "lost" sympathizer, there are those within the new regime that see he is spared, albeit banished within his own country, to the Hotel Metropole to be exact, to live out his days in a cramped former servant's quarters on the six floor.

And so begins an adventure that only twice leaves the confines of the hotel, and yet is ripe to bursting with love, loss, despair, parenthood, friendship, grace, espionage, so many things not even Count Rostov himself could ever have imagined, banished to a hotel in the middle of Moscow where he can only see the world he loves so dearly revolving around him, until he finally, for a love even deeper than country, risks it all.

Don't worry, I won't give away the ending. But it is REALLY good. What I loved so much about this book is Towles' mastery of phrase, unique manner of revealing the world through the eyes of his characters, and yes, all things Russian. It's a hidden world to me, one far more profound and complex and rich that Towles introduces with promise of so much more beneath, driving it all.

Although Towles begins with Rostov's statement that all poetry is "a call to arms", this book isn't the call you might be expecting. It is a call to hope, to love, to love even the most wayward, decrepit, seemingly fiendish of all, the enemy who has condemned him. No matter when I stopped listening, I felt uplifted, refreshed, dare I say, hopeful. It's something I feel as if we have all had so precious little of of late, and yet that we need to reaffirm and embrace anew what binds us all.

So, if you're feeling like hope, like believing in the silver lining again, pick up Towles book, enjoy the layers of meaning and discovery as rich and surprising as that great Russian stew, borscht, itself.

And then daintily dab your lips and take a gander down the smorgasbord of Fall delights laid out in all their splendor on Barrie Summy's website. Naslazhdat'sya! Enjoy!

There is Hope, World

When I was growing up in the 1970s and 1980s, the Olympics were all about beating the Soviet Union. China was a dark force whom "we" didn't like very much, but the Soviet Union? Yeesh. Darth Vader, Sauron and Lex Luther all rolled up into one.

Have times changed.

My family and I were watching the games the other night when Canada won its first ever gold on home ground. It was an emotionally overwhelming moment to share with Alexandre Bilodeau when he caputured gold in the men's moguls. We all cheered. Loudly.

None of us is Canadian.

It got even better yesterday when Shen and Zhao won the pairs figure skating gold, a medal that's eluded them for two decades and which they came out of retirement to try one last time to capture. I was in tears.

I am not Chinese.

My ten year old daughter said, "That is so good. They deserve it."

She is not Chinese.

Why my emphasis on nationality? Because after growing up fearing the "evil empire" that was the Soviet Union, I realized last night that the world my children are growing up in is a vastly new one. One in which we cheer for the winners, no matter where they are from. When an announcer talks about a Japanese skater who became Russian to follow her dream of figure skating, and in a joking aside says, "Does anyone defect to the Soviet Union?"

Times have changed. Changed for the better. 

Sure, there are still problems. Iran and Israel would not march into the games one after the other.  Taiwan is not allowed to call itself Taiwan. But, you know, I think the Greeks were onto something. These games, they may not necessarily be the big force that changes our opinions about each other, but they keep lines of communication open. They give us the opportunity to root for our fellow man, regardless of nationality, and to mourn with him. The moment of silence for the Georgian luge slider, Nodar Kumaritashvili, during the opening ceremonies is one I will long remember. 

For these brief two weeks, we get a chance to be better than we are. American broadcasters have even gotten with the program. Two games ago, all they ever seemed to show were the Americans performing. Now they are showing a great cross section of athletes, giving those of us at home the opportunity to cheer for the best athlete, no matter where she is from. It's awesome. And I don't meant the trite definition of that word. I mean the awe-inspiring, we can do anything if we put our minds to it, definition.

There's hope world. Don't give up on us yet.

You Might Be a Writer If...

The empty nest I've been brooding over this past week has given me plenty of time to think. Letting go of those little babies is one of the hardest things ever. Letting them fly. Letting them find their own wings. Any parent experiences a certain reluctance to cut the cord and bid them adieu.

But what about a writer and her work?

You might be a writer if...you launch your finished manuscripts into the world the same way you launch your children, with a jumbled mix of excitement, worry, fear and hope.

Similes and metaphors comparing writing to having children abound. Incubating an idea. Laboring over a story. Nurturing a plot along. Giving birth to a finished product. And letting go?

There is definitely some joie de vivre involved in putting the keyboard down and launching a finished story into the world. And trepidation. It's your creation. You've labored over it. There have been days when you really feel like you've sweated blood and tears to turn raw material into unforgettable prose. And days when you've waxed on and on and on, moony-eyed in love with your little creation.

And then comes the day when you wake up and know, today is the day. I've done all I can do. The last word has been written. The last change made. Much like a parent with a child, it's time to take a step back and launch them into the world. Let them fly. Will they crash? Undoubtedly. Will they get up? Please God, universe, whatever deity or higher being is out there watching over them, let them get up.

Will they soar?

That's any parent or writer's greatest hope. That their labor of love will soar, will influence others in a good way, leaving them changed or entertained or thrilled. Or maybe a little of all of the above.

And so we parents and writers launch our little loves into the wide wide world. Our hearts are practically bursting with pride for them. We worry for them. We're even a little fearful. But more than anything, with all our hearts, we hope that they will soar.