Book Notes on A Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles

 

Book Notes on A Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles

33 Next was the shop of Fatima Federova, the florist. A natural casualty of the times, Fatima's shelves had been emptied and her windows papered over back in 1920, turning one of the hotel's brightest spots into one of its most forlorn. But in its day, the shop had sold flowers by the acre. It had provided the towering arrangements for the lobby, the lilies for the rooms, the bouquets of roses that were tossed at the feet of the Bolshoi ballerinas, as well as the boutonnieres on the men who did the tossing.

What's more, Fatima was fluent in the floral codes that had governed polite society since the Age of Chivalry. Not only did she know the flower that should be sent as an apology, she knew which flower to send when one has been late; when one has spoken out of turn; and when, having taking notice of the young lady at the door, one has carelessly overtrumped one's partner. In short, Fatima knew a flower's fragrance, color, and purpose better than a bee.

36 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 the coat. 

120-121  And with that disarming memory, Anna Urbanova was suddenly describing how as a girl she would steal away from her mother at dusk and wind her way down the sloping streets of her village so that she could meet her father on the beach and help him mend his nets. And as she talked, the Count had to acknowledge once again the virtues of with holding judgment.

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 out reconsideration-and out unwavering determination to withhold our opinion until we have engaged with them in every possible setting at every possible hour. 

134-135

Then she leaned back in her chair and appraised the Count in a man-

ner acknowledging that she may have underestimated him.

221

One first tastes the broth-that simmered distillation of fish bones, fennel, and tomatoes, with their hearty suggestions of Provence. One then savors the tender flakes of haddock and the briny resilience of the mussels, which have been purchased on the docks from the fisherman. One marvel at the boldness of the oranges arriving from Spain and the absinthe poured in the taverns. And all of these various impressions are somehow collected, composed, and brightened by the saffron-that essence of summer sun which, having been harvested in the hills of Greece and packed by mule to Athens, has been sailed across the Mediterranean in a felucca. In other words, with the very first spoonful one finds oneself transported to the port of Marseille-where the streets teem with sailors, thieves, and madonnas, with sunlight and summer, with languages and life.