A Gentleman in Moscow

Born and raised in the Boston area, Amor Towles graduated from Yale College and received an MA in English from Stanford University. His first novel, Rules of Civility, published in 2011, was a New York Times bestseller and was named by The Wall Street Journal as one of the best books of 2011. His second novel, A Gentleman in Moscow, published in 2016, was also a New York Times bestseller and was named as one of the best books of 2016 by the Chicago Tribune, The Washington Post, The Philadelphia Inquirer, the San Francisco Chronicle, and NPR. His work has been translated into more than thirty-five languages. Having worked as an investment professional for more than twenty years, Mr. Towles now devotes himself full time to writing in Manhattan, where he lives with his wife and two children.

"If you're looking for a summer novel, this is it. Beautifully written, a story of a Russian aristocrat trapped in Moscow during the tumult of the 1930s. It brims with intelligence, erudition, and insight, an old-fashioned novel in the best sense of the term." -Fareed Zakaria, "Global Public Square," CNN

"Fun, clever, and surprisingly upbeat . . . A Gentleman in Moscow is an amazing story because it manages to be a little bit of everything. There's fantastical romance, politics, espionage, parenthood and poetry. The book is technically historical fiction, but you would be just as accurate calling it a thriller or a love story." -Bill Gates

"The book is like a salve. I think the world feels disordered right now. The count's refinement and genteel nature are exactly what we're longing for." -Ann Patchett

"How delightful that in an era as crude as ours this finely composed novel stretches out with old-World elegance." -The Washington Post

"Marvelous."
-Chicago Tribune

"The novel buzzes with the energy of numerous adventures, love affairs, twists of fate and silly antics."
-The Wall Street Journal

"A winning, stylish novel."
-NPR.org

"Enjoyable, elegant."
-Seattle Times

"The perfect book to curl up with while the world goes by outside your window."
-Refinery29

"Who will save Rostov from the intrusions of state if not the seamstresses, chefs, bartenders and doormen? In the end, Towles's greatest narrative effect is not the moments of wonder and synchronicity but the generous transformation of these peripheral workers, over the course of decades, into confidants, equals and, finally, friends. With them around, a life sentence in these gilded halls might make Rostov the luckiest man in Russia."
-The New York Times Book Review

"This is an old fashioned sort of romance, filled with delicious detail. Save this precious book for times you really, really want to escape reality."
-Louise Erdrich

"Towles gets good mileage from the considerable charm of his protagonist and the peculiar world he inhabits."
-The New Yorker

"Irresistible . . . In his second elegant period piece, Towles continues to explore the question of how a person can lead an authentic life in a time when mere survival is a feat in itself . . . Towles's tale, as lavishly filigreed as a Fabergé egg, gleams with nostalgia for the golden age of Tolstoy and Turgenev."
-O, The Oprah Magazine

"'The Grand Budapest Hotel' and 'Eloise' meets all the Bond villains."
-TheSkimm

"And the intrigue! . . . [A Gentleman in Moscow] is laced with sparkling threads (they will tie up) and tokens (they will matter): special keys, secret compartments, gold coins, vials of coveted liquid, old-fashioned pistols, duels and scars, hidden assignations (discreet and smoky), stolen passports, a ruby necklace, mysterious letters on elegant hotel stationery . . . a luscious stage set, backdrop for a downright Casablanca-like drama." -The San Francisco Chronicle

"The same gorgeous, layered richness that marked Towles' debut, Rules of Civility, shapes [A Gentleman in Moscow]."
-Entertainment Weekly

Praise for Rules of Civility

"An irresistible and astonishingly assured debut."
-O, the Oprah Magazine

"With this snappy period piece, Towles resurrects the cinematic black-and-white Manhattan of the golden age...[his] characters are youthful Americans in tricky times, trying to create authentic lives."
-The New York Times Book Review

"Sharp [and] sure-handed."
-Wall Street Journal

"Put on some Billie Holiday, pour a dry martini and immerse yourself in the eventful life of Katey Kontent."
-People

"[A] wonderful debut novel."
-The Chicago Tribune

"Glittering...filled with snappy dialogue, sharp observations and an array of terrifically drawn characters...Towles writes with grace and verve about the mores and manners of a society on the cusp of radical change."
-NPR.org

"A book that enchants on first reading and only improves on

From A Gentleman in Moscow:

There were two restaurants in the Hotel Metropol: the Boyarsky, that fabled retreat on the second floor that we have already visited, and the grand dining room off the lobby known officially as the Metropol, but referred to affectionately by the Count as the Piazza.

Admittedly, the Piazza could not challenge the elegance of the Boyarsky's décor, the sophistication of its service, or the subtlety of its cuisine. But the Piazza did not aspire to elegance, service, or subtlety. With eighty tables scattered around a marble fountain and a menu offering everything from cabbage piroghi to cutlets of veal, the Piazza was meant to be an extension of the city-of its gardens, markets, and thorough fares. It was a place where Russians cut from every cloth could come to linger over coffee, happen upon friends, stumble into arguments, or drift into dalliances-and where the lone diner seated under the great glass ceiling could indulge himself in admiration, indignation, suspicion, and laughter without getting up from his chair.

And the waiters? Like those of a Parisian café, the Piazza's waiters could best be complimented as "efficient." Accustomed to navigating crowds,they could easily seat your party of eight at a table for four. Having noted your preferences over the sound of the orchestra, within minutes they would return with the various drinks balanced on a tray and dispense them round the table in rapid succession without misplacing a glass. If, with your menu in hand, you hesitated for even a second to place your order, they would lean over your shoulder and poke at a specialty of the house. And when the last morsel of dessert had been savored, they would whisk away your plate, present your check, and make your change in under a minute. In other words, the waiters of the Piazza knew their trade to the crumb, the spoon, and the kopek.

At least, that was how things were before the war. . . .

Today, the dining room was nearly empty and the Count was being served by someone who appeared not only new to the Piazza, but new to the art of waiting. Tall and thin, with a narrow head and superior demeanor, he looked rather like a bishop that had been plucked from a chessboard. When the Count took his seat with a newspaper in hand-the international symbol of dining alone-the chap didn't bother to clear the second setting; when the Count closed his menu and placed it beside his plate-the international symbol of readiness to order-the chap needed to be beckoned witha wave of the hand; and when the Count ordered the okroshka and filet of sole, the chap asked if he might like a glass of Sauterne. A perfect suggestion, no doubt, if only the Count had ordered foie gras!

"Perhaps a bottle of the Châteaude Baudelaire," the Count corrected politely.

"Of course," the Bishop replied with an ecclesiastical smile.

Granted, a bottle of Baudelaire was something of an extravagance for a solitary lunch, but after spending another morning with the indefatigable Michel de Montaigne, the Count felt that his morale could use the boost. For several days, in fact, he had been fending off a state of restlessness. On his regular descent to the lobby, he caught himself counting the steps. As he browsed the headlines in his favorite chair, he found he was lifting his hands to twirl the tips of moustaches that were no longer there. He found he was walking through the door of the Piazza at 12:01 for lunch. And at 1:35, when he climbed the 110 steps to his room, he was already calculating the minutes until he could come back downstairs for a drink. If he continued along this course, it would not take long for the ceiling to edge downward, the walls to edge inward, and the floor to edge upward, until the entire hotel had been collapsed into the size of a biscuit tin.

As the Count waited for his wine, he gazed around the restaurant, but his fellow diners offered no relief. Across the wa