Za Zdorovie! by Jamie Kirkpatrick

In heady anticipation of Ewan McGregor’s upcoming streaming adaptation, I am reading “A Gentleman in Moscow” by Amor Towles for the second time. But now, instead of gulping it down like a glass of my favorite rosé wine, I’m savoring it sip-by-sip, marveling at Mr. Towles’ unerringly delightful descriptions of the life and times of Count Alexander Rostov, an erudite aristocrat who thankfully managed to avoid all the firing squads of the Russian Revolution. Instead, in Towles’ novel, the Count is serving a life sentence in Moscow’s fabled Metropol Hotel, and oh what a life he leads there! 

This second reading is such a guilty pleasure: each time I turn the page, or encounter a marvelous metaphor, or stumble upon a sentence—even a word—that is so utterly perfect, I am compelled to set the book down and ask myself, “How the hell did Amor Towles do that?” And then, almost as soon as I pick the book up and begin to read, it’s not long before the same thing happens all over again. 

When I first started writing seriously ten years ago, I was beset with moments of mortification because I was prone to comparing myself to other writers. Thank God I gave that up! In any worthwhile endeavor, there is nothing—absolutely nothing!—to be gained by entertaining bouts of self-doubt. We are who we are, and if the cream doesn’t rise to the top, so be it. Now, I have my own writing credo. It paraphrases the oath recited by all Special Olympics athletes before going into competition: “Let me write well, but if I cannot write well, let me be brave in the attempt.”

And so, more than eight years ago, I began writing these weekly Musings for The Spy. During the pandemic, I wrote my first novel, “This Salted Soil.” With the help of an artist friend who also happens to be a charming illustrator, last year, we produced a children’s book and song, “The Ballad of Poochie McVay.” Now, my second novel, “The Tales of Bismuth,” stands on the brink of publication. Like a tiny meandering stream that starts as snow melt high in the mountains before eventually joining the sea as a broad river, I’ve learned to take my writing life as it comes, drop by drop, bend by bend, mile by mile, tide by tide. Believe me: it’s better that way. Comparisons and self-doubt are rocks that lie in shallow water.

But back to Count Rostov and his forced confinement to a few spare rooms on the topmost floor of the Metropol Hotel. I think that kind of banishment wouldn’t be such a bad life sentence. Oh sure, Count Rostov’s new residence is a steep fall from his aristocratic heights, but what a graceful descent he makes! He never once rues his politically-motivated situation; in fact, one could even argue that in light of all the political and cultural fervor swirling outside the Metropol’s polished glass doors, the Count is far better off than he ever was in the immediate aftermath of the glorious revolution. He doesn’t just make the best of his new situation, he embraces it, turning the all those soggy boiled potatoes handed down to him by a kangaroo court into the finest Russian vodka.

If you have already read “A Gentleman in Moscow,” then you understand what I’m talking about. If you haven’t read it yet, run to the bookstore nearest you or to your local library and get a copy. Turn off all your expectations and give yourself over to the simple pleasure of reading a well-told tale that will both entertain and educate you. And, if I may, don’t do what I did the first time: don’t read it cover-to-cover, rushing to get to the finish line. Instead, do what I’m doing now: read it slowly. Relish it. Let it trickle down your throat like a velvety dram of aged brandy from one of Count Rostov’s crystal snifters, tasting all the earthy ingredients and the love that have been distilled into such a worthy concoction. 

Bravo, Mr. Towles! As Count Rostov might exclaim, “Za Zdorovie!” To your good health!

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His debut novel, “This Salted Soil,” and a delightful children’s book, “The Ballad of Poochie McVay,” are available on Amazon, as are two collections of essays (“Musing Right Along” and “I’ll Be Right Back”). Jamie’s website is Musingjamie.net.