The Line: A Novel

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An "utterly brilliant" (Library Journal) new novel from the author of the award-winning The Dream Life of Sukhanov.

The line begins to form on the whispered rumor that a famous exiled composer is returning to Russia to conduct his last symphony. Tickets will be limited. The concert date unknown. Nameless strangers join the line, jostling for preferred position. But as the seasons change and the kiosk remains shuttered, these anonymous souls evolve into a community. Bound ...

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The Line: A Novel

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An "utterly brilliant" (Library Journal) new novel from the author of the award-winning The Dream Life of Sukhanov.

The line begins to form on the whispered rumor that a famous exiled composer is returning to Russia to conduct his last symphony. Tickets will be limited. The concert date unknown. Nameless strangers join the line, jostling for preferred position. But as the seasons change and the kiosk remains shuttered, these anonymous souls evolve into a community. Bound together in their longing for something wonderful and miraculous, they allow themselves to dream. An utterly transformative work that speaks to the endurance of the human spirit, The Line confirms Grushin's place in the pantheon of today's most important new writers.

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Editorial Reviews

Jonathan Yardley
Grushin leads all of these people…with a sure hand and an equally sure gift for surprise. Every one of her characters—by the end the cast is large—comes fully to life and reveals depths the reader at first does not sense. Grushin understands, as she says of Sergei, that he realized "just how small his private immensity really was when measured against that other vast, dark, impersonal immensity, call it God, or history, or simply life," yet she grants him, and all the others, individuality and dignity. Her disdain for the system under which they live ultimately matters far less than her sympathy for them, with which this beautiful book is suffused from first page to last.
—The Washington Post
Elif Batuman
One of the pleasures of reading this book is its resonance with earlier literary works. Grushin's riffs on night skies recall Pasternak's lyrics; the social system of the line evokes the group dynamics in Andrei Platonov's novel The Foundation Pit. Grushin, who left Russia as a teen­ager, has a fluent and inspired English style, marked by only very occasional infelicities…with a marvelous talent for appear­ances and atmospheres…
—The New York Times
Publishers Weekly
At one point in Grushin’s disappointing follow-up to The Dream Life of Sukhanov, it is observed that standing on a line is “a very efficient way of disposing of people’s time.” But however efficient, it’s never entirely enjoyable. The story, inspired by Igor Stravinsky’s 1962 return to Russia, begins in winter and follows Anna, a teacher, her musician husband, Sergei, and their son, Alexander, as the three take turns waiting on—and having their lives changed by—a line. While Anna theorizes that she is waiting for “something... to make her and her family happier,” she eventually discovers the line is for tickets to see the grand return concert of conductor Igor Selinsky, who had escaped Russia before the “Change” 37 years earlier. During the wait for the ticket kiosk to open, each family member is greatly affected by what happens on the line—romance, job loss, and arson all pop up—though, despite Grushin’s lovely writing and imagery, the narrative is hard to stick with. The twists are less than surprising, and despite the havoc that ensues, it turns out that people standing around in a queue isn’t the most exciting material. (Apr.)
Library Journal
Grushin's first novel, The Dream Life of Sukhanov, blazed upon the literary firmament four years ago. It is now followed by a work of equal merit. The eponymous line is a conceit that showcases the hopes and dreams of a slice of Soviet society after "the Change," the repressive period following the Revolution of 1917. In Grushin's line, one of many thousands that stretched across the Soviet Union over the decades, citizens stand and wait for some initially unspecified goods to be put up for sale by the state. It finally turns out that the kiosk will be selling tickets for a concert to be conducted by a supposedly returning expatriate composer (in real life, a line like this actually formed for a concert by Igor Stravinsky). With only one ticket allowed per person, three members of a family of four take turns waiting for an entire year. Their motives are mixed and shifting, and in the end astonishing secrets are revealed. The miracle of this book is that its young author, who was born in Moscow but writes in English, has managed to transform the drab and dreary lives of beleaguered Soviet citizens into a tale of consummate beauty. Like a diamond with countless facets—utterly brilliant. VERDICT Recommended ecstatically, especially for readers with an interest in cultures other than their own. [See Prepub Alert, LJ 12/09.]—Edward Cone, New York
Kirkus Reviews
The line of the title serves as bold metaphor in this earnest successor to The Dream Life of Sukhanov (2006). It's a literal waiting line that forms outside a kiosk which, rumor has it, offers whatever the hopeful patrons who enter it each day, enduring numerous confusions and delays, most desire. Some declare that there are tickets on sale there, to a forthcoming concert at which emigre composer Igor Selinsky (a fictional surrogate for 20th-century master Stravinsky) will conduct a performance of his final symphony. This possibility excites the interest of Anna, a compassionate schoolteacher who wants the ticket for her frail, aged mother, a one-time famous ballerina; Anna's husband Sergei, a devoted musician unhappily underemployed as a tuba player in a nondescript marching band; and their teenaged son Alexander, a budding pragmatist who plots ways of escaping from his family's suffocating environment-a city much like Moscow, nearly 40 years after "the Change" (known historically as the Thaw) that promised Russian citizens increased freedom and opportunity. The combination of these elements produces a frustrating mixture: excessive recourse to scenes in which characters keep meeting in line, forming both fruitful and damaging new relationships, chagrined to realize they're animals subjected to herding and confinement. This is balanced and ameliorated by sharp characterizations of the four principal characters, trenchant analysis of the extremes of behavior to which they're driven, and powerful evocations of an imprisoning atmosphere that stifles all forms of creativity and self-expression. Virtually every time Grushin's characters leave the line, connecting with their memories, their ambitions or their relationships with others, the novel quickens to life. Unfortunately, the image of the line usurps the reader's concentration, forcing the author to keep re-establishing these people's claims on our attention. By no means a negligible book, but something of a disappointment coming from the gifted Grushin.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780143118558
  • Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 3/29/2011
  • Pages: 336
  • Product dimensions: 5.00 (w) x 7.60 (h) x 0.80 (d)

Meet the Author

Olga Grushin

Olga Grushin was born in Moscow in 1971. She studied at the Pushkin Museum of Fine Arts, Moscow State University, and Emory University. Her short fiction has appeared in Partisan Review, Confrontation, The Massachusetts Review, and Art Times. This is her first novel. Grushin, who became an American citizen in 2002, lives in Washington, D.C.

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Reading Group Guide

It forms almost spontaneously. At a boarded-up kiosk on a bleak November afternoon in a nameless Russian city, a crowd of people step into line, not even knowing what they are waiting for. Amid the swirling and contradictory rumors, one particular story gains credence: the great composer Igor Fyodorovich Selinsky, long exiled from his native land, will be coming home to conduct a single performance of his new, reputedly brilliant ninth symphony. Though no one knows when the tickets will go on sale, two conditions are clear: tickets will be allocated one to a customer, and one has to be in line when the kiosk opens to receive a ticket.

The prospect of the concert precipitates a crisis in the drab apartment of a family with no last name. The father, Sergei, is a gifted violinist who has been forced by the government to play the tuba instead. He imagines the chance to see the great Selinsky as redemption from a life of aesthetic frustration. His schoolteacher wife, Anna, wants the ticket as a kind of cosmic peace offering to her ancient mother, who has asked to attend the concert for reasons known only to herself. The couple's teenage son, Alexander, cares little for classical music or, indeed, for anything else. The ticket he most covets is for a train ride as far from home as he can go. Gradually, however, the ticket becomes an object of obsessive desire for everyone in the household, as it comes to represent everything from the recovery of lost love to the hope of a new democratic era. The father, mother, and son all start taking turns holding the place in line, ditching school, risking their jobs, and mortgaging their futures just so they can be there when the kiosk finally opens.

But the family's apparent cooperation is not all that it seems. As the months draw on, each becomes enmeshed in his or her own web of lies and secrets. Seeking understanding, fulfillment, or simply an escape from the gray monotony of life, Sergei, Anna, and Alexander all seem likely to lose the things they hold most dear, and the precious love and trust that they set at risk seem unlikely to be compensated by an evening of music.

Inspired by real events and narrated with extraordinary verve and passion, The Line is a heartfelt tale of how physical deprivations can spill over into spiritual and emotional hunger. In this, her second outstanding novel, author Olga Grushin deftly explores the extent of human desire and the limits of family loyalty. Herself the daughter of a prominent Soviet sociologist, Grushin reveals in these pages that she, too, knows much about human nature and about life in the former Soviet Union—a place whose people's hopes, needs, and struggles may strike us as both far away and uncannily similar to our own.


The daughter of the famous Soviet sociologist Boris Grushin, Olga Grushin was born in Moscow and spent her early childhood in Prague. After studying art history at Moscow's Pushkin Museum of Fine Arts and journalism at Moscow State University, she came to the United States and earned a degree at Emory University in Atlanta, Georgia. During her varied and colorful career, she has worked as a research assistant at a Washington law firm, a cocktail waitress in a jazz bar, and an interpreter for former President Jimmy Carter. Her first novel, The Dream Life of Sukhanov, was awarded the 2007 New York Public Library Young Lions Fiction Award and was named a Notable Book of the Year by The New York Times. Ms. Grushin lives near Washington, D.C., with her husband and children.

Q. The story of The Line would not exist in the same way in a society where consumer goods were plentiful. Do you think it is possible that there may be some inverse relation between a society's prosperity and its capacity to generate good stories—that the more readily we can satisfy our needs, the less of interest we have to say?

Every society, no matter how prosperous, will always have its stories, I think, though the stories will, of course, differ from place to place, from time to time, as will their importance in people's lives. The stories that interest me most tend to be universal. At its heart, The Line is a fable of desire, of hope, of people whose lives have grown meaningless, and of stale longing for something to change, for something to happen. These, I believe, are notions that anyone can relate to, whether in a land of lack or a land of plenty. (One need look no further, for example, than the line for auditions at American Idol.) That said, more dramatic lives, more turbulent historical periods inevitably lend themselves to more dramatic, more complex stories. In times of deprivation, desires will be more urgent; in times of war and repression, people's actions will carry more weight. This particular story, which is essentially a story of searching for light amid darkness, stands out in brighter contrast against the snowbound gloom of Soviet history than it would against the electric illumination of American prosperity. But I have no doubt that there are other stories, better suited to the light. I hope to tell some of those as well.

Q. Your book is dedicated to your late father, the renowned Boris Grushin. How did your relationship with him influence you as a writer?

In many ways, my father was, and remains, the most important presence in my life. His was never a literary influence; he did write books, but he was a scholar rather than a writer. Yet on the deepest level imaginable, he influenced—formed, really—my approach to work and life in general. I've never known anyone as uncompromisingly devoted to his vision, as hard-working or as honorable, and, at the same time, so full of vitality, of energy, of an almost childlike curiosity about so many things. Inevitably, some of my most constant preoccupations as a writer stem from him. He shared with me his love of art and nature. He believed wasting time to be a great sin, and taught me, very early on, to be conscious of the passage of every day, every hour, almost every minute. I have since become interested in the complexities of the interactions between personal and historical time, in our individual perceptions of time, in the many ways in which our present is affected by our past and our future, and I explore all these themes in my work. I have also been drawn to his groundbreaking research into the little-studied sphere of "mass consciousness" (as he termed it) in all its manifestations, from anonymous anecdotes to folk songs. I pay tribute to his work in this novel, where the eponymous line undergoes vacillations and transformations, from a disjointed gathering of hostile individuals to a rumor mill to a Greek chorus to a violent mob to a true community.

And, quite apart from his ideas, my father's personality was so extraordinary that I'm sure his shadows and reflections will keep finding their way into my writing for years to come, until the day when I finally feel equal to the task of writing about him directly. In The Line, echoes of my father can be heard in two separate characters: the bearded man who organizes the crowd and becomes the line's natural if nameless leader, and the mysterious old man with piercing eyes who holds the people together in a less tangible way—by giving them hope.

Q. How did the inspiration for The Line come to you?

Usually, I find this question very hard to answer. So often ideas grow in hidden, subconscious ways, feeding on years of experiences, only to spring out fully formed one day, seemingly out of nowhere. This, at any rate, was the case with my first novel and most of my short stories. The Line is an exception: its origin was quite specific. I was at home at my desk, doing research for what I thought would be my second novel, when I happened upon a footnote concerning Igor Stravinsky's return to Russia in 1962. Of course, I'd heard about it while growing up in Moscow, but this was the first time I saw the story clearly for what it was. Immediately the idea of a year-long line gripped me—it was such an amazing metaphor for hope and the power of art, and it was so fascinating to think about the lives of those who chose to wait in the line and their interactions with one another. Right then and there, I knew I had to set aside the project I was working on and write this book.

Q. Reading The Line brought to mind a variety of authors, including Beckett and Gogol. Whom do you regard as your strongest literary influences?

I grew up reading the Russian greats, and that formed my idea of what true literature could do. Nabokov and Gogol are probably my strongest influences, followed by Chekhov and, to a lesser extent, Bulgakov and Daniil Kharms. Among the Western writers, I'm drawn to the whimsical, the fantastical, the absurd; I would have to name Kafka, Borges, Calvino, Laurence Sterne, Hoffmann, Lewis Carroll, and, especially in the case of The Line, Dino Buzzati.

Q. Classical music seems to matter quite a bit to you—or at least you can sympathize with those for whom it is a passion. What role has classical music played in your life?

Once again, the musical aspects of the book owe much to my father. He was the greatest lover of music I have ever known. He could sing entire operas by heart and always worked with his radio tuned to a classical station. Classical music is the background against which so many of my Moscow memories are set, and it carries an emotional charge for me—especially now that my father is no longer alive. Alexander's recollection of his father hearing a beloved piece on the radio and immediately bursting out of his room to invite his family to join him to listen, is borrowed from my own childhood. The rest of my family wasn't nearly as enthusiastic about listening so, in a way, this book became my way of telling my father that, although it didn't always seem so at the time, I did hear the music he was trying to play for me all through his life, and I thank him for that.

Q. The Line is intentionally vague as to details of place and time. The city where it is set is never named, and your historical moment takes snippets from the Stalin, Khrushchev, and Brezhnev eras. Why so nonspecific?

I decided, very early on, that I did not want to write a historical novel. Instead, I saw my story as a fable, free of time, free of place, a dark fairy tale set in a Russian dreamscape of sorts, to which the reader could hopefully relate without knowing much about Soviet history. Also, I intended the story to encompass a wide range of emotions and historical settings. For my purposes, the original Stravinsky episode was a bit one-dimensional, sounding only a single note of triumph, of hopes fulfilled. These moments are indeed present in the story—I borrowed much from the Soviet 1960s, with their atmosphere of change and rebirth—but I was also interested in adding drama and danger to the very act of standing in line, in introducing notions of courage, betrayal, and loss to the story, and so I turned to earlier, darker, periods in Soviet history, to times of repressions and denunciations.

Neither did I want my composer to be an actual historical figure. Large as Stravinsky is, my Selinsky was envisioned as larger than life, a figure of nearly mythical proportions, a savior, whom everyone in the line could imbue with vastly different qualities that would change as their dreams changed.

Q. Your descriptive prose in The Line is often fantastical and sometimes almost hallucinatory. Why did you opt for this style and how did you consider your readers when crafting your prose?

I strive to speak with my own voice, to accomplish something original. I love the idea of linguistic inventiveness and narrative experimentation. Writing a straightforward, linear story in streamlined prose would never hold my interest as a writer. I am deeply indebted to the two opposing traditions of Russian literature: the realist and the fantastical. I think the stories I'm most interested in telling, at least at this point in my life, are set in the shadowy places between the two; my characters frequently cross over from one to the other, and the style that I'd like to think of as my own involves frequent ventures into dreamlike states of consciousness, transitions between light and darkness. I found this approach well suited to telling my story of human hope. I wanted to contrast the stark drabness of reality with the bright, magical outbursts of my characters' fantasies, the darkness of history with the brilliance of art.

I do realize that not every book is for everyone. Some will think Hemingway too laconic, others will think Nabokov too rich. I can only hope that my work will find its readers.

Q. The features of your style become perhaps more startling when one realizes that English is your second language. How do you think the fact that you are a non-native speaker influences your authorial voice?

When I write in English, I think in English, but I inevitably introduce Russian literary echoes into my words, as well as a certain intonation that is typically Russian in nature. I think that my straddling of two cultures and two languages has helped me form my style, which is neither purely Russian nor American. And, of course, being a non-native speaker ensures that I never take my language for granted—an essential quality for a writer, I think, and one that I'm lucky to have without trying, by virtue of necessity.

Q. For quite some time at the outset of The Line, you keep the relationships among the main characters unclear. It's not until several chapters have gone by that we realize they are a family. What was your thinking on that point?

This way of introducing my characters is meant to illustrate their essential isolation at the onset of the story—each exists as a country with closed borders, each perceives the world in a severely limited way, both in terms of emotions and in terms of basic senses (one of which is lacking in each of the main characters), and each sees other people, even those closest to him or to her, as mere labels: "the old man," "the little boy," "the woman with bright lipstick," "my husband," "my wife." The points in the story at which labels finally give way to names are not accidental; among other things, they signify the characters drawing closer together, beginning to rediscover one another. The line, of course, serves as the catalyst in the process.

Q. Sometimes in midparagraph the thoughts of one of your characters will dissolve and be supplanted by the consciousness of another. Why did you make use of this rather unusual technique?

This answer is directly related to the one above. I envisioned the line as a system of mirrors: each character is a distinct mirror reflecting his or her own corner of the line from his or her own angle. The picture may be distorted and incomplete at first, yet gradually the reflections begin to merge into a coherent whole. The family at the heart of the story has four members, and there are four separate voices narrating the story. In the beginning of the novel, the boundaries between the voices are very clear, one chapter per voice. As the story progresses, however, these boundaries start to blur, their lives become less isolated, they are forced to form relationships, first with the strangers in the line around them, then, often through the mediation of these strangers, with one another. Eroding the artificial boundaries of separate chapters and, later, separate paragraphs, switching voices in an increasingly fluid fashion, was a way of portraying the family, and the entire line, as moving from isolation and anonymity toward community.

Q. It's easy to observe the ways in which The Line comments on Soviet Russia. Do you think it is also a less obvious commentary on capitalist America?

When one sets a story in Soviet Russia, it is, of course, impossible to avoid political connotations altogether. However, I was not actually trying to comment on either Russia or America in my novel. The motif of Over There permeates the entire book, and the characters' land of darkness and deprivation is often contrasted with a land of beauty and plenty. Although geographically these correspond to Russia and the West, my purpose was not to describe specific places but to identify mythological constructs in the minds of my characters: their "Over There" is an idealized fantasy of a place where the grass is green, as dreamed by someone in a wintry desert. In reality, people "Over There" may no longer be capable of noticing the grass; compare, for instance, Sergei's romantic childhood memory of "Westernized" Christmas ("soft, deep enchantment" in a "wondrous, promise-filled world") and the reaction of a well-heeled foreign diplomat looking at actual Christmas decorations ("trite symbols" that "bored him"), or Maya's magical "city of lights" and the foreigner's prosaic city of servile shopkeepers, chauffeurs, and expensive hotels. These, however, are reflections on the profound difference between having and wanting, possessing and remembering, rather than political or economic commentary per se.

Q. In The Line, a thing of beauty—a timeless piece of music—nearly becomes a commodity sought after by your characters and subsequently drives them to commit many wrongful acts. In what ways do you see The Line as a commentary on the relationship between the material and the ideal?

It is certainly true that, apart from Sergei, none of my characters wants to hear the music for music's sake. Art becomes a means to something else—a ticket to a better place or a higher emotion. And, indeed, those standing in the line commit numerous transgressions in pursuit of their goals—they lie, steal, and betray one another. On the other hand, none of them has a material motive: they dream about adventure, love, happiness, and other more or less ephemeral things. And, in the end, art is not commoditized. In some sense, it fulfills its most sacred function—to transport and transform—even though the concert never takes place. Ultimately, the contrast I meant to explore was not so much that between the material and the ideal but rather that between one's base, sordid reality and one's longing for something beautiful and true.

Q. What would you be prepared to wait in line for?

A new novel by Nabokov. An exhibit by Bosch or Chagall. A plane ticket to Greece. And, of course—in the longest line of all—medicine for my children.

Q. You are working on a third novel now. Any previews?

Unlike many writers, I have few superstitions about my work. I don't have to write the first sentence with a favorite pen or the last in a favorite armchair, nor spend the interim listening to a particular piece of music or wearing a particular sweater. I do have one superstition, however: I believe that an unfinished work has its own energy, which will dissipate quickly if one talks about it before its time. All I will say at this point is that my next book will be a departure both in its setting and its narrative technique.


  • Near the beginning of The Line, an old man tells Anna, "They are selling whatever you'd most like to have. What would you like?" (7) If someone were selling the thing you most desired, what sacrifices would you make in order to get it?
  • What are Anna's motivations and feelings when she first gets in line? How do these change as the novel progresses?
  • Over the course of the novel, the coveted ticket to the Selinsky concert comes to represent a different kind of wish fulfillment to each member of Anna's family. What is each of them looking for, and why do they think the ticket will help them get it?
  • How does The Line function as a moral parable? Despite the official atheism of the Soviet state, is there a quasi-religious dimension to the novel?
  • The members of Anna's family all lie to one another with astonishing frequency. Are some of their lies more defensible than others? What do you consider the worst lie in the novel and why?
  • A central "character" who appears in the novel only through the memories and speculations of others is the great composer himself, Igor Fyodorovich Selinsky. How much of the information we receive about him is actually reliable? Based on what can be gathered about him, how would you describe Selinsky as a person? Given both his greatness and his obscurity, does Selinsky function symbolically as a godlike presence (or absence)?
  • The lushness of Grushin's prose is noticeably set against the bleak atmosphere of her fictionalized Soviet city. What do you think of this contrast and why do you think Grushin chose this style for such a grim setting?
  • We discover early on that Anna does not like dreams, however dreams figure prominently in the novel. What purposes do Grushin's narrations of dreams tend to serve?
  • How does Alexander mature during the course of the novel? What does he learn, and how?
  • Which member of Anna's family do you think would most deserve to go to the concert if it were held? Why?
  • The Line ends with Anna's family all demonstrably worse off economically and socially than they were at the start, yet we are given to understand that their newly found closeness and wisdom have compensated them for their worldly losses. Do you believe this? How likely is their happiness to survive, given all the crushing blows that have been dealt to their material fortunes?
  • Did you find The Line depressing or, in the end, uplifting? Why?
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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 2.5
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Sort by: Showing all of 3 Customer Reviews
  • Posted May 25, 2010

    I Also Recommend:

    Interesting concept for a story

    Basically the story of a family waiting in line for tickets to a concert. But the twist is they are waiting in line over the course of a year. The story is inspired by a true event which the author notes: "In 1962, the celebrated Russian composer Igor Fyodorovich Stravinsky accepted a Soviet invitation to visit his former country, his first trip to his native land after 50 years of absence... The line for tickets began a year before the performance and evolved into a unique and complex social system, with people working together and taking turns standing in the line."

    The story provides many twists and turns of who will eventually use the tickets. Not since Willa Wonka's golden ticket has a faimily been obsessed about obtaining and using a ticket.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 30, 2010

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted April 27, 2011

    No text was provided for this review.

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