What's happening in Russia is devoid of autobiographical interest for me. Maybe it's egocentric. Whatever it is, feel free to use it.

Geography blended with time equals destiny.

I don't have principles. I have nerves.

If one's fated to be born in Caesar's Empire, let him live aloof, provincial, by the seashore.

I don't want to dive into that mud slide, which is what I consider the literary process.

In general, in America, every discourse in literature in 15 minutes degenerates into a conversation about ethics, morality and this and that. The Holocaust and the consequences of it. Well, I find it terribly boring, predictable and unimportant, because what matters about literature is esthetic achievement.

Racism? But isn't it only a form of misanthropy?