A language is a more ancient and inevitable thing than any state.

Twentieth-century Russian literature has produced nothing special except perhaps one novel and two stories by Andrei Platonov, who ended his days sweeping streets.

In poetic thought, the role of the subconscious is played by euphony.

I don't believe in that country any longer. I'm not interested. I'm writing in the language, and I like the language.

The moment that you place blame somewhere, you undermine your resolve to change anything.

As failures go, attempting to recall the past is like trying to grasp the meaning of existence. Both make one feel like a baby clutching at a basketball: one's palms keep sliding off.

Poetry is what is gained in translation.