I grew up in the sort of cultural milieu that always regarded conversations about the political discourse as tremendously low-brow.

A man should know about himself two or three things: whether he is a coward; whether he is an honest man or given to lies; whether he is an ambitious man. One should define oneself first of all in those terms, and only then in terms of culture, race, creed.

My poems getting published in Russia doesn't make me feel in any fashion, to tell you the truth. I'm not trying to be coy, but it doesn't tickle my ego.

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

Geography blended with time equals destiny.

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 the West you have every opportunity for civilization to triumph.