The poetic notion of infinity is far greater than that which is sponsored by any creed.

There are worse crimes than burning books. One of them is not reading them.

Poetry is what is gained in translation.

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.

Russian talk of political evil is as natural as eating.

If there is anything good about exile, it is that it teaches one humility. It accelerates one’s drift into isolation, an absolute perspective. Into the condition at which all one is left with is oneself and one’s language, with nobody or nothing in between. Exile brings you overnight where it would normally take a lifetime to go.