I am quite prepared to die here [in NY]. It doesn't matter at all. I don't know better places, or perhaps if I do I am not prepared to make a move.

Poetry is rather an approach to things, to life, than it is typographical production.

Out of Dostoevsky: Kafka. Out of Tolstoy: Margaret Mitchell. (in conversation, explaining his dislike for Tolstoy)

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?

On the whole, love comes with the speed of light; separation, with that of sound.

Perhaps art is simply an organism's reaction against its retentive limitations.