In Russia, the moment a person opens his mouth you know where he's from. There's the uniformity of experience of an individual in Russia. When you're about 7 years old you get into school and you get put in this factory or this bureaucracy or whatever. The options are computable. Here it's tremendously diverse.

The fact that we are living does not mean we are not sick.

All the literati keep at least one imaginary friend.

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

Perhaps the best proof of the Almighty's existence is that we never know when we are to die.

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

When I'm not writing or reading, I'm thinking about both.