Perhaps art is simply an organism's reaction against its retentive limitations.
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.
I'm a bad Jew, a bad Russian, a bad everything.
This is the generation whose first cry of life was the Hungarian uprising.
Russian talk of political evil is as natural as eating.
After having exhausted all the arguments on behalf of evil, one utters the creed's dictums with nostalgia rather than with fervor.