Twentieth-century Russian literature has produced nothing special except perhaps one novel and two stories by Andrei Platonov, who ended his days sweeping streets.

What's happening in Russia is devoid of autobiographical interest for me. Maybe it's egocentric. Whatever it is, feel free to use it.

I didn't want to be either the cre`me de la cre`me or a martyr. I'd rather be a novelty, especially in a democracy that doesn't understand the language I write in.

I'm not trying to be ridiculous or funny, but it was rather pleasant to find yourself in isolation, in solitary.

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

The government, the state, they're just objects of jokes rather than serious consideration. I can't possibly take them seriously.

I'm a bad Jew, a bad Russian, a bad everything.