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

After all, it is hard to master both life and work equally well. So if you are bound to fake one of them, it had better be life.

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

In general, with things unpleasant, the rule is: The sooner you hit bottom, the faster you surface.

I'm neither Catholic not Protestant. Protestant sounds good but I don't think I am.

All the literati keep at least one imaginary friend.

For the poet the credo or doctrine is not the point of arrival but is, on the contrary, the point of departure for the metaphysical journey.