I had this fantasy of becoming a neurosurgeon. You know, the normal Jewish boy fantasy, but I wanted to be a neurosurgeon for some reason. So I started in this unpleasant way. I was an assistant to the coroner, opening up corpses, taking the innards out, opening skulls, taking the brains out.
On the whole, love comes with the speed of light; separation, with that of sound.
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.
When I’m not writing or reading, I’m thinking about both.
The government, the state, they’re just objects of jokes rather than serious consideration. I can’t possibly take them seriously.
This is the generation whose first cry of life was the Hungarian uprising.
I got caught up in the proletariat the way Marx describes it.
What concerns me is that man, unable to articulate, to express himself adequately, reverts to action. Since the vocabulary of action is limited, as it were, to his body, he is bound to act violently, extending his vocabulary with a weapon where there should have been an adjective.
In general, with things unpleasant, the rule is: The sooner you hit bottom, the faster you surface.
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 don’t have principles. I have nerves.
I’m not trying to be ridiculous or funny, but it was rather pleasant to find yourself in isolation, in solitary.
All the literati keep at least one imaginary friend.
In the West you have every opportunity for civilization to triumph.
The formula for prison is a lack of space counterbalanced by a surplus of time. This is what really bothers you, that you can’t win. Prison is lack of alternatives, and the telescopic predictability of the future is what drives you crazy.
I’m a bad Jew, a bad Russian, a bad everything.
In poetic thought, the role of the subconscious is played by euphony.
If I can get somewhere, I’m all right. If not, I’m miserable.
Poetry is not only the most concise way of conveying the human experience; it also offers the highest possible standards for any linguistic operation.
The moment that you place blame somewhere, you undermine your resolve to change anything.