The barmaid poured him vodka, and Sergei Ilyich took it up with an accustomed, firm grip that was even elegant in its way.

Our first car was a beige Zaporozhets made in the USSR, which had a Beetle-like design.

My name is Akiko. What glorious name do you bear? Type it and press enter and Akiko will unlock her door.

Good God, what criminals? They're ordinary people.

He just loved that little gizmo.

Something suggested to Nina Alexandrovna that in this halted time there was no important difference between order and disorder.

“Sometimes I think I can reach the skies…and no sea would cover my bare knees!”

I stood and anxiously awaited his answer. But he said nothing. / I stood and said nothing.

She moved quickly and purposefully, as though she were handling walrus flippers or deer legs, not human hands.

To kiss the lips is to drink water. / I kiss your lips.

There was nothing to be surprised about: in the town of Chebachinsk there wasn't a single man whose arm Pereplyotkin couldn't pin to the table.

This feeling of shame soon goes away, almost, and new intonations fasten to your tongue (as a tin can attaches to a cat's tail)

It is not fated that, in this world,The strong join the strong.Thus, Siegfried parted from Brunhild,A sword stroke instead of a marriage.In the allied brotherly hatred–Like buffalos!–rock…

what is watchingalways comes to an end: and the day! and the world! . . it is the uniquethe unceasing – is it over its featuresthat the soul glides: like dust! – and…

to N. A.in your presence even the toesare as if they remembered! and the mind more stronglypierces our headin your presence! and together perhaps you are thatwhenceseparatingthey drew out: of…

(after the “Grasshoppers” of VelimirKhlebnikov and e.e. cummings) to my son Andreygrasshopper-sign flickersover field under heaven! – (sign to Reason – be on guard!be…

in dust is no vowel. . . death is a sound: a shout – to God?he – in the surface of dust: is what then – a gleam?oh not treasures of sacrifice: nor representation! . .…

to W. Woroczylskibehind my back – it seemed – were islands: of the terror-idea! – as if a certain chillwas spread – for a year of this life: were they places –…

oh clearlywith gathered forceeverywhere it shows itself: skyglow of the yearlike features of the land: drawing:from everywhere: any: fire: for incandescence! – and this is no shout!but…

to V. S. but you are not the surrounding of such a onebut a stair in yourself where poverty is like skyglow: oh ice-holes of illness! as if by someonethey were always directed: with meaning!…

“Well, let’s fly . . .”“Where to and why?”“Just fly to nowhereafter that cloud . . .”Just let’s rush off nowhere, nowhere,let’s listen to the wires…

Fate’s little picturesdrawn by a most slender pen,will hang in the damp airon a little spider’s web.The rains drawwith their own flying handwriting,and the wind shuffleslight strokes like…

whole –with a whisper of ordering of the firmament and as out of the shining facein a time of sorrow –mine –I create it and by fireconcealing images of the raceit is lit 1965The…

All this moves and rustles,plays and waves,dances blindly to someone’s pipeand crowns someone’s thought. It plays and singsand beckons with an apple branchand at times sweetly wounds the soul,at…

Neither with paint, nor with a brush.Light is his kingdom: his hair is gray.The red leaves tell lies.Here light tramples color.Color is trampled by light.The heel of light crushes the chest of color.Isn’t…

The wind revels in the quiet night . . .The Lord has marked the coming dayin a black draft, so as to recreate iton a clean white copy, and the skywill be bright in a momentand will flare in a crimson…

Like that, is it? said IIvan Ilyich. And the future Messiah, who might that be?

What revelations,What truthsWhat do you rustle of,The floods of green?With sacramentsOf what raving sibyl,What do you rustle of,What do you rave about?What’s in your fluttering?But I know–you…

Bukin was definitely frightened, but Zavzyatov, who was dragging along the bottle of vodka and the bows, all wrapped in newspaper, seemed oblivious to danger

Azeri! Prepare to die! he shouted, and fired into the sky.

The whole base held its breath, waiting for the long-awaited washing to commence.

“La vie,” Edith Piaf sings,“La vie, la vie,” seize the moment . . .And this voice is eternally rightand there’s no threat of it being buried in oblivion.“La vie,”…

Bring to me all that’s of no use to others:My fire must burn it all!I lure life, and I lure deathAs weightless gifts to my fire.Fire loves light-weighted things:Last year’s brushwood, wreathes,…

Someone’s heading for a fatal victory.Trees gesture like tragedies.Sacrificial dance of Judea!Trees flutter like sacramentals.This–a conspiracy against the era:Against weight, number, fraction,…

Boris Fishman interviewed Wladimir Kaminer September 3, 2003.Boris Fishman: Did you start writing before emigrating to Germany? What did you do in the Soviet Union?Wladimir Kaminer: In the Soviet Union,…

Our government was very generous with its citizens; it couldn't be compared to an imperialist regime.