‘This is the book of curses, retribution and revenge, even though a verbal one, it has nothing to be compared with in terms of its temper, acrimony and rage in “sick” and fierce white journalism. Because even in anger, passion, almost frenzy, Bunin remains an artist: and in great injustice he is still an artist. It is HIS PAIN, the AGONY that he took with him into exile’.

‘Almost every day, in any weather, Bunin walked around the city for several hours. He was walking, not strolling, with quick light steps, wearing a short knee-length light overcoat which was common to see in Moscow, with a cane, and an academic skullcap instead of a hat, he looked rushing, strained and attentive, lean … I watched Bunin at the soldiers 'flea market’, where he stood in the middle of the crowd with a notebook in his hands, calmly and unhurriedly writing down the ditties, which two brothers — the Black sea military sailors were shouting out, dancing with their hands on each other’s shoulders and shaking their wide “bell-bottoms”, — it was popular song “Apple” or “Deribasovskaya” … I remember the fainting, sickening smell of sesame oil, garlic, and human sweat. But Bunin paid no attention to this and worked quietly, covering page after page with his notes. The most striking thing was that no one paid any attention to him, despite his academic appearance, which was so much distinguished from the market crowd, or perhaps thanks to his appearance: who knows who they took him for’.