Playboy Interview: Yevgeny Yevtushenko

Yevgeny Yevtushenko may be the world's best-known poet; surely he is the world's best-known Russian poet, and the most widely traveled. Despite frequent reports of his estrangement from the Soviet government, he darts in and out of Russia with the apparent freedom of an unofficial ambassador plenipotentiary. In a nation where political recognition is thought to hinge on Communist Party membership, he has risen to national prominence as a nonmember. In a society where atheism is the established religion, he willingly acknowledges his admiration for Christianity--even to the extent of wearing a gold cross around his neck. In a nation whose people are popularly viewed as drab and puritanical, he is fashionable, flamboyant and a self-styled Casanova.

Yevtushenko's international stature is such that the authorities simply couldn't keep him quiet even if they wanted to--which most likely they don't, since he is a staunch supporter of Soviet socialism and a good-will ambassador par excellence, as evidenced not only by his media appearances but also by his recent private conversations with President Nixon and various members of the Kennedy family. Though he is outspoken in his criticism of what he sees as defects in his own society as well as in others, his criticism always takes the form of amiable advice from an interested friend. But his criticism of Soviet society often makes headlines, usually written by Western journalists who don't understand that his words are based on an unquestionable patriotism and an almost mystical respect for the rich and divergent cultural heritage of his native land.

Yevtushenko's rise to stardom in the Soviet Union was meteoric. He was born on July 18, 1932, to a peasant family on a rural outpost in Siberia, the setting for one of his best-known poems, "Zima Junction." Among his earliest memories was the abrupt disappearance of both of his grandfathers, who were imprisoned in concentration camps during the Stalin era and did not survive. His parents were divorced during his childhood, and because of the terrible disruptions of wartime Russia, he found himself shunted between Siberia and Moscow, often in the company of his mother, a part-time cabaret singer who was soon to lose her voice.

During this period, Yevtushenko was exposed to many aspects of the Russian demimonde, whose language and life styles he would portray so faithfully in his verses. He attended the equivalent of high school near Moscow, but never distinguished himself, possibly because his early interest in poetry was overshadowed by his athletic prowess. Several coaches felt that he had the potential of a world-class soccer goalie. Yevtushenko neatly resolved this dilemma at 15. On the afternoon before a long-awaited professional soccer tryout, he learned that he had sold his first poem--to a magazine called Soviet Sport. He celebrated this portentous event in a manner that was to become a trademark: by consuming monstrous quantities of wine. Next day, when he arrived at the tryout, he wasn't even hung over; he was still drunk. Russia may have lost a world-cup goalie, but she gained a major poet.

Yevtushenko chronicled all this in an audacious self-appraisal tilled "A Precocious Autobiography" (an appropriate title, since the book appeared in 1963, when the author was just 30). The work created a sensation in the West--and a scandal in the Soviet Union. Official retribution was swift, and Yevtushenko dropped from sight for a few months, only to emerge delivering an official apology. Characteristically, he recanted not a single word of his book, but he admitted bad judgment in allowing the work to be published abroad before its appearance in Russia--a curious mea culpa that he maintains to this day. International acclaim soon followed. Having patched his fences at home, he was free to travel the world over, and did so with gusto. His poetic output, always enormous, actually increased. His most recent volume, "White Snows Are Falling," was a 100,000-copy sell-out in the Soviet Union, and his latest American translation, "Stolen Apples," sold in excess of 15,000 copies during the first six months of 1972--a significant figure for a work of serious verse. And yet, at the very height of his success, he began declaring his intention to stop writing poetry.

To gain an insight into the man, Playboy dispatched Senior Editor Michael Laurence, an unpublished poet better known for his writing on the subject of personal investment. Laurence reports:

"I have known Yevtushenko through the mails since 1963. Playboy has from time to time published his poetry, and in the early years I acted as intermediary. We first met on his visit to America in 1968, at a poetry reading at the University of Chicago. That night we had a roaring good time drinking champagne at the Playboy Club in the company of a wild poet groupie named Lubya, a native speaker of Russian whom Yevtushenko had picked up at his reading. I wasn't surprised, however, when he subsequently called to decline being interviewed for Playboy, on the grounds that it might not sit well with the folks back home. (Playboy was--and still is--banned in the U. S. S. R.)

"When word came, in late 1971, that Yevtushenko was returning to America, it was obviously time to try again. I was then living in Cornish, New Hampshire. Yevtushenko knows this town well, since it is the year-round home of J. D). Salinger, an author who is lionized in Russia. 'The Catcher in the Rye' is one of the most popular American novels ever translated into Russian. Through his friend and interpreter, Dr. Albert Todd of Queens College, Yevtushenko urged me to set up a meeting between him and Salinger.

"I had been a neighbor of Salinger's for three years but had never met him. Our acquaintance consisted of maybe ten seconds of eye contact, spread over 36 months, when he would drive past while I was retrieving my Wall Street Journal from the mailbox. Yevtushenko's man hadn't said so, but there was the strong suggestion that Yevgeny might be much more willing to sit for an interview if, indeed, I could arrange a meeting between him and his American literary idol.

"Thrilled with the prospect of mid-wifing a literary event, I decided to cast off neighborly indifference and pay Salinger a visit. I drove up to his house, but he wasn't home, so I left a note asking him to call. He telephoned later in the day. Politely, I tried to explain my request, but I had hardly uttered the word Yevtushenko when Salinger interrupted. 'Wait,' he said. 'Am I correct? Do you presume to call me on a literary matter?' I tried to explain, but the conversation ended when Salinger interrupted again to declare, 'This is precisely the sort of thing I've been trying to avoid for 15 years.' Click.

"Yevtushenko apparently felt sorry for me after this bleak encounter on his behalf: After a few weeks' deliberation, he consented to be interviewed anyway. The first session took place in San Francisco, where we recorded several hours of conversation while tooling around North Beach in the back of Lawrence Ferlinghetti's microbus. A few months later, just before Yevtushenko's departure for home, we completed the interview in New York, in the somewhat less frenetic surroundings of a suite in the Meurice Hotel.

"Yevtushenko is a fascinating and deliglilful man. At a Greek restaurant near the West Side bus terminal, he spent ten minutes autographing a napkin for a 12-year-old girl. Three bottles of retsina later, we were on our way to see--of all things--the film 'Nicholas and Alexandra.' Yevtushenko's love of American movies is well known (he once wrote a poem about James Bond) and he was pleased with this one. 'Very accurate,' he concluded.

"Much of the interview was conducted in English, which he speaks quite well. But for difficult questions, he responded in Russian, with Todd acting as translator. Whatever the language, Yevtushenko speaks very deliberately, chain-smoking filter cigarettes, smiling or grimacing as he talks, frequently bringing his hand to his face in what appears to be an effort to wrest the right words from his mouth. I never saw him dressed other than casually, usually in a cardigan, blue jeans and loafers, and always wearing Eskimo mementos--a carved walrus-tusk bracelet and occasionally a necklace--from an Alaskan trip. The first thing he wanted to know, when I met him in San Francisco, was the particulars of my non-get-together with Salinger. I recounted them as I set up the tape recorder, and that's where the interview began."

[Q] Playboy: Why is J. D. Salinger such a popular writer in the Soviet Union?

[A] Yevtushenko: Largely because of The Catcher in the Rye. The book was extremely difficult to translate, since it is written in teenage slang. But Salinger found a wonderful translator in Rita Rait-Kovalëva, who had been a friend of Mayakovsky's, one of our greatest poets. She translated the book superbly into Russian teenage slang. Nothing quite like this had been done before, and the effect was startling.

[Q] Playboy: Since the theme of the book is so specifically American, aren't you surprised it caught on in Russia?

[A] Yevtushenko: It is only the milieu of The Catcher in the Rye that is American. The book describes the problems of ordinary people starting their adult life lost in a vast world, and such problems are universal.

[Q] Playboy: Have the translations of your own works into English been as successful?

[A] Yevtushenko: Not really. English translations convey the meaning of my words but fail to evoke their music. This is true for all Russian poetry. Russian is more melodious than English.

[Q] Playboy: Does this make the Russian language better suited to poetry?

[A] Yevtushenko: Yes. A very great Russian poet of the 18th Century, Mikhail Lomonosov, observed that Russian has the power of English, the beauty of French, the music of Italian and the nobility of Spanish. As one who is at least vaguely familiar with all five languages, I agree. Also, because Russian is so very melodious, it offers frequent possibility for rhyming--even for fresh, new rhymes.

[Q] Playboy: Why is rhyme so important in Russian poetry?

[A] Yevtushenko: Without rhyme you don't have poetry. I know that isn't the case in the United States, but it is true in Russia. In fact, one of the continuing problems of our poetry has been the supposed absence of new rhymes. For a while it was almost a cliché to say that all the rhymes had been used up. Mayakovsky mentioned this in a poem:

Surely, a dozen as yet unused rhymesSurvive, somewhere in Venezuela.

But this isn't true. Mayakovsky himself discovered new techniques for rhyming, and I too have developed new rhymes. In my teens I went through a big Russian dictionary, word by word, and found something like 10,000 new rhymes. I recorded them in a notebook, but this was a futile labor: I subsequently lost the notebook.

[Q] Playboy: Critics have said that it's this fascination with the technique of poetry that weakens your work. They also say that you skip from subject to subject and from style to style like a poetic dilettante.

[A] Yevtushenko: I have traveled much and lived many lives. I can write my verses in different dialects, speaking for many different people, because I have lived their lives. I am familiar, for example, with the dialect of thieves, which is almost a language in itself. In my boyhood, during World War Two, I consorted with thieves. I was a thief for a while. And I know the jargon of the urban proletariat--blue-collar workers--because I was also a factory hand. I know the dialect of sailors because I was a sailor. I love language, all languages, and have a good ear for them--especially slang. Slang is real language. As you say, I have been criticized, even attacked, on these accounts. My poetry may be a strange cocktail of different styles and different slangs--but it spells life.

[Q] Playboy: Do you feel that your international success may have cut you off from these vital sources?

[A] Yevtushenko: Absolutely not. You must understand that in the Soviet Union, poets are not celebrated on talk shows or interviewed in magazines like Playboy. In my country, a poet is not treated like a movie star. I'm just another person, one who happens to write verses. Let me tell you: I was born in Siberia, in the settlement of Zima. Zima describes the place well; it means winter. I have many friends and relatives there--metal craftsmen, truck drivers, railroad workers. I go back almost every year to see them. For them, my fame does not exist. They love my poetry, read it regularly and criticize works they don't like. They also defend me.

This is true not just in Zima but wherever I go. I'm a wanderer, a bit of a tramp. I travel constantly. Even after I had become known as a poet, I took a job as a common sailor on a seal-hunting schooner. And just three years ago, some friends and I built a little wooden boat powered by two motorcycle engines, and the four of us took a trip down Russia's longest river, the Lena. The trip lasted four months and covered 4500 kilometers. It was very hard work. Everywhere we stopped, I talked to people and read verses--to geologists, to collective farmers, to fishermen. One time I recited poetry while standing in hip boots on a huge pile of sturgeon. Wherever I go--to cities, to villages, to tiny settlements--I always find people who know and love my poetry. These people talk to me about everything: their successes, their failures, their joys and their sorrows. I have never felt any barrier between them and myself, and they, in turn, feel I am one of them. This is the key to my poetry. It is the sort of person that I am.

[Q] Playboy: What sort of poet does this make you?

[A] Yevtushenko: To answer, I will have to tell you something about Russian poetry. After our Revolution, there were four great Russian poets: Mayakovsky, Pasternak, Yesenin and Blok. Each had his own shortcomings and his own virtues. Yesenin was intimately familiar with the countryside. He had lived the soul of rural Russia. But he dreaded the city. Mayakovsky knew nothing of country life, but he loved the city. He was an urban poet. Like Walt Whitman, Mayakovsky could find beauty in skyscrapers and bridges. But he could not perceive the beauty of the last little berry that sways on the snowy branch of a solitary tree. This gift was denied him. When Mayakovsky wrote about the countryside, the result was superficial.

Unlike Mayakovsky, Pasternak was totally an intellectual. He also perceived nature very sensitively. But curiously enough, he saw it best from the suburbs. He was a man torn between city and country. Of the four, Blok wrote the best verses about love; his supreme achievement was his appreciation of the beauty of women. For him, all of nature was summed up in womankind. It is perhaps significant that he had mixed feelings about the Revolution. One night he met Mayakovsky and the two stood out in the darkness. Around them flickered the lights from campfires of the Russian Red Guards. Blok looked at the campfires and said: "The fires of the Revolution are beautiful." He was silent for a while, and then he added: "But they're burning my library."

Which brings us back to your question: What I would like to do is combine the principles of these four poets in verses that speak the many different voices of the masses. Everybody in the Soviet Union reads my poetry. Many can find their own lives reflected in my verses. But beyond this, I think there is a common thread that binds my poetry into an integrated whole, and this is my real response to those who charge me with inconsistency. In all my poetry, and in each of my public appearances, I try to encompass sadness, joy, satire, tenderness--and cruelty toward cruelty. It pleases me to bring these strains together. Our intellectuals today, our thinking class, have the same origins I have. In a very real way, my lyrical hero represents the contemporary Soviet intellectual.

[Q] Playboy: How would you characterize the Russian intelligentsia today?

[A] Yevtushenko: Let me reply with an example. Last year, I was in the Far East visiting a big fishing collective. They have 16 of their own boats and each man earns between 1000 and 1500 rubles a month, a very good wage for an individual worker. What interested me most, however, was their library: a huge, fine library. I looked through the checkout records to see which people had taken out which books and came across the record for one electrician. During the past year alone, he had read the complete works of Anatole France--eight volumes, I believe--plus all 20 volumes of Theodore Dreiser, a collection of verses by García Lorca, The Forsyte Saga, the complete works of Mark Twain and John Updike's The Centaur, a very complex book. Also, the man was apparently so impressed with All the King's Men that he failed to return it. He preferred to pay five times the actual cost of the book, just to keep it. Now, this man is an electrician at a fishing collective. But obviously, he is also an intellectual. What I see is this: Culture in Russia, which earlier was concentrated like tea in the bottom of a cup, now touches virtually everyone in the country. Of course, we have not reached the outstanding level of intellectual attainment that our elite enjoyed in the middle of the 19th Century. But I have high hopes.

[Q] Playboy: How long do you think this will take?

[A] Yevtushenko: If everything goes well, I believe an extraordinary occurrence could take place in my country: I think that in a span of one or two more generations, we might become the first nation of intellectuals. Perhaps this is naïve, but it is my belief. The conditions for its realization already exist. Nowhere are books printed in such large editions and read so widely; nowhere is there such a demand for art; nowhere is it so difficult to get into a theater.

[Q] Playboy: That might indicate a shortage of theaters rather than a cultural resurgence.

[A] Yevtushenko: You said that facetiously, but there is an element of truth there, and I frankly prefer it that way. Consider the alternative: On one of my visits to America, I stopped in at a beautiful museum in Cleveland. A marvelous Miró exhibition had just opened, but the place was almost empty. What a waste. For the first Picasso exhibition in Moscow, which I helped organize, tens of thousands of people lined up in the streets. The only time I'd seen lines like that before was during World War Two, when people were waiting for bread. I think this is one of the great achievements of our society: The demand for culture is now as broad as the demand for bread.

[Q] Playboy: But when culture is as common as bread, isn't it also as bland?

[A] Yevtushenko: If you are asking me to explain why bread is so tasteless in your country, I cannot answer.

[Q] Playboy: We were thinking specifically of your own poetry. Doesn't the vast size of your audience affect what you write?

[A] Yevtushenko: In a way, yes. Sometimes a touch of didacticism creeps into my verses. The tendency is often reinforced because, when I write, I visualize the huge masses before me. If you are exhibiting paintings in a small hall, you can show delicate little water colors. That's fine: The hall is small and everyone can get close to see the details. But if you are exhibiting to masses of people, in order to reach those in the very last row you've got to show murals: bold strokes in charcoal, raw and sharp.

[Q] Playboy: In the West, this sort of work is often called propaganda.

[A] Yevtushenko: In a sense, you are right. One must be very careful. If you work only in charcoal, your paintings can begin to resemble posters. But don't forget that for most of our history, our people have had to endure terrible deprivation: hunger, suffering, lack of shelter, lack of clothing. War has taken an awful toll in our country. After World War Two, the amount of rebuilding to be done was staggering. The first Five-Year Plan was devoted solely to heavy industry. Light industry was completely ignored. The population of the big cities soared, but no new houses were built. There were no consumer goods. I remember Victory Day--May 9, 1945--in Red Square. The place was teeming. Of all the women there, I didn't see a single one in ladies' shoes; all wore combat boots. Today, in the same place. you can see high school girls doing the latest dances in their miniskirts.

So short a period of time--and such a different country. Very strange, even disturbing. People are yearning for comfort and, God knows, they deserve it; they have worked so hard and suffered so much that they've earned the right to a better life. Many new houses are being built; not quite as beautiful as they might be, unfortunately, but a welcome change from the horrible communal apartments where people were crammed into common kitchens and forced to spit into one another's borsch. People are dressing better, living better, relaxing a little, enjoying themselves. The Chinese have accused us of becoming bourgeois. Not true, of course, but there is an element of danger in excessive appetites, excessive greed.

That's why I believe one of the tasks for our writers is to help our citizens by cautioning that in the pursuit of material comforts, they don't lose sight of cultural, spiritual and moral values. This is not propaganda, nor does it necessarily have to be expressed in a loud voice. Didacticism is a legitimate part of poetry--more so in my society than in yours--but to some extent in both. But it is far from being all of poetry. Many times a thought is more powerful or more profound if it is expressed in a whisper rather than in a shout. I'm always conscious of the distinction between shouting and whispering, and I think this has helped my poetry. When I find myself shouting too much, I try consciously to whisper for a while. But poetry must reflect the whole range of the human voice: shouts, whispers, laughter, conversation, moans--even silence. Only then will it reflect the whole range of life for a vast audience.

[Q] Playboy: Vast audiences are precisely the point at which you depart from your poetic counterparts in the U. S. Many American poets view their work as essentially a private communication. The idea of reading their verses to large groups--as you do--is seen as something akin to prostitution. At the very least, they say, it destroys personal communication. As a matter of fact, of the relatively few American poets who make frequent public appearances, most are regarded as performers rather than as poets. Where do you fit in?

[A] Yevtushenko: Pandering to the public by reading cheap, emotional verses--the sort of poetry that we colloquially describe in Russia as "the blue snot of sentimentalism"--this is surely prostitution. There are poets like this in both countries. We can't throw these performers off the stage--but we shouldn't allow them to monopolize it, either. In terms of real poetry, good poetry, I can't believe there's a poet on this earth who doesn't want to speak directly to people. When others hear my poetry, they hear my confession; they absorb my suffering. If I touch a common chord, then it's a liberation for them as well as for me. We are sharing our troubles; that makes both our burdens lighter.

If I may say so, I think it's a great defect of American culture that your poets are so seldom offered this opportunity; poetry evenings are rare events in your country. Your poets have little or no chance to perfect their delivery. So if they say they prefer not to read on television or in large auditoriums, this could be from fear that they won't do a good job. But I doubt it. I think their response is one of wounded pride--because no one ever asks them to read under such circumstances. I'd feel the same way. Yevtushenko and Voznesensky come to America and are offered podiums that are largely unavailable to your own major poets. If they were offered similar opportunities, I'm sure they would read with great pleasure. It is a matter of what people are accustomed to.

I was at a dinner party a few weeks back and a schoolteacher told me, very proudly, that she had introduced poetry recitation into her primary classes. She was surprised when I didn't react with much enthusiasm. But the truth is, I am shocked that poetry recitation isn't taught to small children everywhere in America, as a matter of course. One of my most rewarding recitals this trip was at a high school in Winston-Salem, North Carolina--1500 kids, a very successful reading. Afterward, I asked if American poets had ever recited at that school. The answer was no. James Dickey lives in the next state, but he'd never been asked; I had to come halfway around the world. This is a tragic situation, because one of the great things about public poetry readings is that they can reach people who have not previously been touched by poetry. Listeners then become readers, and the cause of poetry--and poets--is helped. It's really too bad that America doesn't give more attention to organizing such events.

[Q] Playboy: One of the reasons for this neglect may be that not too many people would attend.

[A] Yevtushenko: Well, I think my own experience at Madison Square Garden denies that. At this reading, your own poets--Dickey, Stanley Kunitz and Richard Wilbur--had as enthusiastic a reception as I did.

[Q] Playboy: You omitted the name of Eugene McCarthy, who also read that night.

[A] Yevtushenko: I had some trouble with McCarthy, as you probably know. I had been very sympathetic toward him, during the time when he had such great support from students and intellectuals and progressives generally--when he was making those stirring speeches about civic courage and individual responsibility. But his conduct at Madison Square Garden did not live up to my expectations.

[Q] Playboy: What happened?

[A] Yevtushenko: Well, this was a very special performance before a large audience, 5000 or more. In a situation like that, you can't improvise onstage. Everything was agreed to during rehearsals. McCarthy was to read a portion of a poem of mine, dedicated to Robert Kennedy, written shortly after his assassination. The portion included these lines:

The stars in your flag, America,Are bullet holes.

These are strong words, of course. Many people in the audience wouldn't like them. But McCarthy had agreed to read them. Then, in the middle of the performance, he thrust this portion of the poem into my hands and said: "Read it yourself." He knew perfectly well that this wouldn't work. I can't read English in public; my pronunciation isn't good enough. Fortunately, an old friend of mine was on the stage. He understood the situation and saved the day.

Then, at a reception afterward, McCarthy congratulated me on the success of the evening and made a special point of asking me to get together with him privately for a talk. It was all very perplexing. The meeting never took place, because a few days later, in Time magazine, McCarthy was quoted as saying that the whole performance was "crap." For a long while I couldn't understand what McCarthy was up to, but now I think I know. He was trying to please too many people. He wanted to please the leftists in the audience, so he read some of his own verses about Vietnam. He wanted to please rightist elements, so he dropped a few nasty lines to Time, telling them just what they needed for a report that put me down. And he wanted to please me, so he congratulated me at the reception. In an interview with The New York Times, I said I felt betrayed by Eugene McCarthy. A man I spoke to later told me that I shouldn't feel betrayed at all. I asked why. He said: "McCarthy is a politician. Their profession is to betray people." This is unfortunate, but I think it contains a large element of truth. I prefer politicians without hypocrisy.

[Q] Playboy: What do you think of McCarthy as a poet?

[A] Yevtushenko: Of his verses that I've read, I've found nothing extraordinary, and nothing offensive either. However, his reading was rather peculiar. I've always felt that poetry is somehow different from ordinary speech--perhaps because of its music. At Madison Square Garden, McCarthy was supposed to make a short statement and then read some of his poetry. I couldn't tell when the speech ended and when the poetry began. Perhaps that's the nature of his poetry, or perhaps it reflects my lack of facility with English. But I would rather not talk about this any further. The point I was trying to make, when you asked about McCarthy, was that the American poets who read with me that night were very well received. And on the basis of this, and from my other experiences around the country, I think the American public has a deep and genuine appreciation of poetry.

[Q] Playboy: How can you say that? William Cullen Bryant sold more poetry 100 years ago than any of our better poets would dream of selling today.

[A] Yevtushenko: You are talking about poetry as if it were tooth paste. The poet's role is not to sell poems but to write them.

[Q] Playboy: We were simply taking issue with your statement that Americans have a deep appreciation of poetry.

[A] Yevtushenko: I think they do. But to say that Americans love poetry is not to say that their love is being satisfied. Look at your television. In the Soviet Union, we have what amounts to a continuing advertising campaign on behalf of poetry. One of the regular features of our television programing is a series of literary programs. Within this format, there is a special section for poetry. For all practical purposes, poetry is now aired on our television every day. These evening programs are broadcast via satellite to the remotest corners of the Soviet Union. People in the most isolated villages in Siberia can see their favorite poets. There's also a weekly program devoted to young poets. Here unknowns are welcome, sometimes even those who haven't published a single line. Of course, this is an enormous advertisement for them and their work. This sort of programing has made a tremendous contribution toward encouraging popular appreciation of poetry.

[Q] Playboy: Isn't there only one channel?

[A] Yevtushenko: In a sense. The choice is to watch or not to watch, and many people don't. But once again, consider the alternative. If we wanted to, I'm sure we could create a socialist equivalent of Let's Make a Deal, or something equally mindless. Millions of people would probably watch it. Bad taste is universal; it has nothing to do with how we structure our societies. But the point is: Toward what end would we be progressing if we were to pander to such banality? Better to watch poets or nothing at all. I understood this contradiction very clearly when I arrived in your country this time and almost immediately was invited to read my poetry on commercial TV. How many American poets have had such an opportunity, over a lifetime? I know what's going on, though: I'm a Russian, I'm news. So I read my poetry.

I must say, however, that it's not very pleasant to have one's recital of lyrical love verses followed by an advertisement for panty hose. But our societies have comparable shortcomings: In the Soviet Union, many of our programs are too didactic, very boring; American educational programs are excellent, very exciting, yet not many people seem to watch them. And for the rest, who can say that it's better than what we have in Russia? If I were an American, I would put the improvement of commercial television very high on my list of priorities. Many Americans seem to eat food only if it's advertised. If this is so, then you should also advertise poetry the way we do.

[Q] Playboy: Are there other devices to foster popular appreciation of poetry in the Soviet Union?

[A] Yevtushenko: Yes. Most important is our Writers Union. Nothing like this exists in the United States, and I think that's regrettable. For one thing, there's a department that does nothing but promote literature. Administrators organize meetings between writers and readers--recitals, readings, discussion groups, all sorts of get-togethers. I think in the past two years alone they have set up 10,000 such events. Also, we now have an annual Poetry Day, which has become a national tradition. At first it was observed only in Moscow, but now it is celebrated in all the big cities. And we're beginning to organize poetry evenings to celebrate the birthdays of our great national poets. On Blok's birthday, we set up a reading at the place where his library was burned: a charming rural spot about 60 miles from Moscow. Ten thousand people gathered in the fields there to hear poetry.

[Q] Playboy: How is the Writers Union structured?

[A] Yevtushenko: The national union is comprised of the members of 15 local unions representing all the republics of the U. S. S. R. There are also separate locals in the larger cities. Total membership is about 6000.

[Q] Playboy: How does one join?

[A] Yevtushenko: A membership committee decides whether an applicant is qualified. Formerly, to be accepted, you had to have published at least one book. Even then, you weren't necessarily accepted. But in the last year or so, the requirements have been relaxed.

[Q] Playboy: Is membership in the Communist Party a prerequisite?

[A] Yevtushenko: Not at all. I am not a party member, nor are many others.

[Q] Playboy: The Writers Union is very powerful, isn't it?

[A] Yevtushenko: Yes. The membership includes virtually all the best writers in the country, and the union itself publishes many magazines and periodicals Some of these are quite substantial, perhaps 300 pages each, with no advertising; just prose, poetry, criticism and a scattering of political essays. Also, the union publishes a magazine that translates important foreign works, prose and poetry. Many American writers have been represented here. There's also a literary fund to which every writer must contribute a percentage of his royalties. The fund also gets a royalty percentage from the republication of our classics, and union members can draw money from the fund to underwrite projects they might want to get involved in.

[Q] Playboy: How does this work?

[A] Yevtushenko: Each year, every member of the union can draw out enough to cover expenses for a one-month trip anywhere in the U. S. S. R. One month is the usual limit, but for a special assignment, the grant can run up to three months. All expenses are covered--everything. The fund also provides special grants to promising young writers who might need money. There are no strings attached; if the writer is capable and needy, he gets the money gratis; a great source of support for new writers. Also, loans are available for proven writers, repayable in two or three years. This enables a man to support himself while he writes a book. Besides this, the fund owns about 20 cottages--houses of literature, we call them--scattered around the Soviet Union, mostly in forests or at the seashore. Each writer is permitted accommodation at one of these, one month a year, for a very nominal sum--about 80 rubles for everything. These are nice places to work on a book, to think, to relax--or even to have a party. Unfortunately, some writers like the setup so much that they travel on various pretexts from one house to another, without ever doing much work. Things like that are the same the world over.

[Q] Playboy: Do you owe your own success in Russia to such union benefits?

[A] Yevtushenko: Not really, because most of these things came into being after I had become recognized. I think my autobiography was partly responsible for my success. Its publication created a great stir and sparked interest in my poetry among people who had not previously read it.

[Q] Playboy: Do you think it explains your international acclaim as well?

[A] Yevtushenko: Only in a small way. My being known around the world is largely a matter of luck. I was fortunate enough to grow up in an era when all the nations of the world were drawing together. And I'm probably the only major poet who's intimately familiar with both the capitalist and the socialist worlds. Certainly I don't know another poet who has traveled as widely in both worlds. I've always tried to write poems that would appeal to the best people in both worlds.

[Q] Playboy: Do you feel that your fame may have, in any way, corrupted you?

[A] Yevtushenko: I've already had a run-in with fame and come through it. This happened in 1956, and nobody noticed it except me. I came to grips with stardom, a very formidable opponent, but I won. The following year, the critics began to write that I was being spoiled by my fame and--critics being what they are--they've been saying that ever since. But "the dog barks and the caravan goes on"--a bit of wisdom I picked up in Asia.

[Q] Playboy: Hasn't your fame also brought you wealth?

[A] Yevtushenko: That's nonsense. Wealth --by your standards--is a misfortune that cannot occur in a socialist society. By the standards of my country, I am fairly well off. But so are many others.

[Q] Playboy: How are writers paid in your country?

[A] Yevtushenko: We receive royalties, just like writers in the West. But since press runs are fixed, royalties are not based directly on sales. Payment is made on the basis of the length of the work--per printed signature, actually. A signature runs 20 or 21 typewritten pages, and the payment per signature is 300 or 400 rubles. If the size of the edition is larger, then the payment to the writer is also larger, but not in direct proportion. It's all very complex. In addition, the author can sell the same material to magazines, just as in the U. S.

[Q] Playboy: You've done quite well selling your works to American publishers. What do you do with the money?

[A] Yevtushenko: I don't get that much, actually. At least, no more than I manage to spend before I leave. Traveling is expensive. Also, I have lots of friends; one of my hobbies is buying gifts for them. Of course, I could deposit this money in a bank in the Soviet Union. But there's usually none left.

[Q] Playboy: Which of your works published in this country--those that Americans might know--most satisfies you?

[A] Yevtushenko: Difficult to say. I wrote a long poem called Bratskaya Ges--which, literally translated, means "Brotherly State Hydroelectric Station." Not a very elegant title, and it isn't a very elegant poem, either. Many passages in it are imperfect; it contains too much rhetoric. Still, I was trying to lift a huge boulder. None of my poems is perfect; I can see weak points in all of them. But I most respect those poems that involved lifting very heavy stones, even if they kept slipping from my hands.

[Q] Playboy: Who are your favorite American writers?

[A] Yevtushenko: Your questions provoke long monologs. Let us begin with writers who are dead. My favorites are Herman Melville, Washington Irving, Henry David Thoreau, Edgar Allan Poe, Jack London, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway. I like Hemingway's personality as well as his writing. A Farewell to Arms is a very strong book; I think his personality shows through there, as well as his skill. I also like Walt Whitman, who had a very strong influence on Russian poetry of the post-Revolutionary era. I've mentioned that Mayakovsky was especially influenced by Whitman; but he was also influenced by Jack London, whom he often quoted. I'm also a great fan of Dreiser. I love him despite his sentimentalism and his primitiveness. He was an American Balzac: He, too, tried to lift big stones--one can't help but admire that. Similarly John Dos Passos. His early novels had a great influence on Russian prose. Also Erskine Caldwell and John Steinbeck; their early novels were very influential.

Among living writers, my favorite would probably be Robert Penn Warren. All the King's Men is one of the most popular American novels ever published in Russia. We even made a television movie out of it--so successful that it was broadcast four times, by popular request. The Peter Principle was also very popular in Russia--for obvious reasons. As I've said before, the problems that both our societies face aren't that different. I enjoyed Saul Bellow's Herzog, and I also like the works of Bernard Malamud, especially his short stories. As for Tennessee Williams, he has always fascinated me. He comes close to being a poet of the drama, a strange and surely controversial playwright. I also like Edward Albee, especially The Zoo Story. And Norman Mailer, though only a couple of his books have been translated into Russian--The Naked and the Dead and his book about the 1968 conventions. I think that was first-class journalism. In addition, I have great respect for such writers as John Updike, John Cheever, Arthur Miller, William Styron, Truman Capote, Lillian Hellman, Irwin Shaw, James Jones and William Saroyan.

[Q] Playboy: Though he's Russian, Vladimir Nabokov is as widely read in the U. S. as some of the American authors you've named. How do you feel about his work--in either language?

[A] Yevtushenko: First, let me say this about émigré writers in general: Painters, musicians and dancers can endure exile--even flourish in it--because the languages of art, music and dance are international. But writing--whether it's prose or poetry--is built on language. And language is constantly changing. Emigré writers inevitably lose contact with the continuing development of their native tongue. This is like a pianist developing arthritis or a painter going blind. But Nabokov is a strange bird; or, to use his own metaphor, a strange butterfly. His works are not of this world, nor of the moon. They are like an artificial satellite: beautifully constructed, artfully contrived, but they have neither the smell of the earth nor the shimmer of the cosmos. His world is totally his own. Make no mistake, he is a great master; but in his mastery there is something strange. A Russian lady, in a conversation with me, brilliantly defined Nabokov's skill, which is also his weakness. She said: "Whenever I read Nabokov, I have the impression of hearing the clatter of glittering surgical instruments on a marble floor."

Nabokov is a great puzzle to me and to every other Russian who appreciates literature. He's constantly declaring that he's not at all interested in Russian life today and that he doesn't care a jot whether his works are read in Russia. But you don't have to be a Freudian to realize that this constant denial indicates a very deep interest in precisely the thing denied. Why would he spend so much time translating Lolita into Russian if he didn't care if anyone in Russia were to read it? Here is this man, living in Switzerland in contempt of almost everybody, but nevertheless trying to prove that he's a better master of Russian than anyone else in the world. It's as if he were constantly trying to respond to some imaginary Russian accuser telling him he's lost touch with his native language. But even in English his words, phrases and sentences show too much effort to be beautiful. His sentences are like ballet dancers: If you get too close, you smell the sweat.

Part of the problem, I think, is that Nabokov does not love people very deeply. The tragedy is that he understands this and suffers from it but can't do a thing about it. You see tin's suffering in all his prose. I think his best book is The Defense; his suffering is clear here, but the book is still defective. There's absolutely no question in my mind that Nabokov longs desperately to return to Russia. Perhaps he just wants to be 14 years old and meet that girl again. Perhaps more. It's a commentary on his greatness that we can talk this long about him without reaching any conclusion. I think he's one of the most contradictory figures in the whole history of literature. It's difficult to imagine another writer whose works are so graceful and yet so artificial, and who at the same time has been deprived of his homeland for so many years. One wonders what sort of greatness he might have attained under different circumstances.

[Q] Playboy: Nabokov might reply that he would have achieved no greatness at all--that he would not have been allowed to publish in Russia.

[A] Yevtushenko: He left before I was born, and I have nothing to say about such events. His works now circulate freely among Soviet writers. May I say a few words about questions like this in general?

[Q] Playboy: Of course.

[A] Yevtushenko: I was on a talk, show a few weeks ago. Before the show was to begin, the hostess submitted her questions to my translator. They were slippery, monstrous questions that demonstrated her total ignorance of life in my country. She was under the impression, for example, that our poet Alexander Tvardovsky had died in prison, under arrest. She expressed her very deep sympathy and alarm. When I asked if she had read his verses, she became embarrassed and admitted she had not. But she professed to have been deeply moved by photographs taken at his funeral. The whole thing reminded me of something Pushkin once said about people "who can love only the dead." There seems to be a certain category of people in America whose concern for Russians is limited to those who are either dead or under arrest. To this category of people, Americans in similar plights are only secondarily important. Questions about these suffering Russians are always asked with the same sweet smile.

To get back to this talk show, we reached an understanding with this lady that she would not ask such questions on the air. I told her that I was a poet and asked that she confine her questions to literature, about which I might have something worth while to say. But when we began our televised conversation, she asked me the same questions anyway. It all turned out all right, but it started me thinking: Why are some people so concerned about freedom in Russia? I consider myself a free man, and so do my countrymen. The need for freedom is natural and human. But in my country it is not a custom to run around shouting, "I am free! I am free!"

What perplexes me is that these very people who are so concerned about freedom in the Soviet Union don't understand that they themselves aren't free. They are not free from their prejudices--and here I am not talking about racial prejudices so much as political and economic ones; they are not free from their own ignorance; and they are certainly not free from tactless behavior toward visitors from the Soviet Union. I am never one to say that my society is perfect; it is not. Nor is yours. And it is up to the good people in both countries to work toward remedying them.

[Q] Playboy: On the subject of remedying social defects, what can you tell us of anti-Semitism in Russia--a subject that's been in the news so much lately?

[A] Yevtushenko: The reason the subject is in the news, presumably, is that so many Jews are now leaving Russia. Of course, Jews have been going to Israel from all over Europe, and from America, too. But never before have so many departed from the Soviet Union. Some of them are defaming my country after they leave; others are not. Some are even returning to Russia.

[Q] Playboy: Is anti-Semitism officially tolerated on any level of your society?

[A] Yevtushenko: Absolutely not. Official anti-Semitism does not exist in Russia. It's utterly contrary to socialist principles. It is impossible to be a Communist and an anti-Semite; these are mutually exclusive positions. This is not to say that anti-Semitism doesn't exist on a personal level, just as there is still discrimination against blacks in parts of your society. Actually, the roots of both are similar. While anti-Semitism never existed among our intelligentsia, our czars frequently used the Jews as scapegoats for the economic plight of the Russian masses. They would say to our peasants and workers: "Look, Ivan: Though you work hard and your fingernails are dirty, you have nothing. And there is the Jew--well dressed, fat, with fine light hands. With his commerce and his cunning, he sucks your blood." This was false, of course. But it was easy for peasants to accept, and a residue of this attitude still persists among uncultured segments of our society.

One of the first steps of our Revolution was a series of official acts against anti-Semitism. Lenin spoke against it many times. Mayakovsky wrote a wonderful poem on the subject. I've written on it. Massive changes have taken place, but the mind of man remains the mind of man. No matter what beautiful sociological schemes the bureaucrats might concoct, people change slowly. But they change. Among our young people, I have never seen a single person display any sort of anti-Semitism. I'm positive the problem will disappear totally in 15 or 20 years. The situation of Jews in our country has greatly improved already. But this does not mean that the problem has been fully resolved. It's a very difficult problem--not only in the Soviet Union but everywhere.

One key to the difficulty is that the Jewish people lacked their own country for so many years. The other is that vestiges of old anti-Semitic attitudes still persist among uneducated people the world over. We mustn't forget this, but we shouldn't exaggerate it, either. And I doubt that actions such as those of Rabbi Meir Kahane and his Jewish Defense League are helpful. On the contrary, they only increase tension.

[Q] Playboy: Didn't you have some trouble with the J. D. L. on your recent tour?

[A] Yevtushenko: No. No one from the J. D. L. bothered me. My troubles were with Ukrainian nationalists. They pushed me off a stage; I fell six feet. They kicked me. Poets have to learn karate these days. These Ukrainian liberationists interrupted me on the David Frost Show, trying to embarrass me with anti-Soviet slogans. There was a bomb threat at Princeton. Their scurrilous handbills followed me around the country. One of them said I would read anti-Semitic poems; another said I'd made $50,000 from the Madison Square Garden performance. All nonsense, of course. I received nothing--not one penny. In San Francisco, I was attacked by a bunch of Maoists. One of them said that I had dirtied myself by visiting this despicable country. A placard said--in effect--that since President Nixon had granted me an interview, this was evidence of my own dishonesty. What the hell kind of logic is that? Mao talked with Nixon, and he's their hero. It was all very strange and not at all typical.

[Q] Playboy: What do you think of Nixon's overtures to China?

[A] Yevtushenko: That is a delicate question, which I can answer only in a restrained way. I think the more contacts we have between heads of state, the better off we are, especially when the exchanges involve different political systems. Their contact will be useful in the future, so long as the new relationship isn't used by either side against the interests of the Soviet Union. Another world war would be an unimaginable tragedy. The recent treaties between our two nations have greatly decreased the possibility of such a war, and for this all humanity should be grateful. But whenever two great powers align themselves against a third, the chances of war are increased. I hope this never happens.

[Q] Playboy: What is your feeling about China's admission to the UN?

[A] Yevtushenko: I think it was a good thing, despite the demogogic way in which the Chinese have used that forum. The most dangerous nation is the most isolated one. I think it's a hopeful sign that Chinese isolation is diminishing.

[Q] Playboy: Have you ever been to China?

[A] Yevtushenko: No. I have always dreamed of going, but now that's impossible.

[Q] Playboy: Why? Is there a ban on travel between the Soviet Union and China?

[A] Yevtushenko: Not officially, but in practice it is very difficult for Soviet citizens to get visas, except for government delegations. My own case is special, because the Chinese have called me an American spy. Imagine that. They published a photo of me in one of their newspapers, doctored to make it appear that I was almost groveling before Robert McNamara. This was when he was Secretary of Defense. The caption read: "American agent Yevtushenko is asking his boss McNamara for an increase in salary." Incredible. But please understand that I have no feelings of hatred toward the Chinese people. Nonetheless, as a man, I feel insulted by such things. Also, as a Russian, I am disturbed that the Chinese seem to have forgotten how we helped them during their revolution. Now they are insulting us.

As a poet, I am also extremely disturbed that their younger generation is being denied access to the classics of world literature. The Chinese government has declared, for example, that Shakespeare is "an agent of international imperialism." What kind of nonsense is that? A society that doesn't know Shakespeare, or Mayakovsky, or Beethoven--such a society is being deprived of a very basic awareness of humanity. The results cannot be good. But when I was in Vietnam, I took a walk along Haiphong harbor. A Chinese ship was anchored there. One of the young sailors was hanging out his shirt to dry. I winked at him. He understood that I was Russian and he winked back. Then we both smiled, very friendly. Ordinary human relationships will never change, so long as people can smile at one another.

[Q] Playboy: This is your fourth trip to the United States, and each time you've made special efforts to talk to people in all walks of life. What changes have you observed between 1960 and today?

[A] Yevtushenko: We must discount my first trip, in 1960. I was very naïve then. I was in a big tourist group, together with Voznesensky. We spent most of our time in buses, and I very much envied Voznesensky's English. He could say things like "Where is the men's room?" Also, though our rooms and meals were paid for, we had only $35 in spending money to last three weeks. That didn't go very far. I got $100 from Harper's, for a short story, and this seemed an enormous amount of money, but Voznesensky talked me out of it. We used the money to send roses to a girlfriend of his in Warsaw. I had heard rumors about American corruption and was very curious about this, so Voznesensky and I spent most of our $35 at strip joints. He subsequently wrote a very great poem about this, but I came away with nothing. It's a curious thing: Americans go to Europe and visit the strip joints there, and Europeans come to America and do the same thing.

In subsequent visits, in 1966 and especially in 1968, I saw much more deeply and found tremendous changes. It was as if the whole meaning of patriotism had changed, and changed for the better. I think the assassination of Martin Luther King and of the Kennedy brothers, and the war in Vietnam--all these bloody tragedies--have awakened, in the American people, the spirit of Thoreau. I see a new contempt for pragmatism, a disdain for vulgar materialism and a rejection of hypocrisy. These are very welcome developments, which seem to penetrate not only American young people but American society generally.

[Q] Playboy: A concomitant development has involved the widespread use of drugs. Has your experience taken you that far?

[A] Yevtushenko: There are few things I haven't done. Simply out of curiosity, I've tried all sorts of drugs. All I experienced was an overwhelming desire for sleep. I enjoy only one narcotic, really, and that is wine. But Christ, too, liked wine, and when there wasn't any wine, he transformed water. I have profound respect for those who can be drunk without alcohol, or high without drugs.

[Q] Playboy: Have you ever tried to write under the influence of drugs?

[A] Yevtushenko: No. I know people say that drugs can be a source of great insight or revelation, but I think these are momentary sparks for which the individual must pay dearly later on. It's as if one were artificially straining the nerves, exhausting one's resources prematurely. The result is emptiness in the future. You can inject a rose with chemicals to make it blossom faster, but it will also wither sooner. In this day and age, people have to conserve their energies, because their spiritual development--given all the haste and pressure of modern life--is slower. Many writers now produce their best work after 40, just because it takes them longer to grow up.

[Q] Playboy: Is there a drug problem in the Soviet Union?

[A] Yevtushenko: Not really. There was a dope craze in the Twenties, largely involving cocaine. But no more. Of course, we still have a small number of drug addicts, but I don't know a Soviet writer who uses narcotics. There was one woman, a poet, who had been seriously ill and got addicted to painkillers. The habit lasted a few years, but she outgrew it.

[Q] Playboy: Why do we hear so little about Russian women writers?

[A] Yevtushenko: Only because your hearing is poor. In my country, they are making a lot of noise--and I mean this positively. We now have an extraordinary number of talented women in all branches of literature. I could name many, but I think that Bella Akhmadulina is tops. Many people--in and out of my country--rate her as the finest poet now writing in Russian. She writes very little, but she is like a magician: Everything she touches turns to gold.

[Q] Playboy: Is this appraisal colored by the fact that you two were once married?

[A] Yevtushenko: Not at all. I'm being quite objective. The divorce was friendly, and she's still a very close friend. We were just too similar to be married to each other. I would appraise her poetry the same way even if I didn't know her.

[Q] Playboy: We gather that divorce is a relatively easy procedure in the Soviet Union, with few problems about alimony and property division.

[A] Yevtushenko: Quite so, and this is one of the great hidden advantages of socialism. Where there is little property, there is little to quarrel about. Divorce is very easy. The judge does no more than say a few words to try to reconcile one's differences, as is his duty. The important thing is that the man and the woman continue to need each other. When they don't, the marriage should be dissolved.

[Q] Playboy: What do you think of women's lib?

[A] Yevtushenko: I can understand their grievances, but I think they are misplaced. I really believe in people liberation--for women and for men, too. Normal people are not anti anything. They are pro-people. I really believe that all normal people, deep down, are internationalists. Yet nationalism still persists. Nationalism is the gravest human sickness, and writers--like myself--have to address themselves to curing it. This has been one of the major goals toward which I've directed my poetry.

[Q] Playboy: Yet you've said you want to stop writing poetry.

[A] Yevtushenko: I've written an enormous amount of poetry, perhaps too much. I find that I'm repeating myself, going over old rhymes and images. One of the problems of poetry is that while it allows you to express many things, it doesn't permit you to express everything. I'm almost 40 years old. Think of me as an old football player, a veteran with vast experience. Now it's time for me to retire, before retirement is forced on me. But I love the sport, I love literature, and I don't want to leave the arena. So I'm hoping to capitalize on my experience in a new specialty. I'm going to exchange poetry for prose. The struggle is the same: the struggle with yourself, the struggle with words, the struggle with bastards, the struggle with the future. All I'm doing is changing stadiums. I want to test my strength in another field. And maybe this sort of purge will help me return to poetry sometime in the future, to write poems in a new language or a different style.

[Q] Playboy: How do you think this change will affect you personally?

[A] Yevtushenko: My whole life will be different. First, I don't really enjoy writing--I mean, the actual physical process of sitting down and making scratches on paper. The writer is locked up, separated from the rest of humanity. Often, when I'm writing, I'm very unhappy. Here I am, sitting in a room like a sorry little clerk. At the same moment, some wonderful woman might be passing on a nearby street; a big ship is probably starting a long voyage to interesting, remote countries; and the sun is rising above a lake I've never seen. It's possible to write poetry with only half your ass on the chair.

But prose requires a very different discipline. You have to write every day, in your solitary room. You have to struggle with--and master--your own curiosity about life. Curiosity enriches us, but it also destroys concentration. And the deepest thoughts are born not in noise (concluded on page 258)Playboy Interview(continued from page 118) but in meditation. So my life will definitely change. I'll have to give up my appearances on the stage, I'll have to stop traveling around--and I'll have to refuse interviews like this, because they can be very tormenting. What I'll have to do is interview myself: the most difficult interview of my life, because I'll be the journalist, and no one knows this subject as well as I do.

[Q] Playboy: What specific projects do you have in mind?

[A] Yevtushenko: Primarily, I want to write a big novel. I've already been working on it. For me, doing something like this is like flying blind--a very delicate operation. Even when everything is working well, disaster still lurks all around. One little mechanical failure can threaten the whole structure. An incidental sentence at the beginning can alter everything that follows. This book is far from complete, but I'm in no hurry to finish it. I'm happy with parts of it; other parts don't please me. I still have much to learn, very much. If you think of literature as theft, then poets are pickpockets: small-timers. Short-story writers and playwrights are petty thieves--perhaps shoplifters or housebreakers. But a major novel is grand larceny--a big bank robbery, planned and executed down to the finest detail. So I want to grow up to this gradually. What I see directly ahead is a book of short stories, three plays, a collection of critical essays and then a novel. That's my personal Five-Year Plan.

There are other things I'd like to do, too. I'd like to play a role in a movie: Hamlet or Jesus or some other role. I'd like to direct a film. And I'd like to publish a volume of photographs. The human personality is so amazing that you don't complete a man's face no matter what kind of poetry you write, or how much of it. And so as not to forget poetry, I want to do some translations.

[Q] Playboy: Up to this point in your life, do you have any regrets?

[A] Yevtushenko: Every man has his regrets. I have many. Primarily, I wish more than one edition of myself had been printed, because I want to be everywhere and do everything. If I had been printed in two editions, one of them would surely live in the United States. I love your country. If there were a third edition, he would go to South America. A fourth would go to Australia. Truthfully, I'd like to be printed in as many editions as there are nations in the world. But that would be quite a large circulation of Yevtushenkos.

[Q] Playboy: And if they ever got together, there would probably be a fight.

[A] Yevtushenko: You're right.