LITERATURE IN EXILE / edited by John Glad // "Duke University Press", 1990, 192 pp. (стр.49-58)
THIRTEEN STUDIES ON EXILE
 In Russian the word "exile" has such a pompous ring to it that I haven't got the chutzpa to apply it to my own modest six-year existence in New York, and my seven further years in Paris. That stolid, bourgeois, fat-assed word "exile" might have been applicable to the nineteenth-century nobleman Alexander Herzen, and certainly fits Solzhenitsyn, the family man, who even managed to bring his furniture out with him. As for me, I've always felt like a poor student or a member of the working class, someone who lives in rented rooms — like a character in a novel by Dostoevski,
I was first "exiled" in 1967, from Kharkov to Moscow, just as I later "exiled" myself from New York to Paris. Anyone who gives any thought to the word "exile" will come to the conclusion that contemporary Russian emigre writers (and I include myself here) have no right to call themselves exiles. We are what might be called self-exiles.
Neither do I consider myself a "political refugee" from the Soviet
regime. My fellow emigres have the political pull of their rich American uncles to thank for that status. When push came to shove, I fled from that Paradise too, with its smell of Kentucky Fried Chicken and greasy cholesterol. I emigrated.
Being a modest type, I consider myself just a writer living in Paris. Like foyce. Like Hemingway. Like Scott Fitzgerald, Saroyan, Baldwin ... and many others.
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