Siberia is a state of mind.

I don’t have a disregard for my reader in humor pieces.

Human connection is the way things work. It’s like a patronage system. You know somebody, and he knows somebody, and he knows somebody, and he knows the district governor, and it’s okay.

Words are charms. It’s like a song you didn’t even know you knew.

There’s an idea of the Plains as the middle of nowhere, something to be contemptuous of. But it’s really a heroic place.

I don’t want to collect Indian art, though pots and beadwork and blankets made by Indians remain the most beautiful art objects in the American West, in my opinion.

I don’t want to participate in traditional Indian religious ceremonies – dance in a sun dance or pray in a sweat lodge or go on a vision quest with the help of a medicine man. The power of these ceremonies has an appeal, but I’m content with what little religion I already have.

Everything in Russia is made of cement – phone booths, fence posts and light bulbs.

Russians don’t complain, usually.

Siberia is so big, it’s almost more an idea than a place.