“...I can hardly, I hardly dare say even the most ordinary words about him. I think that Khodasevich was a real writer. These are two very simple words. But in our times, and in our emigration, I think only Khodasevich was a real writer. His entire vital being was filled with literature alone. She alone contained for him his whole life and everything human that exists in the world. I think that a mysterious successive chain of Pushkin’s Russian literature passed through Khodasevich...”