The first time I went to the poetry festival in Breszkov back in 1991, we had a very good program that I enjoyed a lot, despite the many language difficulties. Someone drunk in the audience yelled, during Gregori Volodine's reading, that « all poets are wimps & fags ». That evening, poets ended the day in an arm westling contest... 20 years later, I returned to the festival where all the greatest poets of the region were gathered. Everything had changed. Poets did not arm wrestling anymore; the difficulty move up a rung. Volodine was still the best.