Elena Shvarts is a miracle, believe me. Her poetry is the purest of creations.
- Bella Akhmadulina,
'This is an explosive book by a dark, free, northern spirit, a woman born in Leningrad in 1948 but not openly published there until 1989. Bulgakov and Tsvetayeva (and Angela Carter) would feel at home in her violently imagined townscapes and landscapes. "Paradise" was Peter the Great's word for his newly established city, but in Shvarts' poems the place is everything from a "glorious dump" to a "Rosa mystica", a "gulf of chiming bells" to a sky of crows like "scraps of burnt archives": "A tram swooped up, flushed crimson, / and quietly swallowed me, like a wafer." Jagged feeling irradiates the extraordinary "Elegy on an X-ray Photo of My Skull", but she is capable also of an offbeat narrative pathos, as in "A Parrot at Sea", where the shipwrecked bird talks and squawks on a plank – and we can read as much as we like into that – as long as it can, before the ocean claims it.
- Edwin Morgan, PBS Bulletin