Dear Anna Andreyevna,
Of late, gloomy rumours have been circulating about you, becoming more persistent and unequivocal with every hour that passes. I write to you about this because you will hear in any case. I want you to be correctly informed at least. I can tell you that, to my knowledge, your only friend among poets (a friend indeed!) turned out to be Mayakovsky, as he wandered among the billboards of the 'Poets Cafe' looking like a slaughtered bull.
I have, in the hope of finding out about you, spent these last few days in the Poets' Cafe. What monsters! What squalid creatures! What curs they are! Everything is here: homunculi, automotons, braying stallions and lip-sticked sleeping-car attendants from Yalta . . .
-from The Inmost Heart: 800 Years of Women's Letters edited by Olga Kenyon; Foreword by P. D. James (New York: Konecky & Konecky, 1992.) p. 42-43.