Many years ago, I had a favourite poem in Russian. It felt so precise, so gentle, so delicate, so crystallised, all qualities that seemed completely at odds with Russia’s signature brutality. The poem was written by an immigrant, though, which perhaps explained the gentleness I doubted could ever take root in a Russian landscape made of concrete and steel. Eventually, I forgot about it. Poetry is not something you need in day-to-day life, especially in the modern world, where by the time you ...