新企业所得税法十八讲 刘剑文 中国法制出版社【正版】 下载 pdf 电子版 epub 免费 txt 2025

本书既包括对《企业所得税法》背景与指导思想、影响等的理论分析、评述，也包括对具体制度的详细阐述，并以企业所得税法的条文为线索，对企业所得税法条文中所涉及的主要内容、重点问题，尤其是本次的争议焦点和立法重点，进行了详尽的阐述，读者能够提纲携领，有重点的把握和学习企业所得税制度。写作上,不拘泥于立法的规定，而是根据新旧立法的变化，具体分析其立法的背景、修改的理论背景、新制度的可实施性，以及实施效果等进行理论的分析和阐述，具有相当的理论深度，深入浅出，能够让读者更好的了解《企业所得税法》。

讲 全球化与中国统一企业所得税立法

一、中国企业所得税制度的历史沿革

二、中国企业所得税制度改革所面临的机遇与挑战

三、艰难的“两税合并”之路

四、统一企业所得税立法的制度创新

五、对《企业所得税法》的整体评价

六、和谐社会构建进程中财税立法的若干策略

第二讲 企业所得税法的立法指导思想和原则

一、指导思想

二、指导原则

第三讲 企业所得税法对中国经济发展的影响

一、企业所得税法对经济发展影响的一般理论

二、原企业所得税制度对中国经济发展的影响

三、企业所得税法对中国经济发展的影响

第四讲 企业所得税法改革对企业发展的影响

一、企业所得税法改革对外资企业发展的影响

二、企业所得税法改革对内资企业发展的影响

三、企业所得税法改革对小型微利企业发展的影响

四、企业所得税法改革对高新技术企业发展的影响

五、总结

第五讲 企业所得税法对吸引外资的影响

一、企业所得税法对外资企业税收负担的影响

二、企业所得税税收负担的增加对外资仍然具有吸引力

三、结论和展望

第六讲 企业所得税法与科技创新

一、企业所得税法与科技创新的关系界定

二、其他国家和地区企业所得税法中科技税收政策选择及对我国的启示

三、《企业所得税法》对科技创新的推动效应分析

第七讲 企业所得税法中的纳税主体制度

一、企业所得税的纳税主体概述

二、我国企业所得税纳税主体制度变迁

三、企业所得税纳税主体的界定

四、企业所得税纳税主体界定的意义与再思考

第八讲 企业所得税法中的税率制度

一、企业所得税税率的相关理论

二、企业所得税税率的“异税”时代

三、企业所得税法定税率的统一

四、企业所得税法的优惠税率

五、企业所得税税率的整体评价

第九讲 企业所得税法中的应纳税所得额制度

一、企业所得税的征税对象与应纳税所得额的计算公式

二、税前扣除

三、总结

第十讲 企业所得税法中的企业资产税务处理制度

一、企业固定资产的税务处理

二、企业无形资产和长期待摊费用的税务处理

三、企业存货的税务处理

四、企业对外投资的税务处理

第十一讲 企业所得税法中的应纳税额制度

一、企业所得税应纳税额的计算公式

二、亏损弥补

三、外国税收抵免与间接税收抵免

四、境外亏损、转让资产以及清算所得的税务处理

第十二讲 企业所得税法中的税收优惠制度

一、新企业所得税税收优惠体系的改革背景

二、企业所得税税收优惠政策的评介

三、企业所得税法中的主要优惠措施

四、企业所得税法中的税收优惠制定权

第十三讲 企业所得税法中的管辖制度

一、企业所得税的国际管辖制度

二、企业所得税的管辖制度

第十四讲 企业所得税法中的征管制度

一、企业税务管理制度

二、企业汇算清缴制度

三、企业源泉扣缴制度

四、企业所得税征管的其他问题

第十五讲 企业所得税法中的双重征税避免制度

一、经济性双重征税及其避免

二、法律性双重征税及其避免

第十六讲 企业所得税法中的反避税制度

一、企业避税的危害与反避税的必要性

二、企业避税方法与反避税措施

三、企业国际避税模式与反避税制度

四、我国企业反避税制度的总体缺陷与改革方向

五、《企业所得税法》反避税制度的创新

第十七讲 企业所得税法与其它法律的衔接

一、新旧企业所得税法的衔接

二、企业所得税法与会计法律制度的衔接

三、企业所得税法与个人所得税法的衔接

第十八讲 企业所得税法与税收协定

一、税收协定及其发展

二、税收协定与税法的关系

三、企业所得税法与税收协定的关系

附录：企业所得税新旧税法对照表

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书籍介绍

　　企业是最重要的市场主体，承担着一国经济发展的重任。因此，为企业创造适宜发展的法治环境，是一国政府经济职能的重要内容，这也成为企业承担纳税义务的基础性原因。享受了政府所提供的公共物品，运营于国家所创造的投资环境下的企业，理所当然地要为此而负担相应的税收对价。同时，企业是一国重要的纳税主体，关涉我国所开征的大部分税种，如增值税、消费税、营业税、资源税、房产税、企业所得税。尽管企业是增值税等间接税的纳税人，但由于其税负可以转嫁给消费者，实际上真正以企业所创造的财产来承担税负的，主要是企业所得税，当然也有少量的房产税等。作为平等竞争的主体，企业也即应平等的分摊政府为投资环境的建设，以及相应的公共物品的提供所支出的成本，亦即税收负担。长期以来，在国家直接对企业征税、直接参与企业新增经济价值的重新分配的企业所得税领域中，由于我国实行“双轨制”的立法，故形成内资、外资企业有别、国有企业与民营企业差别巨大的税收分摊模式，造成了国有企业、内资民营企业、外资企业等不同类型、不同资金来源、不同所有制形式的企业之间的不公平税收待遇。有鉴于此，我国从1994年开始着手进行的企业所得税制改革，以实现各类企业的平等税收负担作为基本的目标。

• 作者：蔡斌 发布时间：2023-08-08 13:05:26

  还是有很多可圈可点的地方，钱老师的内容适合知识管理，打上标签，用时检索，这样更为高效。

• 作者：amos_li 发布时间：2024-03-24 20:09:19

  编辑得比较糟糕的一本书，语义文句多有重复，不推荐

• 作者：席缪 发布时间：2021-05-10 11:29:40

  罗新，确实是一位被耽误的小说家——试试嘛，写小说吧，绝对比研究贡献要大……

• 作者：冬至 发布时间：2023-08-07 16:19:01

  很简略的介绍，不过将RCT的要点讲得蛮清楚。其否认独立自我的神话，视关系作为成长的核心基础，将联系与分离作为治疗切入口，通过创造新的关系意象，减少控制性意象，从而培养关系修复力和勇气。对核心关系矛盾、慢性分离、敬重分离策略这几个点印象深刻。整体来说，RCT更像一种理论或视角，而非流派；其中的一些案例确实有边界不清的争议。

• 作者：邓艾艾艾吃 发布时间：2024-03-23 12:19:42

  补标初三

• 作者：时光 发布时间：2009-01-14 23:09:21

  大三

• 废园二次利用

  作者：黄椿雨 发布时间：2023-10-17 13:17:30

  作者的第二本阅读完毕，感觉上和上一本相差不大，虽然网上的评价这本要比《乐园是侦探不在的地方》好，阅读完毕后我还是把这两本评为同一水准的作品。本书没有超自然元素，代入感更好点，男主真上虽然是便利店打工人，但是认真起来破案水平要比职业侦探都要高。书里的谜题安排过于少我这样觉得，废墟这样的地方还是一个曾经繁华之地留下来的建筑，可以施展某些惊人诡计，书里缺少这种大谜面是遗憾。且书里存在一个难以理解的杀人动机，个人难以接受犯人以这样的动机屠杀别人。真上身上还有一重反转很有意思，会令读者吃一惊。

  真上是一名“废墟爱好者”，顾名思义就是喜欢探索成为“废墟”大型建筑群的一群人。近来收到邀请去往参观落寞二十年的一座游乐园，名为“幻想乐园”。同时邀请的还有乐园前员工。从他们空中真上得知了乐园废弃的原因，原来二十年前刚开业那天，乐园发生过枪击案致使多人死亡因而无人问津。这次买下乐园的富商邀请客人过来是想让他们找到乐园里面的一件宝藏，找到人就可被赠予乐园。每个人心里都激发出斗志，想要找到这件宝藏，只有真上一人独自享受乐园里面的残破景象。直到第二天早上，曾经在乐园里面工作过的主管死于非命，真上意识到潜藏在人群中可怕的恶意……

  看到最后说几点有趣的东西，第一个是人物的反转靠的还是日本人那套——谐音，同音不同字。已经品鉴过太多次，按理说应该波澜不惊，但站在中国人来看没代入感是必然的。第二是作者写书里面情感方面太爱写男男之间。真上半路上认识的一位作家，后来一起组队破案时蓝乡对真上有很多亲昵对话，让我感觉作者接下来会写两人发生感情也不奇怪。第三就是对于作者没有太多利用废墟设立大型诡计的遗憾，书里仅有一个相关的情节是凶手利用乐废墟场景，其他就没有了，过于浪费场景乐。综上打个三星。

• 《洛杉矶书评》对玛丽亚·斯捷潘诺娃的专访原稿-Mad Russia Hurt Me into Poetry: An Interview with Maria Stepanova

  作者：熬夜看稿五百斤 发布时间：2020-07-31 11:52:33

  《洛杉矶书评》对玛丽亚·斯捷潘诺娃的专访原稿

  “Maria Stepanova was already an important and innovative poet by the time of Vladimir Putin’s accession, but the times called for a tougher, more public role. Unfortunately, her recognition in the West has lagged behind the high profile she has in Russia.”

  “玛丽亚·斯捷潘诺娃早在普京时代前就已经是一位相当重要，充满创造力的诗人，然而时代却呼唤更强硬更公众化的角色。非常不幸，西方对其的认可远远落后于其负盛名的俄罗斯。”

  Mad Russia Hurt Me into Poetry: An Interview with Maria Stepanova

  MARIA STEPANOVA IS AMONG the most visible figures in post-Soviet culture — not only as a major poet, but also as a journalist, a publisher, and a powerful voice for press freedom. She is the founder of Colta, the only independent crowd-funded source of information in Russia. The high-traffic online publication has been called a Russian Huffington Post in format and style, and has also been compared to The New York Review of Books for the scope and depth of its long essays. The Muscovite is the author of a dozen poetry collections and two volumes of essays, and is a recipient of several Russian and international literary awards, including the prestigious Andrei Bely Prize and Joseph Brodsky Fellowship. She was recently a fellow with Vienna’s highly regarded Institut für die Wissenschaften vom Menschen. Her current project is In Memory of Memory, a book-length study in the field of cultural history.

  Stepanova has helped revive the ballad form in Russian poetry, and has also given new life to the skaz technique of telling a story through the scrambled speech of an unreliable narrator, using manic wordplay and what one critic called “a carnival of images.” Stepanova relishes this kind of speech “not just for how it represents a social language but for its sonic texture,” wrote scholar and translator Catherine Ciepiela in an introduction to her poems. “She is a masterful formal poet, who subverts meter and rhyme by working them to absurdity. For her the logic of form trumps all other logics, so much so that she will re-accent or truncate words to fit rigorously observed schemes.” According to another of her translators, Sasha Dugdale, myth and memory play an important part in poems: “She shares with her beloved W. G. Sebald a sense of the haunting of history, the marks it leaves on the fabric of landscape.”

  Maria Stepanova was already an important and innovative poet by the time of Vladimir Putin’s accession, but the times called for a tougher, more public role. Unfortunately, her recognition in the West has lagged behind the high profile she has in Russia. In this interview, she talks about both roles, and the way politics and poetry come together in her work.

  ¤

  CYNTHIA HAVEN: You’re a poet, but also a journalist and the publisher of a major crowd-funded news outlet in Russia, Colta. Yet Joseph Brodsky said, “The only things which poetry and politics have in common are the letters P and O.” Presumably, you disagree.

  MARIA STEPANOVA: There is a third word with the same letters: postmemory. Contemporary Russia is a realm of postmemory. I think it is a territory where poetry and politics still can meet each other on equal terms.

  Equal? Politics is a much more crude beast, surely. Look at our current elections. Look at elections everywhere.

  Well, we know crude and not-so-crude animals coexist in nature — and sometimes even manage to get along.

  So talk about this unusual coexistence, Russian-style.

  Russian reality is wildly political, but what is meant by “politics” is also wildly different — and not only because the Russian political world is one of repression. Remember that the ways and means of talking politics or even doing politics have long been different in Russia — not for a decade or two, but for centuries. Political thinking was impossible in the open, so it had to disguise itself. In order to form your views, or even to take direct instructions on what to do, you had to read some novel, or even a poem.

  People built their political views on Nikolay Chernyshevsky [author of the programmatic utopian novel What Is To Be Done?] or Dostoyevsky, and thus expected a certain level of political engagement from authors, even from poets. This has a flip side: a reader may treat reality more lightly, as if it were a work of fiction. That’s why it was so easy to revise and rewrite official history — in Stalin’s time or right now, under Putin. You are always looking for an example — for something to imitate — but there is nothing final about it.

  This search for an example, for a predecessor, is pervasive. When Russian politicians try to achieve something, they look for validation from the past — to Ivan the Terrible, to Lenin, to Brezhnev, or whatever. The same with Russian poets, who still rely heavily on different traditions. You can choose the one you like. You can look back to Pushkin or Brodsky, but also to, well, T. S. Eliot or Lyn Hejinian. It doesn’t really matter. The important thing is, we behave as if we are ascending the staircase but looking back. One always needs to feel the bannister under one’s hand. That is, we need something solid and from the past, which makes the present feel more real for us.

  Do you find that poetry, for you, is a space of freedom, even though it’s affected by your political predicament?

  I feel that the poetry is a powerful tool of inner resistance, because what’s important, what really counts, is how much you let the outer forces deform you. Poetry keeps you in shape. More important than outward protests is inner freedom, the ability to stay yourself. That is usually the first thing you lose. You can imitate the motions and doings of free people but be utterly unfree inside. You become an expert in deforming your inner reality, to bring it into accord with what the state wants from you — and this could be done in a number of subtle, unnoticed ways. This kind of damage weighs on us the most.

  I like what you said at Stanford, that poetry is, by definition, a form of resistance, because the first thing it resists is death.

  Absolutely. After all, it is one of the few known forms of secular immortality — and one of the best: your name may well be forgotten, but a line or two still have a life of their own, as it happened to lines of classic poetry. They come to life anew every time people fill them with their own voice or meaning.

  In fact, any activity that involves creating something from nothing — or almost nothing — is a way of taming death, of replacing it with new forms of life. When you are making a pie out of disparate substances — grains of sugar, spoons of loose flour that are suddenly transformed into something alive and breathing — it’s a living miracle. But this is even more evident when it comes to poetry, where the operative space is pure nothing, a limited number of vowels and consonants, which doesn’t need anything to stay alive besides the human mind; poetry doesn’t even need ink and paper, because it can be memorized. We are more lucky than musicians or artists, who need working tools, and budgets, and audience halls — poetry is a lighter substance. You know it was essential in the concentration camps and gulags — if you knew a good amount of verse by heart, they couldn’t take it away from you. Maybe I’m overly optimistic, but I think that poetry is better equipped to withstand political oppression. If you want to make movies or build opera houses, you have to bargain with the state, to make deals, and inevitably to lose.

  And yet you are a publisher and journalist, too. How do you balance the two worlds you inhabit?

  Strange as it may seem, it was never a serious matter for me. I never felt that these two levels were connected, or even coexisted. Maybe this also has something to do with what I was referring to — the schizoid way of addressing the present. It’s quite common in Russia: you can be thinking “this” and “that” at the same time, as if two notions were commenting on each other. This is very typical of the Soviet or post-Soviet space, with its sharp cleavage between the official way of behavior and the way you behave at home, between the official history and the hidden familial history, or what we call the “minor history (malaya istoriia).”

  And come to think of it, maybe I also divide my official face from my inner life. When I was a teenager, a student, I saw how the people who belonged to the previous generation were traumatized by the crash of the Soviet system of literary education and literary work. The Soviet Writers’ Union had been able to give writers enough to live on after publishing a book or a collection of poems in some literary magazine — for the official writers, of course, not to the authors of samizdat. You could live for three years after publishing a book, but it had to be a bad book, because it was the result of an inner compromise. Nevertheless, lots of people had the feeling that they could stay themselves and still, somehow, occupy some cozy step on the enormous staircase of the official Soviet literary establishment. When the system crashed, people were disappointed and disorientated. By 1992 or 1993, it became evident that the utopia wasn’t working anymore, especially for poets. It became evident that a book of poetry would never have a press run of more than 2,000 copies. It would never bring you money or even fame. I saw people crushed, melted, changed because of that. They had relied on a system that had suddenly vanished into thin air. They were still willing to make compromises, but there was no longer anyone to make a compromise with.

  And where did you fit into that architecture? You weren’t tempted to put a foot on that staircase?

  I was quite young and opinionated, so my attitude was rather harsh. I didn’t want to have anything in common with them. I refused to rely on poetry to make a living, to attain a position in the world. I would find some other professional occupation and would be as free as I could be in terms of poetry. It was the easiest way for me to stay independent. I split my world into halves.

  And that’s how it worked. I started in the mid-1990s as a copywriter in a French advertising agency, and then I switched to TV. Journalism happened rather late in my life. I cannot say it doesn’t affect my poetry, because it does. Of course it does. The things I deal with as a journalist get mixed up with the problems that make me tick as a poet. That space I was hoping to make — you know, the enclosed garden — is not secluded enough. It’s not enclosed now — the doors are wide open, and the beasts of the current moment are free to enter. Because I’m changing, too. You have to open the doorways to let the world in — to make the words come in, in fact. Because if poetry is a means of changing language, and changing the language is a means of changing the world around you, you must make sure that you’re ready to receive new words — words you find foreign or even ugly.

  That awareness is evident in your poetry, which features different voices, different registers, and discordant uses of language. Is that how today’s Russia affects your poetry?

  I think so, yes — “mad Russia hurt me into poetry.” You could say that the poet — that is, the author as a working entity — always has a kind of narrative mask or an optical system to serve a special purpose in the moment. The need to invent and reinvent the self never stops: you cannot do it just once, and every single thing that happens demands a complete change. The “you” who deals with new phenomena — birth, death, shopping, an idle conversation at the bus stop — is a new entity that hardly recognizes the previous ones. You know that all the cells of the human body are constantly replacing each other, and in seven years not a single cell of your old body is left. All that holds our personalities together is mere willpower — and our selves are as replaceable as brain cells. The human mind is a flowing thing, it is a process, and it happens somehow that the only solid and constant thing we can cling to is the inner zoo of the soul. I mean the persons and stories from the past that have no relationship to our own stories. Antigone or Plato or Brutus, invented or real, are actors in the theater of the mind. They do not change; they are strong enough for us to test them with our projections and interpretations. You could call the destructive element in yourself Medea or Clytemnestra — but it is you who is switching from one identity to another. In a mental theater, a single person plays all the parts.

  And that’s how you see the poetic process?

  I guess it is a fair description. A play is being performed, or maybe improvised, and there is an actor for every part, and a certain idiosyncratic language for each of them. But it is all centered on some very urgent question that is formulated from the outside, something you’ve been dealing with all your life: you’re born with this question and the need to answer it again and again. W. H. Auden spoke of neurosis as a life-shaping experience that is to be blessed — we’d never become what we are without it. I’m totally sure that certain patterns are shared, extrapolated to the scale of the whole society, so that everyone you know is shaped, at least partly, by the same problem. I guess this could describe what’s going on in a number of post-Soviet states; one can only wonder if a country can undergo some kind of therapy, if it can do collective work on collective trauma. Especially in times that are rather allergic to any collective project.

  I definitely share my compatriots’, my generation’s full range of traumas and voids. A few years ago, in 2014, in the midst of the Ukrainian wars, I suddenly wrote a longish poem about Russia. It was titled “Spolia” — you know, the architectural term, the densely metaphoric way of building new things, using some bits and parts of previous constructions in the process. You see it everywhere in Rome or Istanbul — pieces of marble, columns, stelae are used as mere bricks in a new wall. Sometimes an old building is demolished in order to provide elements for the new one. This involuntary coexistence of old and new is a good description of what happens to language in “interesting times.”

  And my poem was the result of utter shock: language was changing all around me. Not only was it heavily peppered with hate speech, but it also became utterly hybrid. People were quoting Stalin’s speeches, or brilliantly and unconsciously imitated the style of Pravda’s columns from the 1930s or ’50s, never realizing that they hadn’t invented these words. You have a good example of this now in the United States. When Donald Trump speaks about enemies of the state, he doesn’t know whom he is quoting — or even if he is quoting. I was living in a red-hot climate, and I still needed to find some reasons to continue. I mean, you have to love the place you live in. If it becomes utterly unlovable, you need to leave — or to find some other grounds for love.

  In the poem I quoted some of the criticism I was getting from critics regarding my “impersonality.” After my latest book, a number of them claimed that my work was a trick of sorts, empty and unrelatable, because I didn’t have a distinct and constant lyrical voice. I use other people’s voices, so I’m sometimes seen as an imitator, like Woody Allen’s Zelig, never having a full-grown ego, never able to speak in the first person — of myself, of my own needs and fears.

  It rather reflects your views about your country, doesn’t it?

  Well, that is exactly what I can say about Russia. It doesn’t really know what it is; self-definition is not our strong suit. It’s a huge, beautiful, and misused piece of land, inhabited by more ghosts than mortals, full of histories no one cares to remember, so they just keep repeating themselves — full of larger-than-life possibilities and a complete inability to avoid disaster. That was an image of the country I could identify with; in fact, for a while I ceased seeing any difference between myself and Russia, bizarre as it sounds. The Russian Symbolist poet Alexander Blok had called Russia his wife. I had a feeling that Russia was me — that our stigmas were the same.

  I was, in fact, identifying with the country. Not with the awful thing that was happening — the invasion of Donbass, the annexation of Crimea; there is no explanation or excuse for acts of evil, pure and simple, and these are among them. But to oppose the evil you have to learn the language of love. And to love Russia at that moment was a hard job. One had to become Russia, with its wastelands, faded glory, and the horrifying innocence of its everyday life — to speak with its voices and see with its multiple eyes. That’s what I was trying to do: to change my optical system, to dress my hate in a robe of light. You have to be a trickster to do that effectively. Well, my way of writing poetry is distinctive, in that it has to irritate — not only to affect or penetrate, but also to irritate.

  I’m still not sure that I’m answering the question, but maybe it’s the question itself that is important. That multilayered, multifaceted thing I’m trying to create aligns with what is going on in the Russian mind, in the Russian world. There is something very distinctive in the presence of the country, in the way it tends to describe itself, or to be described.

  Of course, we’ve just given a Nobel Prize to a woman who tried to do much of what you’re speaking about in prose, in journalism.

  You’re right, but Svetlana Alexievich writes nonfiction, or documentary fiction, and that’s another story. She is giving voice to real people; there are some true stories behind the books, a number of interviews, the feeling that you are dealing with documented reality. I am speaking with imaginary voices; they are real, but they don’t belong to me. (One Russian poet from the 18th century, Vasily Trediakovsky, used to say that poetic truth doesn’t inhere in what really happened, but in what could and must have happened.) I’m appropriating, or annexing, other people’s lives and voices, as if I were editing an anthology of unused opportunities. Sometimes it means I have to embrace the language of state officials, or criminals, or propaganda. The goal of the poetic, as well as of the political, is to make things visible, to force them into the light, even if they would prefer to stay in the darkness.

  By the way, Marina Tsvetaeva also used those jumbled voices, those different registers. You feel a certain affinity with her, yes?

  My parents conscientiously taught me reading at a very young age — around two-and-a-half, I guess. When I was six, I was reading everything I could lay my hands on, from Pushkin to The Three Musketeers, and lots of suspense novels, too. Then, on New Year’s Eve, someone gave my mother a two-volume edition of Marina Tsvetaeva. That was a rarity in Soviet times. It was an unbelievable gift, a kind of miracle — you couldn’t just go into the bookshop and buy Tsvetaeva or Mandelstam, you had to be a Party member to get it, or spend a fortune on the black market. I knew nothing about Tsvetaeva at the time. I was only seven. My mom read me lots of poetry, but this was something different. I opened the second volume, which had her prose. It was unlike anything I had read before.

  I still have a special affinity with Tsvetaeva. Not in terms of working with the language, because my ways of treating it are different, but in terms of how I see reality. Tsvetaeva lived under ethical standards, a moral pressure that was a constant presence in her life — some moral entity or deity that shaped her life, literally telling her what to do. Sometimes she surrendered to it, sometimes she resisted wildly.

  Nevertheless, she placed all her literary work in some kind of moral coordinate system. I find her example compelling. Because the question that’s essential for me is not the question of “how” or “what,” but rather of “who.” In the case of Tsvetaeva, we get that “who” in its fullest range, larger than life. You still can feel her presence — and that’s what counts.

  https://lareviewofbooks.org/article/mad-russia-hurt-me-into-poetry-an-interview-with-maria-stepanova/