I first became aware of Eduard Limonov, modern Russia's most uncompromising writer and politician, during a visit to Moscow in the mid-1990s. Back then, he was the firebrand head of the National Bolshevik Party, a direct-action movement that sought to fuse the ultraleft and the ultraright in opposition to the catastrophic reign of president Boris Yeltsin.

The National Bolshevik Party was outlawed in 2007 and Limonov, who turned 67 recently, is today one of the leaders of the country's tiny opposition movement, part of an on-off alliance with a handful of liberal reformers and human rights activists. He also plans to run for the presidency in 2012, when Vladimir Putin is widely expected to seek a third term.

Limonov opens the door and ushers me through the corridor into a white-walled room. My notebook has a list of questions (I forced myself to stop after the sixth page) but I am unsure where to start. Limonov has, quite simply, seen it all.

An avant-garde poet forced out of the Soviet Union in the mid-1970s after refusing to inform for the KGB, Limonov ended up in New York, where he hung out at the CBGB punk club. "In New York I found the same kind of people — non-conformists, painters, poets, crazy underground musicians — I had left in Moscow," he recalls, when I ask him about his punk past. "I still listen to that music."

It was during his stay in the United States that he penned It's Me, Eddie, the fictional memoir of deviant immigrant life that would earn him international acclaim. A massive success in Europe, Limonov eventually moved to France, where he was granted citizenship in 1987.

He returned to Russia shortly after the break-up of the Soviet Union and has been getting into or causing trouble ever since. In 2001, he was jailed for four years on weapons charges after being initially accused of organising an armed uprising among the Russian-speaking population of eastern Kazakhstan.

"I was a non-conformist from birth," Limonov shrugs. He insists on speaking English throughout the interview, only switching to Russian when he wants to be sure he has got his point across, and litters his speech with his favourite oaths.

Limonov may insist that his pogo-ing days are behind him but when I ask him if he believes he has a chance of becoming president, there is something distinctly punk rock about his answer. "I have a chance to become a conflict," he tells me.

The authorities here have a habit of refusing to register inconvenient candidates for polls. But Limonov is not fazed — in fact, I get the impression that he is looking forward to the struggle.

"Right now, I have no chance," Limonov admits. "But if we apply some pressure, this will change."

Limonov has been accused of sacrificing his young supporters, of encouraging them to commit acts that, while serving to maintain his high-profile image, see them end up behind bars. Or worse. He visibly bristles when I suggest that the human cost of political change in his homeland is too high. "You can't change the world without losing some of the buttons on your jacket," he tells me. "These young people, they know what they are doing. Prison is nothing in comparison with the freedom of the country."

Limonov speaks a lot about "freedom" and I can't help but point out that his words are at odds with much of his earlier writing and actions. As an example, just one of many, I mention an extract from his 2003 book The Other Russia. In it, he proposes solving Russia's demographic crisis by forcing "every woman between 25 and 35 to have four children". The children would then be taken away from their parents when they begin to walk and educated in a House of Childhood.

"I even forgot I wrote that," Limonov says. "This book was written while I was waiting to be sentenced on the Kazakhstan charges. I was 60 and looking at 15 years behind bars. I didn't think I would be able to make it — so these are lectures, some ideas to my supporters. It's not dogma."

One of the great mysteries for Russia-watchers is Limonov's political alliance with chess grandmaster and pro-Western liberal Garry Kasparov.

"He has his qualities," Limonov says. "I need him. I try to keep myself separate from him when he is being pro-American. I want to look pure for my people. Westerners are not our enemies. But I have no reason to look for support from them."

Limonov's dislike of the West is mutual. He has been persona non grata in Western literary circles since he was filmed shooting a machinegun into a besieged Sarajevo in the company of Bosnian Serb leader Radovan Karadzic. The incident, captured by Bafta award-winning director Pawel Pawlikowski in his Serbian Epics documentary, cost Limonov publishing contracts in both Europe and the US.

He reacts furiously when I bring it up. "I was shooting at a firing range and that guy put in an extra frame to make it look like I was firing at buildings," he says.

I later come across an article where he explicitly states that he "fought" in Bosnia from "February to May 1993". I send him the quotes and call for a comment. He is beside himself with rage and barks down the phone that he regrets having had anything to do with me.

As I leave, I am not sure what to make of Limonov. But there is one thing I am certain of — he is a very Russian phenomenon, a reflection of the breathtaking intensity that distinguishes life here. And, just like his homeland, it is his contradictions that make him so vital.

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