Quotes from Mikhail Bulgakov

El hombre es mortal, y, como acertadamente se dijo, es mortal de repente.

Nu-i aÈ™a c? [durerea] e perfect fireasc? chiar È™i atunci când omul È™tie c? la cap?tul acestui drum îl aÈ™teapt? fericirea?

Ah,meu senhor,a minha esposa,caso eu tivesse uma,teria corrido sério risco de ficar viúva!Mas felizmente,estou feliz por não ser casado.Ah,meu senhor,será que é possível trocar a liberdade de solteiro por esse fardo pesado?

in short, you sensed that she was there, Moscow, right there, around the turn, and about to heave herself upon you and engulf you.

The weary man knows it. And without regret he leaves the mists of the earth, its swamps and rivers, with a light heart he gives himself into the hands of death, knowing that she alone can bring him peace.

Woland silently raised his class and clinked with Margarita. Margarita drank obediently, thinking that this alcohol would be the end of her. But nothing bad happened

The procurator studied the newcomer with greedy and slightly frightened eyes. So one looks at a man of whom one has heard a great deal, of whom one has been thinking, and who finally appears.

Tout à coup on perd pied dans les ténèbres fangeuses du sommeil, mais un tressaillement, et on refait surface aussitôt.

My previous notes must sound somewhat hysterical. In fact there is nothing particularly unusual or alarming about my condition. It does not in the least affect my capacity to work.

Warm apricot soda.

To die of thirst is a heavenly, blissful death compared with the craving for morphine. The feeling must be something like that of a man buried alive, clawing at the skin on his chest in the effort to catch the last tiny bubbles of air in his coffin, or of a heretic at the stake, groaning and writhing as the first tongues of flame lick at his feet.

What would your good be doing if there were no evil, and what would the earth look like if shadows disappeared from it? After all, shadows are cast by objects and people. There is the shadow of my sword. But there are also shadows of trees and living creatures. Would you like to denude the earth of all the trees and all the living beings in order to satisfy your fantasy of rejoicing in the naked light? You are a fool.

The rain is streaming down and shrouding the outside world from my sight. Long may it do so. I don't need the world any more, and no one in the world needs me. I was in the clinic while the shooting and the coup d'etat took place, but the idea of abandoning the cure had begun insidiously to grow in my mind even before the fighting started in the streets of Moscow. I have the morphine to thank for making me brave. I'm not afraid of rifle fire now.

The trouble is,' the bound man went on, not stopped by anyone, 'that you are too closed off and have definitively lost faith in people. You must agree, one can't place all ones affection in a dog. Your life is impoverished, Hegemon.

a fact is the most stubborn thing in the world.

listen and enjoy what you were not given in life—peace.

What am I crying for, when I've got some wine?

For an addict there is one pleasure of which no one can deprive him—his ability to spend his time in absolute solitude. And solitude means deep, significant thought; it means, calm, contemplation—and wisdom. The night flows on, black and silent. Somewhere out there is the bare leafless forest, beyond it the river, the chill air of autumn. Far away lies the strife-torn, restless city of Moscow. Nothing concerns me, I need nothing and there is nowhere for me to go.

Hell, why should I have to find a pretext for every single thing I do?

But would you kindly ponder this question: What would your good do if evil didn't exist?

Tuschefläschchen

Dumneavoastr? nu sunteÈ›i Dostoievski, zise cet??eana pe care Koroviev c?uta s-o z?p?ceasc?. - Cine È™tie, cine È™tie, obiecta pezevenchiul. - Dostoievski a murit, zise femeia, dar nu prea convins?. - Protestez ! exclam? cu înfl?c?rare Koroviev. Dostoievski e nemuritor !

Uhvatila me tuga prije daleka putovanja. Zar ne, messire, ona je potpuno prirodna, ?ak i kada ?ovjek zna da ga na kraju toga puta ?eka sre?a ?

Usted no es Dostoyevski —dijo la ciudadana, desconcertada, dirigiéndose a Koróviev. —¿Quién sabe?, ¿quién sabe? —contestó él. —Dostoievski ha muerto —dijo la ciudadana, pero no muy convencida. —¡Protesto! —exclamó Popota con calor—. ¡Dostoievski es inmortal!