Quotes from Mikhail Bulgakov

Ach, messer, niech pan nie sÅ'ucha tej biednej kobiety! W owej suterenie ju? od dawna mieszka ktoÅ› inny, a w ogóle to siÄ™ nie zdarza, ?eby cokolwiek znowu byÅ'o tak, jak ju? byÅ'o.

A writer isn't a writer because he has a membership card but because he writes. How do you know what bright ideas may not be swarming in my head?

so who are you in the end?" "I am a part of that power which eternally desires evil and eternally does good." Goethe, Faust*

I said that any sort of power is coercion of the people, and that the time will come when there will be no power, neither of the caesars, nor of any other sort of authority. Man will move on to the kingdom of truth and justice where no kind of power will be needed at all.

No. Never, not even when falling asleep, will I ever proudly mutter about nothing being able to surprise me. No. As one year has passed, so will another, and it will be just as rich in surprises as the first one... And so I have to go on dutifully learning.

Clever people have long been aware that happiness is like good health: when you have it, you don't notice it. But as the years go by, oh, the memories, the memories of happiness past!

that every form of authority means coercion over men, and that a time will come when there shall be neither Caesars, nor any other rulers. Man will come into the kingdom of truth and justice, where there will be no need for any authority.

FOLLOW ME, READER! Who told you that there is no such thing as real, true, eternal love? Cut out his lying tongue! Follow me, reader, and only me and I will show you that love!

But I judge by the eyes—you can't mistake them either near or far! Oh, eyes are a significant thing! Like a barometer. You can see everything—who has a vast desert in his heart, who can jab you in the ribs with the toe of his boot for no reason at all, and who is afraid of everything.

Some totalitarians prefer to conceal themselves behind the machinery of the state, but, like the cannibal who lovingly cradles his victim as he digs around for his heart, Stalin liked conversing with his terrorized children. He was an intimate murderer.

Tu nieznajomy uprzejmie zdj?? beret i pisarzom nie pozostawa?o nic innego, jak wsta? i uk?oni? si?.

A pan zgodziÅ' siÄ™ z kolegÄ…? - zainteresowaÅ' siÄ™ nieznajomy i odwróciÅ' siÄ™ w prawo, do Bezdomnego. -Na sto procent! - potwierdziÅ' poeta, który lubiÅ' wyra?a? siÄ™ zawile i metaforycznie.

i g?o?no, rado?nie oznajmi?: - Utn? panu g?ow?!

Wtedy wreszcie zrozumiano, ?e nale?y si? rzuci? na Iwana, i rzucono si? na niego.

Do I express my thoughts lucidly? I think I do. What is my life? An absurdity.

I zacz?? klaska?, ale klaska? w zupe?nym osamotnieniu, jego ?miech wyra?a? pewno?? siebie, ale w oczach nie mia? te pewno?ci za grosz, patrzy?y one raczej b?agalnie.

His only words were that he regarded cowardice as one of the worst human sins.

ZaÅ›wiadcza siÄ™ niniejszym, ?e okaziciel niniejszego zaÅ›wiadczenia, NikoÅ'aj Iwanowicz, spÄ™dziÅ' wy?ej wymienionÄ… noc na balu u szatana, gdzie zostaÅ' zaanga?owany jako Å›rodek lokomocji... otwórz, Hella, nawias, a w nawiasie napisz "wieprz". Podpisano – Behemot.

Procurator obserwowa? przybysza oczami chciwymi i nieco wystraszonymi. Tak si? patrzy na kogo?, o kim wiele si? s?ysza?o, o kim wiele si? rozmy?la?o, gdy ten kto? wreszcie si? zjawia.

Tchórzostwo nie jest jednÄ… z najstraszliwszych uÅ'omnoÅ›ci, ono jest uÅ'omnoÅ›ciÄ… najstraszliwszÄ….

Ach, messer, moja ?ona, gdybym jÄ… tylko miaÅ', dwadzieÅ›cia razy mogÅ'a zosta? wdowÄ…! Ale, na szcz??cie, messer, nie mam ?ony i, mówiÄ…c szczerze, szcz??liwy jestem, ?e jej nie mam.

Dobrze, ju? dobrze – powiedzia? mistrz, roze?mia? si? i doda?: - Oczywi?cie, ludzie ograbieni ze wszystkiego jak my oboje szukaj? ocalenia u si? nadprzyrodzonych.

Zreszt? trudno mie? mi to za z?e, przecie? nie co dzie? cz?owiek spotyka si? z si?? nieczyst?! -Tego jeszcze brakowa?o – przytakn?? Azazello. - Gdyby si? spotyka? co dzie?, to by by?o za dobrze!

These sorrowful musings on my imperfection were nothing compared to the awful realization that I had gained precisely nothing from reading the books of the very best writers; no avenues had opened up, no light gleamed ahead and it had done nothing but depress me. Wormlike, the awful thought began to gnaw at my heart that I should never make a writer.