Mikhail Bulgakov (1891 – 1940)
Russian-language novelist and playwright of the first half of the 20th century.
How sad, ye gods, how sad the world is at evening, how mysterious the mists over the swamps. You will know it when you have suffered greatly before dying, when you have walked through the world carrying an unbearable burden. You know it too when you are weary and ready to leave this earth without regret; it's mists, it's swamps and it's rivers; ready to give yourself into the arms of death with a light heart, knowing that death alone can comfort you.
Follow me reader! Who told you that there is no true, faithful, eternal love in this world! May the liar's vile tongue be cut out!
We have no idea whether there were any other strange occurences in Moscow that night, and we have no intention of trying to find out, since the time has come for us to proceed to Part Two of this true narrative. Follow me, reader!
`Second freshness - that's what is nonsense! There is only one freshness - the first - and it is also the last. And if sturgeon is of the second freshness, that means it is simply rotten.'
In fact, I'm beginning to fear that this confusion will go on for a long time. And all because he writes down what I said incorrectly.
'I do not know these good men,' replied the prisoner.
'For some reason, cats are usually addressed familiarly, though no cat has ever drunk bruderschaft with anyone.'
Foreign visitors . . . how impressed you all are with foreign visitors! But they come in many different varieties.
'Unfortunately I cannot show it to you,' replied the master, 'because I burned it in my stove.'
'I'm sorry but I don't believe you,' said Woland. 'You can't have done. Manuscripts don't burn.'
Gods, my gods! How sad the earth is at eventide! How mysterious are the mists over the swamps. Anyone who has wandered in these mists, who has suffered a great deal before death, or flown above the earth, bearing a burden beyond his strength knows this. Someone who is exhausted knows this. And without regret he forsakes the mists of the earth, its swamps and rivers, and sinks into the arms of death with a light heart knowing that death alone . . .
'You're not Dostoevsky,' said the citizeness, who was getting muddled by Koroviev.
'Kant ought to be arrested and given three years in Solovki asylum for that "proof" of his!' Ivan Nikolayich burst out completely unexpectedly. 'Ivan!' whispered Berlioz, embarrassed. But the suggestion to pack Kant off to an asylum not only did not surprise the stranger but actually delighted him. 'Exactly, exactly!' he cried and his green left eye, turned on Berlioz glittered. 'That's exactly the place for him! I said to him myself that morning at breakfast: "If you'll forgive me, professor, your theory is no good. It may be clever but it's horribly incomprehensible. People will think you're mad."' Berlioz's eyes bulged. At breakfast...to Kant?