The monthly magazine Moskva, otherwise a rather cautious and quiet publication, carried the first part of The Master and Margarita in its November 1966 issue.
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.
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.
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?
She only came through that gate once a day, but my heart would beat faster from at least ten false alarms every morning. Then when her time came and the hands were pointing to noon, my heart went on thumping until her shoes with their black patent-leather straps and steel buckles drew level, almost soundlessly, with my basement window.
A quarter of an hour later, Ruikhin sat in complete solitude, hunched over his bream, drinking glass after glass, understanding and recognizing that it was no longer possible to set anything right in his life, that it was only possible to forget.
Gods, gods! How sad the evening earth! How mysterious the mists over the bogs! Whoever has wandered in these mists, whoever suffered deeply before death, whoever flew over this earth burdened beyond human strength knows it. The weary one knows it. And he leaves without regret the mists of the earth, its swamps and rivers, and yields himself with an easy heart to the hands of death, knowing that it alone can bring surcease.
She must either forget him or die herself. It was impossible to go on like this. Impossible! She must forget him, forget him at any cost! But she could not forget him, that was the trouble.
The coal-black gloom of the darkest night had descended on the terraces of the most beautiful spot on earth, St Vladimir’s Hill, whose brick-paved paths and avenues were hidden beneath a thick layer of virgin snow.
The night flowed on. During its second half the whole arc of the sky, the curtain that God had drawn across the world, was covered with stars.
Give the fathers twenty-five roubles, and they’ll say a mass for the devil himself.
The right place to live is behind cream-coloured blinds.
A man only has to be chased with firearms for him to turn into a cunning wolf: in place of his weak, and in really desperate situations useless intellect, the wisdom of animal instinct will suddenly take over.
The sentries marched back and forth, guarding their tower, for without knowing it, man had made towers, alarm-bells and weapons for one purpose only – to guard the peace of his hearth and home. For this he goes to war, which if the truth be known, is the only cause for which anyone ought to fight.
All of this happened very quickly, but not suddenly, and not before the appearance of certain omens.
But there were other victims as well, even after Woland left the capital, and these victims, sadly enough, were black cats.
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.