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Once in 1919, when I was traveling at night by train, I wrote a short story. In the town where the train stopped, I took the story to the publisher of the newspaper who published the story.

Mikhail Bulgakov

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Mikhail Bulgakov
Age: 48 †
Born: 1891
Born: May 15
Died: 1940
Died: March 10
Actor
Biographer
Journalist
Librettist
Novelist
Physician
Physician Writer
Playwright
Satirist
Science Fiction Writer
Screenwriter
Kiev
Mikhael Bulgakov
Mikhail Afanasyevich Bulgakov
Wrote
Publishers
Train
Published
Short
Newspaper
Took
Traveling
Story
Stopped
Night
Town
Stories
Newspapers
Towns
Publisher

More quotes by Mikhail Bulgakov

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But worse things were about to be found in the bedroom: on the jeweller’s wife’s ottoman, in a casual pose, sprawled a third party- namely, a black cat of uncanny size, with a glass of vodka in one paw and a fork, on which he had managed to spear a pickled mushroom, in the other. , The Master and Magarita
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Love leaped out in front of us like a murderer in an alley leaping out of nowhere, and struck us both at once. As lightning strikes, as a Finnish knife strikes! She, by the way, insisted afterwards that it wasn't so, that we had, of course, loved each other for a long, long time, without knowing each other, never having seen each other.
Mikhail Bulgakov
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Most bad, the host concluded. If you ask me, something sinister lurks in men who avoid wine, games, the company of lovely women, and dinnertime conversation. Such people are either gravely ill or secretly detest everyone around them.
Mikhail Bulgakov
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The procurator studied the new arrival with avid, and slightly fearful eyes. It was the kind of look one gives someone one has heard of and thought a lot about, and whom one is meeting for the first time.
Mikhail Bulgakov
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Why try to pursue what is completed?
Mikhail Bulgakov
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Everything passes away-suffering,pain, blood, hunger,pestilence. The sword will pass away too, but the stars will remain when the shadows of our presence and our deeds have vanished from the Earth. There is no man who does not know that. Why, then, will we not turn our eyes toward the stars? Why?
Mikhail Bulgakov
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Cowardice is the greatest sin.
Mikhail Bulgakov
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Cowardice is the most terrible of vices.
Mikhail Bulgakov
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If it is true that cowardice is the most grave vice, then the dog, at least, is not guilty of it.
Mikhail Bulgakov
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Margarita was never short of money. She could buy whatever she liked. Her husband had plenty of interesting friends. Margarita never had to cook. Margarita knew nothing of the horrors of living in a shared flat. In short... was she happy? Not for a moment.
Mikhail Bulgakov
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Cowardice was undoubtedly one of the most terrible vices - thus spoke Yeshua Ha-Nozri. 'No, philosopher, I disagree with you: it is the most terrible vice!
Mikhail Bulgakov
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You are not Dostoevsky,' said the woman... 'You never can tell...' he answered. 'Dostoevsky is dead,' the woman said, a bit uncertainly. 'I protest!' he said with heat, 'Dostoevsky is immortal!
Mikhail Bulgakov
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You should never ask anyone for anything. Never- and especially from those who are more powerful than yourself.
Mikhail Bulgakov
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Manuscripts don't burn.
Mikhail Bulgakov
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This twenty-year-old boy was distinguished from childhood by strange qualities, a dreamer and an eccentric. A girl fell in love with him, and he went and sold her to a brothel.
Mikhail Bulgakov
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Remove the document—and you remove the man.
Mikhail Bulgakov
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Is that vodka? Margarita asked weakly. The cat jumped up in his seat with indignation. I beg pardon, my queen, he rasped, Would I ever allow myself to offer vodka to a lady? This is pure alcohol!
Mikhail Bulgakov
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For some reason, cats are usually addressed familiarly, though no cat has ever drunk bruderschaft with anyone.
Mikhail Bulgakov
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I hereby certify that the bearer of this note, Nikolai Ivanovich, spent the night in question at Satan's ball, having been lured there in a transportational capacity... Hella, put in parentheses! And write 'hog.' Signed- Behemoth.
Mikhail Bulgakov
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the hope that there she would manage to regain her happiness made her fearless
Mikhail Bulgakov