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343 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1946
The garden acted upon my imagination with extraordinary force. It must have been there that I first conceived my passion for travel. I used to imagine a far-away country which I felt certain that I would some day visit. It was an undulating plain filled with grasses and flowers as far as the eye could reach. The towns and villages were submerged in the vegetation, and the coaches of the express trains which crossed this region had thick layers of pollen clinging to their sides.
My childhood was nearly over – and it’s too bad that only the grown-ups know how nice it was to be a child. In childhood, everything was different. Everything was more vivid – the sun brighter, the smell of the fields sharper, the thunder louder, the rain more abundant and the grass taller. And our hearts were bigger, our griefs more poignant, and our country – that soil of our birth which is the greatest gift we have in life, to tend, care for and protect with our whole being – was more enigmatic.
But I want to challenge you to become generous-minded people. Heine said that there are more fools on this earth than there are people. He was, of course, exaggerating. But what does this mean, really? It means that everyday we meet people whose existence brings no hapiness or usefulness to themselves or to those around them. Always be afrid of being useless. Whoever you are, remember the wise counsel; let no day pass without having written something. Work! For what is talent, after all? It’s work, work, work. Love your work, and may you always be sorry to put it down.
full of tricks, jokes, and mystification. He transformed school customs we had learned by heart into a world of improbable events and persons. Any colorless supervisor like Shponka, once he had been involved in Bulgakov’s imagination, grew to the dimensions of a Tartarin de Tarascon. He would begin to live a second, mysterious life, no longer as Shponka with a puffy, alcoholic nose, but as the hero of uproarious, miraculous happenings. By the tricks he thought up, Bulgakov moved the people around him from their real world out to the very edge of another world of almost fantastic exaggeration..
And the storm came at last...The sky seemed filled with smoke. Enormous black puffs moved behind it, like petrified cotton. These were the storm clouds seen through the smoke. Dead silence stood all around us. The frogs and the birds grew silent, fish stopped splashing. Even the leaves stopped quivering, as if frightened by the storm...At twilight the smoke disappeared, and a great cloud as dead as night itself filled half the sky. There were lightning flashes, but no thunder. A dull moon rose in the east. It moved all alone toward the big cloud, abondoned by everything else--not one star was to be seen around it. Each flash of lightning made the moon turn pale....Moving yellow whirlwinds began to be seen in the cloud. its edge drooped down to the earth. Lightning ran and danced in the black caverns of the sky.
And I almost forgot that I had just lived through my first betrayal. My only wish was to show Lyuba that I was not in the slightest disappointed by her, and that my life was full of such interesting things that to suffer through any foolish love affairs, with sighs and veiled confessions, would be simply funny.
"And in the long run isn’t this true?” I thought. “How is my feeling for Lyuba better than this sunshine?” It was already falling through the greenery onto the dark water. “How is it better than the wonderful smell of these unmowed fields? How is it better than even that green beetle sliding hurriedly along the planked wall of the bathhouse?”
It was easy to find consolation. Obviously, because everything around me was so full of wonder and beauty.