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123 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1925
"The whole horror of the situation is that he now has a human heart, not a dog's heart. And about the rottenest heart in all creation!"
"But just think, Philipp Philippovich, what he may turn into if that character Shvonder keeps on at him! I'm only just beginning to realize what Sharikov may become, by God!"
"Aha, so you realize now, do you? Well I realized it ten days after the operation. My only comfort is that Shvonder is the biggest fool of all. He doesn't realize that Sharikov is much more of a threat to him than he is to me. At the moment he's doing all he can to turn Sharikov against me, not realizing that if someone in their turn sets Sharikov against Shvonder himself, there'll soon be nothing left of Shvonder but the bones and the beak."
'But Philipp Philippovich, you're a celebrity, a figure of world-wide importance, and just because of some, forgive the expression, son of a bitch… Surely they can't touch you!'C'mon, we all know that even world-class fame will never save Professor Preobrazhensky from Stalin's labor camps as eventually his higher-up protectors will themselves become victims of the new regime, and likely from a gunshot to the head in the middle of the night. And Bormental's fate will undoubtedly be very similar to that - just as Professor kinda-sorta anticipated already. After all, neither of them has made their unpopular views very secret.
'All the same, I refuse to do it,' said Philipp Philippovich thoughtfully. He stopped and stared at the glass-fronted cabinet.
'But why?'
'Because you are not a figure of world importance.'
'But what…'
'Come now, you don't think I could let you take the rap while I shelter behind my world-wide reputation, do you? Really… I'm a Moscow University graduate, not a Sharikov.'
'Yes, I don't like proletariat,' sadly agreed Philipp Philippovich."
'What do you mean by "ruin"? Is it an old woman with a stick? A witch who smashed all the windows and put out all the lights? There's no such thing! What do you mean by that word?' Philipp Philippovich angrily inquired of an unfortunate cardboard duck hanging upside down by the sideboard, then answered the question himself. 'I'll tell you what it is: If instead of operating every evening I were to start a glee club in my apartment, that would mean that I was on the road to "ruin". If when I go to the lavatory I don't piss, if you'll excuse the expression, into the bowl but on to the floor instead and if Zina and Darya Petrovna were to do the same thing, the lavatory would be ruined. Ruin, therefore, is not caused by lavatories but it's something that starts in people's heads. So when these clowns start shouting “Stop the ruin!” – I laugh!'.........................
'I'm sorry, professor, not a dog. This happened when he was a man. That's the trouble.'And this respect for culture and etiquette and civility is what permeates the message of this book. This respect for what Bulgakov sees as the essentials of being human are precisely what puts him in the conflict with his contemporary Soviet state that believed in intimidation and terror as the viable way of governing and existing - the principles that newly formed humanoid Sharikov is very eager to learn and internalize. And neither Bulgakov nor Professor Preobrazhensky or Bormental are having that.
'Because he talked?' asked Philipp Philippovich. 'That doesn't mean he was a man."
"Kindness. The only possible method when dealing with a living creature. You'll get nowhere with an animal if you use terror, no matter what its level of development may be. That I have maintained, do maintain and always will maintain. People who think you can use terror are quite wrong. No, no, terror is useless, whatever its colour – white, red or even brown! Terror completely paralyses the nervous system."
"Nobody should be whipped. Remember that, once and for all. Neither man nor animal can be influenced by anything but suggestion."
‘The only possible way to deal with a living creature. Terror's useless for dealing with an animal, whatever level of development it might be at. I've always said that, I still say it and I always will. They're wrong to think that terror will do them any good. No sir, no sir, it won't, no matter what colour it is: white, red or even brown!’
‘Science does not yet know any way of turning animals into human beings. This was my attempt, but an unsuccessful one, as you can see. He spoke for a while and then began to revert to his original primitive condition.’
Wasn't getting in his way, was I? Not going to eat the entire National Economic Council into ruin if I have a rummage in the rubbish tip, am I? Rotten stingy swine! Just take a look at that fat ugly mug of his some time: wider across than it is long. A real brazen-faced thief. […] The dry blizzard witch rattled the gates and swiped her broomstick across the young woman's ear. Tossed her skirt up to her knees, exposing the cream stockings and a narrow strip of badly laundered underwear, choked off her words and smothered the dog in snow.
What harm was I doing him, anyway? I'm not robbing the National Economic Council's food supply if I go foraging in their dustbins, am I? Greedy pig! Just take a look at his ugly mug – it's almost fatter than he is. Hard-faced crook. […] The terrible snowstorm howled around the doorway, buffeting the girl's ears. It blew her skirt up to her knees, showing her fawn stockings and a little strip of badly washed lace underwear, drowned her words and covered the dog in snow.
What harm did I do him? Would the People's Economic Soviet get any poorer if I rooted in the garbage heap? The greedy brute! Take a look at that mug of his sometimes—it's wider than it's long. A crook with a brass jowl. […] The wind, that raging witch, rattled the gate and boxed the young lady on the ear with its broom. It blew up her skirt above her knees, baring the cream-colored stockings and a narrow strip of the poorly laundered lace panties. It drowned out her words and swept across the dog.
“The rule apparently is—once a social revolution takes place there’s no need to stoke the boiler. But I ask you: why, when this whole business started, should everybody suddenly start clumping up and down the marble staircase in dirty galoshes and felt boots? Why must we now keep our galoshes under lock and key? And put a soldier on guard over them to prevent them from being stolen? Why has the carpet been removed from the front staircase? Did Marx forbid people to keep their staircases carpeted? Did Karl Marx say anywhere that the front door of No. 2 Kalabukhov House in Prechistenka Street must be boarded up so that people have to go round and come in by the back door? What good does it do anybody? Why can’t the proletarians leave their galoshes downstairs instead of dirtying the staircase?’
‘But the proletarians don’t have any galoshes, Philip Philipovich,’ stammered the doctor.”
“People who think you can use terror are quite wrong. No, no, terror is useless, whatever its colour—white, red or even brown! Terror completely paralyses the nervous system.”
Eyes mean a lot. Like a barometer. They tell you everything—they tell you who has a heart of stone, who would poke the toe of his boot in your ribs as soon as look at you—and who’s afraid of you. The cowards—they’re the ones whose ankles I like to snap at. If they’re scared, I go for them. Serve them right..grrr..bow-wow…”
نکند من با زیر و رو کردن آشغالدانی به سهم شورای اقتصاد مردمی دستدرازی کردهام.
معلوم نیست که در این غذاخوریهای عمومی شورا چه غلطی میکنند، به عقل سگ هم نمیرسد!
تمام این جار و جنجال سوسیالیستی چیزی نیست جز هذیان یک ذهن بیمار.
نتیجه میگیریم که ویرانی توی مستراح نیست بلکه در کلههاست! برای همین است که وقتی این آوازهخوانها عربده میکشند که «مرگ بر ویرانی» من خندهام میگیرد. این شعار یعنی این که هرکدام از آنها بیاید محکم بکوبد پس کلهی خودش!
شما موجودی هستید که هنوز از نظر عقلی ضعیف است. همهی اعمال شما حیوانی است و آن وقت شما، در حضور دو نفر آدمی که تحصیلات دانشگاهی دارند، به خودتان اجازه میدهید با بیبند و باری مطلقاً غیرقابل تحملی نظریاتی ارائه بدهید در مقیاس کیهانی، که باید همهچیز را تقسیم کرد، و نظریاتتان هم با همان ابعاد کیهانی احمقانه هستند.
با کمک محبت! یعنی با تنها روش ممکن در رفتار با موجودات زنده. با ایجاد ترس و وحشت در جانوران هیچکاری پیش نمیرود.
آنها بیهوده فکر میکنند که ایجاد ترس ووحشت کمکشان میکند. نه قربان، کمک نمیکند، از هر نوع که میخواهد باشد: سفید، سرخ، یا حتی قهوهای. وحشت سیستم عصبی را کاملا فلج میکند.
وقتی دانشمندی به جای آن که دستبهدست و همگام با طبیعت قدم بردارد، بخواهد حرف خود را به کرسی بنشاند و پردهها را بالا بزند، نتیجه بهتر از این نمیشود.
باید کنار هر نفر یک پاسبان گذاشت و این پاسبان را مجبور کرد تا جوش و غلیان حنجرهی مردم ما را کنترل کند.
نه، از اینجا به بعد سراغ هیچ نوع آزادیای نمیروم. عادت کردهام. من دیگر یک سگ اشرافی هستم، یک موجود روشنفکر، مزهی زندگی بهتر را چشیدهام. و اصلا آزادی یعنی چه؟ دود است و سراب و صحنهسازی... هذیان این دموکراتهای نگونبخت است.
What a brothel of a flat.
در ترجمهی فارسی: آپارتمان آبرومندی نیست!
I'm a married woman, but Zina is an innocent girl. It's a good thing I was the one to wake up.
تمام عبارت در نسخهی فارسی: حالا من هیچ، ولی زینا...