Mikhail Bulgakov. The Master and Margarita -
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The log of wood on which Ryukhin was sitting kept wobbling and
slithering about and now and again it tried to slide away from under him
altogether. The restaurant dish-cloths, which the policeman and the barman
had thrown on to the back of the lorry before leaving earlier by
trolley-bus, were being flung about all over the back of the lorry. Ryukhin
started to try and pick them up, but with a sudden burst of ill-temper he
hissed :
'To hell with them! Why should I crawl around after them? ' He pushed
them away with his foot and turned away from them.
Ryukhin was in a state of depression. It was obvious that his visit to
the asylum had affected him deeply. He tried to think what it was that was
disturbing him. Was it the corridor with its blue lamps, which had lodged so
firmly in his memory? Was it the thought that the worst misfortune in the
world was to lose one's reason? Yes, it was that, of course--but that after
all was a generalisation, it applied to everybody. There was something else,
though. What was it? The insult--that was it. Yes, those insulting words
that Bezdomny had flung into his face. And the agony of it was not that they
were insulting but that they were true.
The poet stopped looking about him and instead stared gloomily at the
dirty, shaking floor of the lorry in an agony of self-reproach.
Yes, his poetry . . . He was thirty-two! And what were his prospects?
To go on writing a few poems every year. How long--until he was an old man?
Yes, until he was an old man. What would these poems do for him? Make him
famous? ' What rubbish! Don't fool yourself. Nobody ever gets famous from
writing bad poetry. Why is it bad, though? He was right --he was telling the
truth! ' said Ryukhin pitilessly to himself. I don't believe in a single
word of what I've written . . .! '
Embittered by an upsurge of neurasthenia, the poet swayed. The floor