Who Ever Told You There Is No

What's The Use Of Dying In A Ward Surrounded By A Lot Of Groaning And Croaking Incurables? Wouldn't It Be Much Better To Throw A Party With That Twenty-seven Thousand And Take Poison And Depart For The Other World To The Sound Of Violins, Surrounded By Lovely Drunken Girls And Happy Friends?

My Writing Is Progressing Slowly, But At Least It's Moving Forward. I'm Sure That's The Case. The Only Problem Is That I'm Never Absolutely Certain That What I've Written Is Any Good.

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.

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.

I Wouldn’t Like To Meet You When You’ve Got A Revolver,” Said Margarita With A Coquettish Look At Azazello. She Had A Passion For People Who Did Things Well.