Pisatel Quotes

A man writes because he is tormented, because he doubts. He needs to constantly prove to himself and the others that he's worth something. And if I know for sure that I'm a genius? Why write then? What the hell for?

While I am digging for the truth, so much happens to it that instead of discovering the truth I dig up a heap of, pardon... I'd better not name it.

Don't fool yourself. I don't forgive you.

Some bastard abuses you, you're hurt. A different bastard praises you, you're hurt.

You're a bad judge of human nature if you bring people like me into the Zone.

My dear, the world is so unutterably boring. There's no telepathy, no ghosts, no flying saucers. They can't exist. The world is ruled by cast-iron laws. These laws are not broken. They just can't be broken. Don't hope for flying saucers. That would be too interesting.

Suppose I return to our godforsaken city a genius. Understand? But a man writes because he's tormented, unsure of himself. He has to keep proving his worth to himself and to others. But if I'm convinced I'm a genius - then why do I need to write?

Who know what desires a person might have?

I don't understand anything at all. What's the sense of coming here?

Stalker: What are you up to, Professor?
Professor: Imagine what will happen when everyone believes in this Room and when they all come hurrying here. It's only a question of time. Not today, but tomorrow. And in the thousands. All these would-be emperors, grand inquisitors, fuhrers of all shades. The so-called saviors of mankind! And not for money or inspiration, but to remake the world.
Stalker: I'll never bring that sort here.
Professor: What do you understand? You're not the only stalker in the world. No stalker knows what ideas the people you bring here take away with them.

Writer: The main thing is that the professor's rucksack and spare pants are safe.
Professor: Don't poke your nose into another guy's drawers - if you know what I mean.

Professor: Stalking is a kind of vocation.
Writer: I imagined stalkers to be different.
Professor: How so?
Writer: Like Leatherstocking or Chingachgook or Big Snake.

Writer: Tell me, Professor, why did you get involved in this business? What's the Zone to you?
Professor: Well, in a sense, I'm a scientist. What's in it for you? A fashionable author, women dropped all over you.
Writer: I've lost my inspiration. I'm going to beg for some.
Professor: So you've exhausted your talent?
Writer: What? Yes, in a way.

Writer: I seldom think, it's bad for me.
Professor: It's impossible to write and keep thinking about success or failure?
Writer: Naturally. But on the other hand, if my books aren't being read in 100 years, why bother to write?

Writer: No one in the world has a conception about the Zone, so it'll be a sensation. Television, you lady fans getting hot flashes, people carrying brooms as if they were laurel wreaths. Then our professor appears all in whit and declaims, "Mene, mene. Tekel upharsin." Naturally, everyone gapes and shouts, "Give him the Nobel Prize!"
Professor: You bedraggled hack writer. You homegrown psychologist. Fit only to scribble graffiti in lavatories, you talentless clod.
Writer: That's feeble stuff. Call that an insult? You don't know how it's done.
Professor: All right. Suppose I'm after a Nobel Prize. What are you after? Want to bestow on mankind the pearls of your bought inspiration?
Writer: I spit on mankind. In all of mankind, only one man interests me. And that's me. Am I worth anything or am I shit like certain other people?
Professor: What if you find out that's indeed what you are?
Writer: Know something, Einstein? I don't want to argue with you.
Professor: Truth is born in arguments, damn it.

Professor: Why don't you teach me the meaning of life and, at the same time, how to think.
Writer: It's useless.

Writer: All your technology, all those blast furnaces, wheels, and suchlike hustle and bustle, so that people can work less and consume more, they're all crutches, artificial limbs. Mankind exists in order to - to create works of art. At least that's unselfish compared with all other human activities. Great illusions. Images of absolute truth. Are you listening to me, Professor?
Professor: What unselfishness are you talking about? People keep dying of hunger. Have you been living on the moon?

What comes true here is that which reflects the essence of your nature. It is within you. It governs you.

Forget your rucksack. What's in it? Diamonds? You'll lose your way. The Room will give you all you desire. It will snow you under with rucksacks.

You dream of one thing and get something quite different.

Once, the future was only a continuation of the present. All its changes loomed somewhere beyond the horizon. But now the future's a part of the present.

What I said about going there, it's all a lie. I don't give a damn about inspiration. But how can I put a name to - what it is that I want? How am I to know I don't want what I want or that I really don't want what I don't want? These are intangibles where the moment you name them, their meaning evaporates like jellyfish in the sun.

No single individual can have enough hatred or love to spread over all mankind. You desire money, a woman. Or you want your boss to get run over. That's neither here nor there. But world domination, a just society, the kingdom of heaven on earth. Those aren't desires, but an ideology, actions, concepts. Subconscious compassion cannot yet be realized as a common instinctive desire.

You put your heart and soul into your work and they devour you. They even devour the filth in your soul. They're all literate. They all have voracious appetites. They all keep crowding round - journalists, editors, critics, a constant stream of women. All of them clamoring for more. What kind of writer am I if I detest writing? It it's torture for me, a painful, shameful occupation, something akin to extruding hemorrhoids. I used to think my books helped people to become better, but nobody needs me. If I die, in a couple of days, they'll find someone else to devour. I wanted to change them, but they've changed me to fit their own image.

My conscience wants vegetarianism to win over the world. And my subconscious is yearning for a piece of juicy meat. But what do I want?