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Napomena uz prijevod Roman Majstor i Margarita pojavio se u hrvatskom prijevodu 1969. godine u «Naprijedovu» izdanju. Bio je to prijevod teksta objavljenog u časopisu «Moskva» godine 1966, u kojemu su, kako je ustanovljeno, izvršena neka kraćenja autorove posljednje redakcije rukopisa. Ovaj je prijevod romana priređen i dopunjen prema izvorniku koji je objavljen u knjizi: Mihail Bulgakov, Romanv. Hudožestvennaja literatura, Moskva 1973, jamačno najpouzdanijoj redakciji Bulgakovljeva rukopisa.

St Petersburg 1917. The capital of the glittering empire of the Tsars and a city on the brink of revolution where the jackals of the Secret Police intrigue for their own survival as their aristocratic masters indulge in one last, desperate round of hedonism.

For Sandro Ruzsky, chief investigator of the city police, even this decaying world provides the opportunity for a new beginning. Banished to Siberia for four years for pursuing a case his superiors would rather he'd quietly buried, Ruzsky finds himself investigating the murders of a young couple found out on the ice of the frozen river Neva.

The dead girl was a nanny at the Imperial Palace, the man an American from Chicago. The brutality of their deaths seems an allegory for the times, while for Ruzsky the investigation leads, at every turn, dangerously closer to home.

At the heart of the case lies Maria, the beautiful ballerina Ruzsky once loved and lost. But is she a willing participant in what appears to be a dangerous conspiracy, or is she likely to be its next victim?

In a city on the verge of revolution, and pitted against a ruthless murderer who relishes taunting him, Ruzsky finds himself at last face to face with his own past as he fights to save everything he cares for, before the world into which he was born goes up in flames.

William Bernhardt's bestselling novels featuring Oklahoma defense attorney Ben Kincaid capture the bare-knuckles reality of high-stakes criminal defense, as lofty ideals of justice clash with power, corruption, and wealth. In Capitol Murder, Bernhardt's hard-charging hero takes on his most shocking, headline-making case yet.

Kincaid's legal success has earned him a dubious reward: a journey through the looking glass into the Beltway. Here, in the heart of the nation's capital, a powerful U.S. senator has been caught first in a sordid sex scandal, then in a case of murder.

Senate aide Veronica Cooper was found in a secret Senate office beneath the Capitol building, on Senator Todd Glancy's favorite couch, blood pouring from the knife wound in her throat. The young woman's death comes on the heels of the release of a sordid videotape depicting her and Senator Glancy in compromising positions.

With the senator's reputation in tatters, the evidence against him-as a sexual predator and possibly a killer-mounts. By the time a nationally televised murder trial begins, Kincaid and his team know they're facing the challenge of a lifetime. According to public opinion, and even in Kincaid's most private thoughts, Glancy is one more politician who cannot admit his own culpability.

But while a dramatic trial unfolds in the courtroom-loaded with pitfalls, traps, and an astounding betrayal-another trial is taking place on the mean streets of D.C., as Kincaid's investigator pursues a young woman who was a friend of Veronica Cooper's, plunging Kincaid into a bizarre world of Goths, sadomasochists, and a community of self-proclaimed vampires. Somewhere in this violent underworld lies the secret behind Veronica Cooper's demise… and the crux of Senator Glancy's innocence or guilt.

In a case that pits Kincaid and his freewheeling partner Christina McCall against the brutal machinery of Washington politics, the answers they seek are hidden in a murderous maze of lies and hidden motives. And in William Bernhardt's best novel yet, getting to the truth is an unparalleled experience in pure, satisfying suspense.

For the boys. And you thought the garage was tough…

The builders did bow before the castle lord and say to him that his fortress was complete. But the lord declared the castle not yet strong enough, for his enemies were powerful and many. And so the lord commanded the builders to set an iron ring into the stone on the battlements at each compass point of the keep, and he chose his four strongest warriors to sanctify his fortress with their lives. One of the four was chained to each of the rings and charged to watch for marauders who might appear from any point along the sweeping horizon. At every hour the watch bells were rung to ensure the warriors did not sleep, and none were allowed to speak to them lest they be distracted from their duty. Through burning autumn and into bitter winter the four stood watch, allowed no shelter, no comfort, and no respite, believing that their faithfulness and honor would protect their lord’s stronghold long after their eyes and ears had failed. And when they died, they were left in place until their dust had filtered into the stones and mortar. They were called the Guardians of the Keep and are said to protect it still, and the symbol of the Four Guardian Rings is the shield of Comigor. Indeed, the four must have been potent warriors, for never in six hundred years has Comigor fallen to its enemies.

The History and Legends of Comigor Castle

For Mother

In the Lists of the Dar’Nethi are tallied the full number of the Talents: Singer, Builder, Silver Shaper, Tree Delver… They are named without interpretation of their worth and without report of their rarity, for who is to say that the common Builder, who sings his bricks into the harmonious arch that pleases a thousand eyes every morn, is of any less value than the Word Winder, who creates an intricate enchantment that only a few can use to any effect? D’Arnath himself was born to be a Balancer, a most ordinary gift, but it was magnificence of his soul that made him a Balancer of Worlds.

Yet there are three rare Talents that cause a hush to fall among the people when they are named. One is Speaker, for the gift of discernment and truth-telling is rarely welcomed, and those who practice it are never other than alone.

The second is Healer, for of all things, life is the most sacred to the Dar’Nethi, and the youth or maid who accepts the gift of life-giving is both blessed for the glory of the calling and pitied for the burdens of it.

The third is Soul Weaver. Some say there has never been a true Soul Weaver, for who could relinquish his own life so completely, taking unto himself the fall body, mind, and spirit of another being - lending strength or courage, skill or knowledge - and then be able to yield the other soul undamaged? Who could do such a thing and himself remain whole? Some say the Soul Weaver should not be entered in the Lists. It could be no part of the Dar’Nethi Way, for it is an impossible calling and only a legend amongst a people who are themselves the stuff of legends.

Ven’Dar yn Cyran

“A Brief History of the Dar’Nethi Way”

La lliada de Homero sigue cantando desde el fondo de los siglos. Canta cincuenta y un días del último año de una guerra que llevará, una década después, a la conquista y la destrucción de la ciudad de Troya.

Canta a los dioses, hombres y héroes, memorables por su ira y por su ambición, por su audacia y por su astucia, por su venganza y su piedad, dentro de los limites de un campo de batalla eterno. Guiado por la idea de adaptar el texto para una lectura pública. Alessandro Baricco relee y rescribe la lliada de Homero, como si tuviéramos que devolver a Homero allí mismo, a la lliada. para contemplar uno de los más majestuosos paisajes de nuestro destino. Trabajando a partir de la traducción de María Grazia Ciani. construye con el material original un conceríato de veintiuna voces (la última es la de Demodoco, un aedo que, tras la estela de la Odisea y de otras fuentes, narra el final de Troya): los personajes homéricos son llamados a escena -dejando a los dioses en el fondo- para relatar, con una voz cercanísima a nosotros, su historia de pasiones y de sangre, su gran guerra, su gran aventura.

From The Washington Post

Reviewed by Judy Budnitz

Does government-sanctioned suicide offer the same potential for satire as, say, the consumption of children? Possibly. One need only look to Kurt Vonnegut's story "Welcome to the Monkey House," with its "Federal Ethical Suicide Parlors" staffed by Juno-esque hostesses in purple body stockings. Or the recent film "Children of Men," in which television commercials for a suicide drug mimic, to an unsettling degree, the sunsets-and-soothing-voices style of real pharmaceutical ads. Now, Christopher Buckley ventures into a not-too-distant future to engage the subject in his new novel, Boomsday.

Here's the set-up: One generation is pitted against another in the shadow of a Social Security crisis. Our protagonist, Cassandra Devine, is a 29-year-old public relations maven by day, angry blogger by night. Incensed by the financial burden soon to be placed on her age bracket by baby boomers approaching retirement, she proposes on her blog that boomers be encouraged to commit suicide. Cassandra insists that her proposal is not meant to be taken literally; it is merely a "meta-issue" intended to spark discussion and a search for real solutions. But the idea is taken up by an attention-seeking senator, Randy Jepperson, and the political spinning begins.

Soon Cassandra and her boss, Terry Tucker, are devising incentives for the plan (no estate tax, free Botox), an evangelical pro-life activist is grabbing the opposing position, the president is appointing a special commission to study the issue, the media is in a frenzy, and Cassandra is a hero. As a presidential election approaches, the political shenanigans escalate and the subplots multiply: There are nursing-home conspiracies, Russian prostitutes, Ivy League bribes, papal phone calls and more.

Buckley orchestrates all these characters and complications with ease. He has a well-honed talent for quippy dialogue and an insider's familiarity with the way spin doctors manipulate language. It's queasily enjoyable to watch his characters concocting doublespeak to combat every turn of events. "Voluntary Transitioning" is Cassandra's euphemism for suicide; "Resource hogs" and "Wrinklies" are her labels for the soon-to-retire. The opposition dubs her "Joan of Dark."

It's all extremely entertaining, if not exactly subtle. The president, Riley Peacham, is "haunted by the homophonic possibilities of his surname." Jokes are repeated and repeated; symbols stand up and identify themselves. Here's Cassandra on the original Cassandra: "Daughter of the king of Troy. She warned that the city would fall to the Greeks. They ignored her… Cassandra is sort of a metaphor for catastrophe prediction. This is me. It's what I do." By the time Cassandra asks Terry, "Did you ever read Jonathan Swift's 'A Modest Proposal'?" some readers may be crying, "O.K., O.K., I get it."

Younger readers, meanwhile, may find themselves muttering, "He doesn't get it." The depiction of 20-somethings here often rings hollow, relying as it does on the most obvious signifiers: iPods, videogames, skateboards and an apathetic rallying cry of "whatever."

But Buckley isn't singling out the younger generation. He's democratic in his derision: boomers, politicians, the media, the public relations business, the Christian right and the Catholic Church get equal treatment. Yet despite the abundance of targets and the considerable display of wit, the satire here is not angry enough – not Swiftian enough – to elicit shock or provoke reflection; it's simply funny. All the drama takes place in a bubble of elitism, open only to power players – software billionaires, politicians, lobbyists, religious leaders. The general population is kept discretely offstage. Even the two groups at the center of the debate are reduced to polling statistics. There are secondhand reports of them acting en masse: 20-somethings attacking retirement-community golf courses, boomers demanding tax deductions for Segways. But no individual faces emerge. Of course, broadness is a necessary aspect of satire, but here reductiveness drains any urgency from the proceedings. There's little sense that lives, or souls, are at stake.

Even Cassandra, the nominal hero, fails to elicit much sympathy. Her motivations are more self-involved than idealistic: She's peeved that her father spent her college fund and kept her from going to Yale. And she's not entirely convincing as the leader and voice of her generation. Though her blog has won her millions of followers, we never see why she's so popular; we never see any samples of her blogging to understand why her writing inspires such devotion. What's even more curious is that, aside from her blog, she seems to have no contact with other people her own age. Her mentors, her lover and all of her associates are members of the "wrinklies" demographic.

Though I was willing for the most part to sit back and enjoy the rollicking ride, one incident in particular strained my credulity to the breaking point: Cassandra advises Sen. Jepperson to use profanity in a televised debate as a way of wooing under-30 voters, and the tactic is a smashing success. If dropping an f-bomb were all it took to win over the young folks, Vice President Cheney would be a rock star by now.