A fire roared in a stove, in windows whipped a rain. Then the last happened. I took out from the box of table the heavy lists of novel and draft notebooks and began them to burn. It it is terrible difficult to do, because the covered with writing paper burns reluctantly. Breaking nails, I tore apart notebooks, upright inlaid them between logs and poker disheveled folias. An ash overcame me sometimes, smothered flame, but I contested with him, and a novel, persistently resisting, perished however. Acquaintances words flashed to me, a yellowness irrepressible rose from a top to bottom to the page-by-page, but words nevertheless oozed and on her. They disappeared only then, when a paper turned black and I furiously finished off them a poker. М.А.Булгаков, "Master and Margaret"

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