Stalker Quotes

Writer: 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?

Writer: 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?

Stalker: [the wagon stops, the scene is in color now] We are home!

Stalker: The Zone wants to be respected. Otherwise it will punish.

Stalker: It is so quiet out here, it is the quietest place in the world.

Stalker: May everything come true. May they believe. And may they laugh at their passions. For what they call passion is not really the energy of the soul, but merely friction between the soul and the outside world. But, above all, may they believe in themselves and become as helpless as children. For softness is great and strength is worthless. When a man is born, he is soft and pliable. When he dies, he is strong and hard. When a tree grows, it is soft and pliable. But when it's dry and hard, it dies. Hardness and strength are death's companions. Flexibility and softness are the embodiment of life. That which has become hard shall not triumph.

Writer: [subtitled version] 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.

Stalker: Are you awake? You were talking recently about the meaning... of our... life... unselfishness of art... Let's take music... It's really least of all connected; to say the truth, if it is connected at all, then in an idealess way, mechanically, with an empty sound... Without... without associations... Nonetheless the music miraculously penetrates into the very soul! What is resonating in us in answer to the harmonized noise? And turns it for us into the source of great delight... And unites us, and shakes us? What is its purpose? And, above all, for whom? You will say: for nothing, and... and for nobody, just so. Unselfish. Though it's not so... perhaps... For everything, in the end, has its own meaning... Both the meaning and the cause...

Stalker: There's no need to speak. You must only - concentrate and recall all your past life. When a man thinks of the past, he becomes kinder.

Stalker's Wife: And there was a great earthquake. And the sun became black as sackcloth made of hair. And the moon became like blood... And the stars of the sky fell to the earth, as a fig tree casts its unripe figs when shaken by a great wind. And the sky was split apart like a scroll when it is rolled up. And every mountain and island were moved out of their places. And the kings of the earth and the great men and the rich and the chiliarchs and the strong and every free man, hid themselves in the caves and among the rocks of the mountains; and they said to the mountains and to the rocks, "Fall on us and hide us from the presence of Him who sits on the throne, and from the wrath of the Lamb, for the great day of His wrath has come, and who is able to stand?"

Stalker's Wife: You know, Mama was very opposed to it. You've probably already guessed, that he's one of God's fools. Everyone around here used to laugh at him. He was such a wretched muddler. Mama used to say: "he's a stalker, a marked man, an eternal jailbird. Remember the kind of children stalkers have." I didn't even argue. I knew all about it, that he was a marked man, a jailbird. I knew about the kids. Only what could I do? I was sure I'd be happy with him. I knew there'd be a lot of sorrow, but I'd rather know bitter-sweet happiness, than a grey, uneventful life. Perhaps I invented all this later. But when he come up to me and said: "Come with me", I went. And I've never regretted it. Never. There was a lot of grief, and fear, and pain, but I've never regretted it, nor envied anyone. It's just fate. It's life, it's us. And if there were no sorrow in our lives, it wouldn't be better, it would be worse. Because then there'd be no happiness, either. And there'd be no hope.

Stalker: In the Zone, the longer way, the less risk.

Professor Wallace: Was it a meteorite or a visitation from outer space? Whatever it was, in our small country, there appeared a miracle - the Zone. We sent in troops. Not one returned. The we surrounded the Zone with a security cordon. We did right. Although I'm not sure. I'm not sure.

Writer: 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.

Writer: 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.

Professor: Who know what desires a person might have?

Stalker: There's no going back. Nobody goes back the same way they came.

Writer: 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.

Writer: 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?

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

Writer: 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.

Writer: 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.

Stalker: Listen to this: Now the summer is passed, it might never have been; It is warm in the sun, but it isn't enough; All that I could attain, like a five-fingered leaf, fell straight into my hand, but it isn't enough; Neither evil nor good has yet vanished in vain; It all burned and was light, but it isn't enough; Life has been like a shield and has offered protection; I have been very lucky, but it isn't enough; The leaves were not burned, the boughs were not broken; The day shines like glass, but it isn't enough.

Writer: 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.

Stalker: You can't be happy at the expense of other's unhappiness.

Writer: You dream of one thing and get something quite different.

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

Stalker: We're now standing at the threshold. This is the most important moment - in your life. You must know that your most cherished desire will come true here. Your sincerest wish, the desire that has made you suffer most.

Stalker: There's nothing else left to people on Earth. This is the only place to come to when all hope is gone.

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

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

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