List your all time favorite books if you feel like it

[Rodders]

16 hours ago, useless said:

I am enteraining the idea of compiling a list of my favorite short stories.

 

I always feel I should read more. 

I think I can list all of the collections I've read

The Dubliners - long overdue a re-read, I remember loving them first time around. 

Chekhov's short stories

We Don't Know What We're Doing - by Thomas Morris - all set in Caerphilly, very dry and entertaining. 

and a collection of some of Kafka's. So 3 dead classic authors and 1 contemporary. All were good, though I wasn't such a huge fan of the Kafka. 

Oh, also read some short humourous ones by Rich Hall. A bit prejudicial I guess not to consider them in the same vein as more 'serious' ones. 

[mjmooney]

26 minutes ago, Seat68 said:

As short as they come but still my favourite ever written piece. Short story but hidden as its a long post.  
 

On seeing the 100% perfect girl one beautiful April morning

by Haruki Murakami 

 

One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo's fashionable Harujuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl. 

 

  Reveal hidden contents

 

Tell you the truth, she's not that good-looking. She doesn't stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn't young, either - must be near thirty, not even close to a "girl," properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She's the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there's a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert. 

 

Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you're drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I'll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose. 

 

But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can't recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It's weird. 

 

"Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl," I tell someone. 

 

"Yeah?" he says. "Good-looking?" 

 

"Not really." 

 

"Your favorite type, then?" 

 

"I don't know. I can't seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts." 

 

"Strange." 

 

"Yeah. Strange." 

 

"So anyhow," he says, already bored, "what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?" 

 

"Nah. Just passed her on the street." 

 

She's walking east to west, and I west to east. It's a really nice April morning. 

 

Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and - what I'd really like to do - explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world. 

 

After talking, we'd have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed. 

 

Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart. 

 

Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards. 

 

How can I approach her? What should I say? 

 

"Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?" 

 

Ridiculous. I'd sound like an insurance salesman. 

 

"Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?" 

 

No, this is just as ridiculous. I'm not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who's going to buy a line like that? Maybe the simple truth would do. "Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me." 

 

No, she wouldn't believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you're not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I'd probably go to pieces. I'd never recover from the shock. I'm thirty-two, and that's what growing older is all about. 

 

We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can't bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She's written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she's ever had. 

 

I take a few more strides and turn: She's lost in the crowd. 

 

Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical. 

 

Oh, well. It would have started "Once upon a time" and ended "A sad story, don't you think?" 

 

Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened. 

 

One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street. 

 

"This is amazing," he said. "I've been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you're the 100% perfect girl for me." 

 

"And you," she said to him, "are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I'd pictured you in every detail. It's like a dream." 

 

They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It's a miracle, a cosmic miracle. 

 

As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one's dreams to come true so easily? 

 

And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, "Let's test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other's 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we'll marry then and there. What do you think?" 

 

"Yes," she said, "that is exactly what we should do." 

 

And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west. 

 

The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other's 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully. 

 

One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season's terrible inluenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence's piggy bank. 

 

They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love. 

 

Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty. 

 

One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew: 

 

She is the 100% perfect girl for me. 

 

He is the 100% perfect boy for me. 

 

But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fouteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. 

 

Forever. 

 

A sad story, don't you think? 

 

Yes, that's it, that is what I should have said to her.

 

 

That is very good. I do like Murakami. 

Here's one that would be on my list: 

The Girls in Their Summer Dresses

by Irwin Shaw (1913-1984)

The Girls in Their Summer Dresses

by Irwin Shaw (1913-1984)

Fifth Avenue was shining in the sun when they left the Brevoort and started walking toward Washington Square. The sun was warm, even though it was November, and everything looked like Sunday morning--the buses, and the well-dressed people walking slowly in couples and the quiet buildings with the windows closed.
Michael held Frances' arm tightly as they walked downtown in the sunlight. They walked lightly, almost smiling, because they had slept late and had a good breakfast and it was Sunday. Michael unbuttoned his coat and let it flap around him in the mild wind. They walked, without saying anything, among the young and pleasant-looking people who somehow seem to make up most of the population of that section of New York City.
"Look out," Frances said, as they crossed Eighth Street. "You'll break your neck."
Michael laughed and Frances laughed with him.
"She's not so pretty, anyway," Frances said. "Anyway, not pretty enough to take a chance breaking your neck looking at her."
Michael laughed again. He laughed louder this time, but not as solidly. "She wasn't a bad-looking girl. She had a nice complexion. Country-girl complexion. How did you know I was looking at her?" Frances cocked her head to one side and smiled at her husband under the tip-tilted brim of her hat. "Mike, darling . . ." she said.
Michael laughed, just a little laugh this time. "Okay," he said. "The evidence is in. Excuse me. It was the complexion. It's not the sort of complexion you see much in New York. Excuse me."
Frances patted his arm lightly and pulled him along a little faster toward Washington Square.
"This is a nice morning," she said. "This is a wonderful morning. When I have breakfast with you it makes me feel good all day."
"Tonic," Michael said. "Morning pickup. Rolls and coffee with Mike and you're on the alkali side, guaranteed."
"That's the story. Also, I slept all night, wound around you like a rope."
"Saturday night," he said. "I permit such liberties only when the week's work is done."
"You're getting fat," she said.
"Isn't it the truth? The lean man from Ohio."
"I love it," she said, "an extra five pounds of husband."
"I love it, too," Michael said gravely.
"I have an idea," Frances said.
"My wife has an idea. That pretty girl."
"Let's not see anybody all day," Frances said. "Let's just hang around with each other. You and me. We're always up to our neck in people, drinking their Scotch, or drinking our Scotch, we only see each other in bed . . ."
"The Great Meeting Place," Michael said. "Stay in bed long enough and everybody you ever knew will show up there."
"Wise guy," Frances said. "I'm talking serious."
"Okay, I'm listening serious."
"I want to go out with my husband all day long. I want him to talk only to me and listen only to me."
"What's to stop us?" Michael asked. "What party intends to prevent me from seeing my wife alone on Sunday? What party?"
"The Stevensons. They want us to drop by around one o'clock and they'll drive us into the country."
"The lousy Stevensons," Mike said. "Transparent. They can whistle. They can go driving in the country by themselves. My wife and I have to stay in New York and bore each other tte--tte."
"Is it a date?"
"It's a date."
Frances leaned over and kissed him on the tip of the ear.
"Darling," Michael said. "This is Fifth Avenue."
"Let me arrange a program," Frances said. "A planned Sunday in New York for a young couple with money to throw away."
"Go easy."
"First let's go see a football game. A professional football game," Frances said, because she knew Michael loved to watch them. "The Giants are playing. And it'll be nice to be outside all day today and get hungry and later we'll go down to Cavanagh's and get a steak as big as a blacksmith's apron, with a bottle of wine, and after that, there's a new French picture at the Filmarte that everybody says... Say, are you listening to me?"
"Sure," he said. He took his eyes off the hatless girl with the dark hair, cut dancer-style, like a helmet, who was walking past him with the self-conscious strength and grace dancers have. She was walking without a coat and she looked very solid and strong and her belly was flat, like a boy's, under her skirt, and her hips swung boldly because she was a dancer and also because she knew Michael was looking at her. She smiled a little to herself as she went past and Michael noticed all these things before he looked back at his wife. "Sure," he said, "we're going to watch the Giants and we're going to eat steak and we're going to see a French picture. How do you like that?"
"That's it," Frances said flatly. "That's the program for the day. Or maybe you'd just rather walk up and down Fifth Avenue."
"No," Michael said carefully. "Not at all."
"You always look at other women," Frances said. "At every damn woman in the city of New York."
"Oh, come now," Michael said, pretending to joke. "Only pretty ones. And, after all, how many pretty women are there in New York? Seventeen?"
"More. At least you seem to think so. Wherever you go."
"Not the truth. Occasionally, maybe, I look at a woman as she passes. In the street. I admit, perhaps in the street I look at a woman once in a while. . . ."
"Everywhere," Frances said. "Every damned place we go. Restaurants, subways, theaters, lectures, concerts."
"Now, darling," Michael said. "I look at everything. God gave me eyes and I look at women and men and subway excavations and moving pictures and the little flowers of the field. I casually inspect the universe."
"You ought to see the look in your eye," Frances said, "as you casually inspect the universe on Fifth Avenue."
"I'm a happily married man." Michael pressed her elbow tenderly, knowing what he was doing. "Example for the whole twentieth century, Mr. and Mrs. Mike Loomis."
"You mean it?"
"Frances, baby . . ."
"Are you really happily married?"
"Sure," Michael said, feeling the whole Sunday morning sinking like lead inside him. "Now what the hell is the sense in talking like that?"
"I would like to know." Frances walked faster now, looking straight ahead, her face showing nothing, which was the way she always managed it when she was arguing or feeling bad.
"I'm wonderfully happily married," Michael said patiently. "I am the envy of all men between the ages of fifteen and sixty in the state of New York."
"Stop kidding," Frances said.
"I have a fine home," Michael said. "I got nice books and a phonograph and nice friends. I live in a town I like the way I like and I do the work I like and I live with the woman I like. Whenever something good happens, don't I run to you? When something bad happens, don't I cry on your shoulder?"
"Yes," Frances said. "You look at every woman that passes."
"That's an exaggeration."
"Every woman." Frances took her hand off Michael's arm. "If she's not pretty you turn away fairly quickly. If she's halfway pretty you watch her for about seven steps. . . ."
"My Lord, Frances!"
"If she's pretty you practically break your neck . . ."
"Hey, let's have a drink," Michael said, stopping.
"We just had breakfast."
"Now, listen, darling," Mike said, choosing his words with care, "it's a nice day and we both feel good and there's no reason why we have to break it up. Let's have a nice Sunday."
"I could have a fine Sunday if you didn't look as though you were dying to run after every skirt on Fifth Avenue."
"Let's have a drink," Michael said.
"I don't want a drink."
"What do you want, a fight?"
"No," Frances said, so unhappily that Michael felt terribly sorry for her. "I don't want a fight. I don't know why I started this. All right, let's drop it. Let's have a good time."
They joined hands consciously and walked without talking among the baby carriages and the old Italian men in their Sunday clothes and the young women with Scotties in Washington Square Park.
"I hope it's a good game today," Frances said after a while, her tone a good imitation of the tone she had used at breakfast and at the beginning of their walk. "I like professional football games. They hit each other as though they're made out of concrete. When they tackle each other," she said, trying to make Michael laugh, "they make divots. It's very exciting."
"I want to tell you something," Michael said very seriously. "I have not touched another woman. Not once. In all the five years."
"All right," Frances said.
"You believe that, don't you?"
"All right."
They walked between the crowded benches, under the scrubby citypark trees.
"I try not to notice it," Frances said, as though she were talking to herself. "I try to make believe it doesn't mean anything. Some men're like that, I tell myself, they have to see what they're missing."
"Some women're like that, too," Michael said. "In my time I've seen a couple of ladies."
"I haven't even looked at another man," Frances said, walking straight ahead, "since the second time I went out with you."
"There's no law," Michael said.
"I feel rotten inside, in my stomach, when we pass a woman and you look at her and I see that look in your eye and that's the way you looked at me the first time, in Alice Maxwell's house. Standing there in the living room, next to the radio, with a green hat on and all those people."
"I remember the hat," Michael said.
"The same look," Frances said. "And it makes me feel bad. It makes me feel terrible."
"Sssh, please, darling, sssh. . . ."
"I think I would like a drink now," Frances said.
They walked over to a bar on Eighth Street, not saying anything, Michael automatically helping her over curbstones and guiding her past automobiles. He walked, buttoning his coat, looking thoughtfully at his neatly shined heavy brown shoes as they made the steps toward the bar. They sat near a window in the bar and the sun streamed in, and there was a small cheerful fire in the fireplace. A little Japanese waiter came over and put down some pretzels and smiled happily at them.
"What do you order after breakfast?" Michael asked.
"Brandy, I suppose," Frances said.
"Courvoisier," Michael told the waiter. "Two Courvoisier."
The waiter came with the glasses and they sat drinking the brandy in the sunlight. Michael finished half his and drank a little water.
"I look at women," he said. "Correct. I don't say it's wrong or right, I look at them. If I pass them on the street and I don't look at them, I'm fooling you, I'm fooling myself."
"You look at them as though you want them," Frances said, playing with her brandy glass. "Every one of them."
"In a way," Michael said, speaking softly and not to his wife, "in a way that's true. I don't do anything about it, but it's true."
"I know it. That's why I feel bad."
"Another brandy," Michael called. "Waiter, two more brandies."
"Why do you hurt me?" Frances asked. "What're you doing?"
Michael sighed and closed his eyes and rubbed them gently with his fingertips. "I love the way women look. One of the things I like best about New York is the battalions of women. When I first came to New York from Ohio that was the first thing I noticed, the million wonderful women, all over the city. I walked around with my heart in my throat."
"A kid," Frances said. "That's a kid's feeling."
"Guess again," Michael said. "Guess again. I'm older now, I'm a man getting near middle age, putting on a little fat and I still love to walk along Fifth Avenue at three o'clock on the east side of the street between Fiftieth and Fifty-seventh streets, they're all out then, making believe they're shopping, in their furs and their crazy hats, everything all concentrated from all over the world into eight blocks, the best furs, the best clothes, the handsomest women, out to spend money and feeling good about it, looking coldly at you, making believe they're not looking at you as you go past."
The Japanese waiter put the two drinks down, smiling with great happiness.
"Everything is all right?" he asked.
"Everything is wonderful," Michael said.
"If it's just a couple of fur coats," Frances said, "and forty-five-dollar hats . . ."
"It's not the fur coats. Or the hats. That's just the scenery for that particular kind of woman. Understand," he said, "you don't have to listen to this."
"I want to listen."
"I like the girls in the offices. Neat, with their eyeglasses, smart, chipper, knowing what everything is about, taking care of themselves all the time." He kept his eye on the people going slowly past outside the window. "I like the girls on Forty-fourth Street at lunchtime, the actresses, all dressed up on nothing a week, talking to the good-looking boys, wearing themselves out being young and vivacious outside Sardi's, waiting for producers to look at them. I like the salesgirls in Macy's, paying attention to you first because you're a man, leaving lady customers waiting, flirting with you over socks and books and phonograph needles. I got all this stuff accumulated in me because I've been thinking about it for ten years and now you've asked for it and here it is."
"Go ahead," Frances said.
"When I think of New York City, I think of all the girls, the Jewish girls, the Italian girls, the Irish, Polack, Chinese, German, Negro, Spanish, Russian girls, all on parade in the city. I don't know whether it's something special with me or whether every man in the city walks around with the same feeling inside him, but I feel as though I'm at a picnic in this city. I like to sit near the women in the theaters, the famous beauties who've taken six hours to get ready and look it. And the young girls at the football games, with the red cheeks, and when the warm weather comes, the girls in their summer dresses . . ." He finished his drink. "That's the story. You asked for it, remember. I can't help but look at them. I can't help but want them."
"You want them," Frances repeated without expression. "You said that."
"Right," Michael said, being cruel now and not caring, because she had made him expose himself. "You brought this subject up for discussion, we will discuss it fully."
Frances finished her drink and swallowed two or three times extra. "You say you love me?"
"I love you, but I also want them. Okay."
"I'm pretty, too," Frances said. "As pretty as any of them."
"You're beautiful," Michael said, meaning it.
"I'm good for you," Frances said, pleading. "I've made a good wife, a good housekeeper, a good friend. I'd do any damn thing for you."
"I know," Michael said. He put his hand out and grasped hers.
"You'd like to be free to . . ." Frances said.
"Sssh."
"Tell the truth." She took her hand away from under his.
Michael flicked the edge of his glass with his finger. "Okay," he said gently. "Sometimes I feel I would like to be free."
"Well," Frances said defiantly, drumming on the table, "anytime you say . . ."
"Don't be foolish." Michael swung his chair around to her side of the table and patted her thigh.
She began to cry, silently, into her handkerchief, bent over just enough so that nobody else in the bar would notice. "Someday," she said, crying, "you're going to make a move . . ."
Michael didn't say anything. He sat watching the bartender slowly peel a lemon.
"Aren't you?" Frances asked harshly. "Come on, tell me. Talk. Aren't you?"
"Maybe," Michael said. He moved his chair back again. "How the hell do I know?"
"You know," Frances persisted. "Don't you know?"
"Yes," Michael said after a while. "I know."
Frances stopped crying then. Two or three snuffles into the handkerchief and she put it away and her face didn't tell anything to anybody. "At least do me one favor," she said.
"Sure."
"Stop talking about how pretty this woman is, or that one. Nice eyes, nice breasts, a pretty figure, good voice," she mimicked his voice. "Keep it to yourself. I'm not interested."
"Excuse me." Michael waved to the waiter. "I'll keep it to myself."
Frances flicked the corner of her eyes. "Another brandy," she told the waiter.
"Two," Michael said.
"Yes, ma'am, yes, sir," said the waiter, backing away.
Frances regarded him coolly across the table. "Do you want me to call the Stevensons?" she asked. "It'll be nice in the country."
"Sure," Michael said. "Call them up."
She got up from the table and walked across the room toward the telephone. Michael watched her walk, thinking, What a pretty girl, what nice legs.

 

[useless]

I don't think I've read the whole of Dubliners, I've read 'The Dead' and a few of the others, probably should read it properly in order.

I happened to reread Araby last night, I really like that one.

[sharkyvilla]

I see a movie version of The White Tiger by Arvind Adiga is about to go on Netflix.  One of my favourite books, I don't trust Netflix movies to be anything other than shit unfortunately.

[mjmooney]

1 hour ago, sharkyvilla said:

I see a movie version of The White Tiger by Arvind Adiga is about to go on Netflix.  One of my favourite books, I don't trust Netflix movies to be anything other than shit unfortunately.

In a reverse fashion, I was wondering how the original novel of "The Queen's Gambit" compared with the Netflix adaptation. 

[useless]

Villette - Charlotte Brontë

The Master and Margarita - Mikhail Bulgakov

Ulysses - James Joyce

The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle - Haruki Murakami

Petersburg - Andrei Bely

Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoevsky

Manhattan Transfer - John Dos Passos

Bleak House - Charles Dickens

Mrs Dalloway - Virginia Woolf

In Search of Lost Time would be in there and near the top but have only read the first three volumes.

Probably some obvious ones I've missed, and maybe some recency bias as well.

[mjmooney]

1 hour ago, useless said:

Villette - Charlotte Brontë

The Master and Margarita - Mikhail Bulgakov

Ulysses - James Joyce

The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle - Haruki Murakami

Petersburg - Andrei Bely

Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoevsky

Manhattan Transfer - John Dos Passos

Bleak House - Charles Dickens

Mrs Dalloway - Virginia Woolf

In Search of Lost Time would be in there and near the top but have only read the first three volumes.

Probably some obvious ones I've missed, and maybe some recency bias as well.

That's a good list. Apart from the **** ing Dickens, obviously. 

[useless]

I've only read two Charles Dickens novels Bleak House which I liked a lot, and David Coperfield which I wasn't as keen on.

Also read A Christmas Carol, which is pretty good, but get more enjoyment from the movie adaptations.

[HanoiVillan]

I live in wait of a good English-language adaptation of The Master & Margarita. I saw a stage version at the Barbican a few years ago which was pretty well done, but - maybe I'm a philistine - I think the story has a scale that only cinema can really do justice to.

There was talk about Baz Luhrmann directing a version of it a while back, of all things.

[Follyfoot]

5 hours ago, useless said:

I've only read two Charles Dickens novels Bleak House which I liked a lot, and David Coperfield which I wasn't as keen on.

Also read A Christmas Carol, which is pretty good, but get more enjoyment from the movie adaptations.

The South Park version is good and pretty much keeps to script apart from the robot  monkeys

[useless]

I've wondered why no ones attempted an adaptation of The Master & Margarita, as it's a very popular book and if done right could work well on the screen. A lot of movie directors working in television at the moment and I think that would be the best way to do it, a one off season with a big budget and a top notch director to oversee the whole thing.

One of Mikhail Bulgakov's slightly lesser known books 'A Young Doctor's Notebook' got an adaption starring Jon Hamm and Daniel Radcliffe. I only saw one episode but didn't seem to catch the same feeling as the book.

 

[HanoiVillan]

31 minutes ago, useless said:

I've wondered why no ones attempted an adaptation of The Master & Margarita, as it's a very popular book and if done right could work well on the screen. A lot of movie directors working in television at the moment and I think that would be the best way to do it, a one off season with a big budget and a top notch director to oversee the whole thing.

There have been a number of adaptations of it - see https://www.masterandmargarita.eu/en/05media/film.html

What there haven't been is any big budget, English language versions. I think it's a good question as to why. One is that the rights were difficult to get hold of; a man named Sergey Shilovsky, who claims to be the grandson of Bulgakov's third wife, held on to them for a long time. Whether he did so because he was concerned about the artistic validity of adaptations (as he claims) or because he wanted a bigger cut in royalties than he had been offered seems up for debate. Another is that the story is very uneven from a 21st century perspective: I think a lot of people would not be particularly interested in the 'retelling the story of Jesus' parts of the book, whereas the satire on Stalinism seems to me to be likely to be very popular (not least because it's the funny part). Some directors have decided to focus on specific parts; for example, Andrzej Wajda just focused on the biblical sections in 'Pilatus und Andere'.

I think you're right that a prestige TV drama could be one way to do the series justice. There have been two prestige Russian TV series of the film, one by Yuri Kara (made in 1994, released in 2011) and one by Vladimir Bortko (released 2005). I've seen bits of both, and the Bortko one is a bit better because it's a bit more modern, but with a bigger budget and much better effects nowadays it would be possible to make a much better version.

[mjmooney]

58 minutes ago, useless said:

One of Mikhail Bulgakov's slightly lesser known books 'A Young Doctor's Notebook' got an adaption starring Jon Hamm and Daniel Radcliffe. I only saw one episode but didn't seem to catch the same feeling as the book.

Yep, totally agree, the Radcliffe thing didn't work too well, but the book (a nonfiction memoir) is brilliant. I recommended it to a doctor friend of mine who got his first GP gig in the middle of rural Canada, and had similar responsibilities - delivering babies, dentistry, surgery, the lot. He went on to become a world authority on arctic medicine. 

[KenjiOgiwara]

Guess autobiographys are frowned upon, but I quite liked Mandelas. 

Edited November 30, 2020 by KenjiOgiwara

[useless]

One Hundred Years of Solitude, is meant to be getting an adaptation on netflix, so will be interesting to see how they do that.

Edit: Didn't like the book as much as I thought I would, but still curious to see what they do with it.

Edited November 30, 2020 by useless