Stalker: "Prison"? I'm imprisoned everywhere.
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. ... There is no Bermuda Triangle. There's Triangle ABC, which equals Triangle A prime, B prime, C prime. It's all so tedious, so very tedious.
Writer: In the Middle Ages, life was interesting. Every house had its goblin, each church had God. People were young. Now every fourth person is old. It's boring, my angel. It's so boring.
Professor: What do you write about?
Writer: About my readers. No sense in writing about anything else. There's no sense in writing about anything.
Writer: What are you? A chemist?
Professor: I'd say a physicist.
Writer: That's probably tedious, too. Searching for the truth. You dig here and there. The nucleus consists of protons. That's a good dig. Triangle ABC equals Triangle A prime, B prime, C prime. But with me, it's a different matter. I dig for the truth, but, while I do, something happens to it. The truth changes into a pile of — I won't say what.
Writer: I seldom think. It's bad for me. It's impossible to write and keep thinking about success or failure.
Writer: Damn! I forgot to buy cigarettes.
Professor: Don't go back.
Writer: What is it?
Professor: Well...
Writer: You're all like that. You believe any superstitious rubbish.
Writer: 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.
Writer: My consciousness wants the triumph of vegetarianism. My subconscious longs for a juicy steak. So what do I want? I want world supremacy, at the very least.
Stalker: This is the Zone. It might seem capricious. But at each moment, it's as if we construct it according to our state of mind.
Stalker: There's no going back. Nobody goes back the same way they came.
Stalker: How did you get here?!
Professor: Most of the way, I crawled on all fours.
Stalker: Incredible. How did you manage to overtake us?
Professor: Overtake you? I came back here for my rucksack.
Writer: What's there to understand? Don't pull my leg with your binomial theorem and your psychological explanations. We're out of favor at the institute... We're refused funds for an expedition... So let's fill the rucksack with manometers, shit-ometers... slip into the Zone illegally... and check all the local miracles with algebra. No one in the world has any conception about the Zone, so it'll be a sensation... Television, your lady fans getting hot flashes, people carrying brooms as if they were laurel wreaths. Then our professor appears all in white 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 your mankind, only one man interests me. Am I worth anything, or am I shit like certain other people?
Writer: Listen, Chingachgook. You've brought so many people here...
Stalker: Not as many as I would like.
Writer: It doesn't matter. Why did they come? What were they after?
Stalker: Happiness, more than anything.
Writer: Yes, but what kind of happiness?
Stalker: People don't like to reveal their innermost thoughts. Anyway, that concerns neither you nor me.
Writer: You've been lucky. All my life, I have never seen one happy person.
Stalker: Nor have I. They return from the Room, and I guide them back. And we never meet again. Wishes don't come true immediately, you know.
Writer: And you've never wanted to make use of this Room?
Stalker: I'm fine as I am.
Writer: Professor, listen. I'm thinking about inspiration you can buy. 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? What's the deal?
Stalker: You were talking about the meaning of our life... the unselfishness of art. Now, take music. It's connected least of all with reality. Or, if connected, then it's without ideas. It's merely empty sound without associations. Nevertheless, music miraculously penetrates your very soul. What chord in us responds to its harmonies... transforming it into a source of delight, uniting us and shattering us? Why is all this necessary? And, above all, for whom? You'll reply, "For no one and no reason." No. I doubt that. For everything in the final reckoning has a meaning. A meaning and a reason.
Writer: Another experiment. Experiments, facts or truth as a last resort. But there's no such things as facts, especially here. All this is someone's idiotic invention. Can't you tell? You, of course, want to know whose invention. What good will it do you to know? Whose conscience will be bothered by it? Mine? I have no conscience, only nerves. Some bastard abuses you, you're hurt. A different bastard praises you, you're hurt. 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? If it's torture for me, a painful, shameful occupation, something akin to extruding hemorrhoids... I used to think my books helped some people to become better, but nobody needs me. If I die, in a couple 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. Are they prepared for this? They don't want to know anything. All they do is gobble.
Stalker: You certainly are lucky. Now you'll live to be a hundred.
Writer: Why not forever? Like the Wandering Jew.
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... 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. But the main thing — The main thing is... you must believe. Now go.
Professor: Obviously there must be a principle — never to perform irreversible actions. I understand that. I'm no maniac. But as long as this canker is open to any scoundrel... there can be no rest. Maybe something inside us won't permit it?
Writer: Poor guy, he's made himself a problem...
Stalker: There's nothing else left to people on Earth. This is the only place to come to when all hope is gone. You have to come here. Then why destroy hope?
Stalker: My God, what kind people are they?
Wife: Calm down. It isn't their fault. They should be pitied, not abused.
Stalker: Their eyes are blank. They're thinking how not to sell themselves cheap, how to get paid for every breath they take. They know they were born to "be someone," to be an elite! They say, "You live but once." How can such people believe in anything at all?
Stalker: Nobody believes. Not only those two. Nobody. Who shall I take there? Oh, Lord. The most terrible thing... is that nobody needs that Room and all my efforts are in vain.
Wife: If you want, I'll go there with you. Do you want that? Do you think I've nothing to ask for?
Stalker: No. You mustn't.
Wife: Why?
Stalker: No. What if you fail, too?
Wife: 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 would be no happiness either. And there'd be no hope. So...
--
+ Quotes on the IMDb
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. ... There is no Bermuda Triangle. There's Triangle ABC, which equals Triangle A prime, B prime, C prime. It's all so tedious, so very tedious.
Writer: In the Middle Ages, life was interesting. Every house had its goblin, each church had God. People were young. Now every fourth person is old. It's boring, my angel. It's so boring.
Professor: What do you write about?
Writer: About my readers. No sense in writing about anything else. There's no sense in writing about anything.
Writer: What are you? A chemist?
Professor: I'd say a physicist.
Writer: That's probably tedious, too. Searching for the truth. You dig here and there. The nucleus consists of protons. That's a good dig. Triangle ABC equals Triangle A prime, B prime, C prime. But with me, it's a different matter. I dig for the truth, but, while I do, something happens to it. The truth changes into a pile of — I won't say what.
Writer: I seldom think. It's bad for me. It's impossible to write and keep thinking about success or failure.
Writer: Damn! I forgot to buy cigarettes.
Professor: Don't go back.
Writer: What is it?
Professor: Well...
Writer: You're all like that. You believe any superstitious rubbish.
Writer: 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.
Writer: My consciousness wants the triumph of vegetarianism. My subconscious longs for a juicy steak. So what do I want? I want world supremacy, at the very least.
Stalker: This is the Zone. It might seem capricious. But at each moment, it's as if we construct it according to our state of mind.
Stalker: There's no going back. Nobody goes back the same way they came.
Stalker: How did you get here?!
Professor: Most of the way, I crawled on all fours.
Stalker: Incredible. How did you manage to overtake us?
Professor: Overtake you? I came back here for my rucksack.
Writer: What's there to understand? Don't pull my leg with your binomial theorem and your psychological explanations. We're out of favor at the institute... We're refused funds for an expedition... So let's fill the rucksack with manometers, shit-ometers... slip into the Zone illegally... and check all the local miracles with algebra. No one in the world has any conception about the Zone, so it'll be a sensation... Television, your lady fans getting hot flashes, people carrying brooms as if they were laurel wreaths. Then our professor appears all in white 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 your mankind, only one man interests me. Am I worth anything, or am I shit like certain other people?
Writer: Listen, Chingachgook. You've brought so many people here...
Stalker: Not as many as I would like.
Writer: It doesn't matter. Why did they come? What were they after?
Stalker: Happiness, more than anything.
Writer: Yes, but what kind of happiness?
Stalker: People don't like to reveal their innermost thoughts. Anyway, that concerns neither you nor me.
Writer: You've been lucky. All my life, I have never seen one happy person.
Stalker: Nor have I. They return from the Room, and I guide them back. And we never meet again. Wishes don't come true immediately, you know.
Writer: And you've never wanted to make use of this Room?
Stalker: I'm fine as I am.
Writer: Professor, listen. I'm thinking about inspiration you can buy. 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? What's the deal?
Stalker: You were talking about the meaning of our life... the unselfishness of art. Now, take music. It's connected least of all with reality. Or, if connected, then it's without ideas. It's merely empty sound without associations. Nevertheless, music miraculously penetrates your very soul. What chord in us responds to its harmonies... transforming it into a source of delight, uniting us and shattering us? Why is all this necessary? And, above all, for whom? You'll reply, "For no one and no reason." No. I doubt that. For everything in the final reckoning has a meaning. A meaning and a reason.
Writer: Another experiment. Experiments, facts or truth as a last resort. But there's no such things as facts, especially here. All this is someone's idiotic invention. Can't you tell? You, of course, want to know whose invention. What good will it do you to know? Whose conscience will be bothered by it? Mine? I have no conscience, only nerves. Some bastard abuses you, you're hurt. A different bastard praises you, you're hurt. 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? If it's torture for me, a painful, shameful occupation, something akin to extruding hemorrhoids... I used to think my books helped some people to become better, but nobody needs me. If I die, in a couple 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. Are they prepared for this? They don't want to know anything. All they do is gobble.
Stalker: You certainly are lucky. Now you'll live to be a hundred.
Writer: Why not forever? Like the Wandering Jew.
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... 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. But the main thing — The main thing is... you must believe. Now go.
Professor: Obviously there must be a principle — never to perform irreversible actions. I understand that. I'm no maniac. But as long as this canker is open to any scoundrel... there can be no rest. Maybe something inside us won't permit it?
Writer: Poor guy, he's made himself a problem...
Stalker: There's nothing else left to people on Earth. This is the only place to come to when all hope is gone. You have to come here. Then why destroy hope?
Stalker: My God, what kind people are they?
Wife: Calm down. It isn't their fault. They should be pitied, not abused.
Stalker: Their eyes are blank. They're thinking how not to sell themselves cheap, how to get paid for every breath they take. They know they were born to "be someone," to be an elite! They say, "You live but once." How can such people believe in anything at all?
Stalker: Nobody believes. Not only those two. Nobody. Who shall I take there? Oh, Lord. The most terrible thing... is that nobody needs that Room and all my efforts are in vain.
Wife: If you want, I'll go there with you. Do you want that? Do you think I've nothing to ask for?
Stalker: No. You mustn't.
Wife: Why?
Stalker: No. What if you fail, too?
Wife: 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 would be no happiness either. And there'd be no hope. So...
--
+ Quotes on the IMDb