A..., State..., of..., Trance!
“Your identification cards?” the citizeness repeated.
“My sweetie….” Koroviev began tenderly.
“I’m no sweetie,” interrupted the citizeness.
“More’s the pity,” Koroviev said disappointedly and went on: “Well, so, if you don’t want to be a sweetie, which would be quite pleasant, you don’t have to be. So, then, to convince yourself that Dostoevsky was a writer do you have to ask for his identification card? Just take any five pages from any one of his novels and you’ll be convinced, without any identification card, that you’re dealing with a writer. And I don’t think he even had an identification card! What do you think?” Koroviev turned to Behemoth.
“I’ll bet he didn’t,” replied Behemoth…
“You’re not Dostoevsky,” replied the citizeness…
“Well, who knows, who knows,” he replied.
“Dostoevsky’s dead,” replied the citizeness, but somehow not very confidently.
“I protest!” Behemoth replied hotly. “Dostoevsky is immortal!”
"Master and Margarita" by Mikhail Bulgakov.