Book 11: Yestermorrow

Yestermorrow: Obvious Answers to Impossible Futures
Ray Bradbury

Science fiction has always been, at its heart, a thinking person's genre, basically by definition, and it is no surprise that one of its most prominent authors, Ray Bradbury, has penned a number of thoughtful essays throughout his working life. What is most astonishing about Yestermorrow is its longevity; though published in 1991 with essays dating all the way back to 1953, many of Bradbury's thoughts seem relevant all the way into 2012, truly a remarkable feat given their focus on human interactions and, occasionally, technology. While there is the occasional dated complaint about portable cassette players and the nod to the possibilities of the VHS format, the most important aspect of these references is not, in fact, the technology, but rather the capabilities that live on in thoroughly modern iPods and movie streaming services. This makes these essays, written by a more than capable writer and thorough thinker, seem fresh even two decades after they were written. Likewise, pieces on the accomplishments of Walt Disney and his army of magical Imagineers are a pleasant tribute, if a bit self-congratulatory, to the importance of science fictional forward thinking. With their mixture of memoir and extrapolation, these and a small series about the author's relationship with Renaissance scholar Bernard Berenson are pleasant glimpses into the life of one of 20th century literature's most important contributors. Much of the collection, however, wanders into the nearly absurd, and there are far too many essays that focus too closely on the same theme, making much of the collection inexcusably tedious. While Bradbury's complaint that modern America, and particularly Los Angeles, has turned into a strip-mall landscape of car-powered isolation is certainly timely and poignant, he can only design so many plaza-based solutions before the reader will grow irksome. The first essay on this theme is thought-provoking, but the repetitions grow so entirely stale that the whole point of the exercise is lost in the end. These, sadly, comprise the group's backbone, and as a whole the collection seems to muddle about without any real purpose. Its jewels, such as they are, are not particularly world-shattering and pass quickly enough, and the problem with Yestermorrow is not its writing, or age, but rather its repetitious forays into self-importance; a few gems are waiting, but may not be worth the tedium.

Grade: B

Book 10: Soccernomics

Soccernomics: Why England Loses, Why Germany and Brazil Win, and Why the U. S., Japan, Australia, Turkey- and Even Iraq- Are Destined to Become the Kings of the World's Most Popular Sport
Simon Kuper and Stefan Szymanski

Well, with a title like that, the authors are certainly making quite a few promises, aren't they? First of all, there's the direct allusion to Freakonomics, and the book certainly lives up to its predecessor's legacy, promising to shake up the World As We Know It but ultimately offering some suggestions born of both common sense (don't put your club on the revolving manager carousel) and heavily massaged, selectively applied data. Though Soccernomics does fall prey to many of the same pitfalls as its namesake, however, it is a worthwhile and interesting read, if not consistently engaging or as promising as its title suggests. More frustratingly than the nod to Freakonomics, perhaps, is the promise that herein lie the secrets of future United States dominance of international soccer- a point that is touched upon in the book's concluding chapter, sure, and alluded to throughout, but which becomes almost an afterthought, an inexcusable oversight when its promise comprises 21(!) words of the book's title. This ending actually becomes laughably anticlimactic, and illustrates how the authors, including a far-too-disappointing Simon Kuper, fail to adequately navigate through their sometimes interesting data, often interesting anecdotes, and insights intriguing and silly alike. After explaining their idea of examining soccer through data, they turn to a particular case study, England, in a move cleverly designed to appeal to their core audience. Though this makes sense in a way, and illustrates several aspects of the game that can be studied through data analysis, the chapter contains several allusions to later segments and ultimately feels out of place, particularly as the remaining chapters focus on specific trends or other aspects of the game, such as club teams and international teams.

Worse still, the authors fall into another trap executed so elegantly by their inspiration, and seem to be driven by a desire to prove points rather than to look through their data and see the revelations. This type of book celebrates the counterintuitive, and while that's admirable and, in many ways, often accurate, some bold assertions aren't so bold after all. Is it truly revolutionary to presume that, as European know-how spreads throughout the world, once averse nations such as the United States will warm to soccer? Moreover, the authors base large swaths of their analysis on a self-serving circle of proof. When studying the relative success of different nations, they swear by a metric that takes population, income, and number of international games played- and then use it to prove that those three variables account for success. Why those three, particularly when problems, such as the fact that nations in a weaker federation such as, say, the AFC, play each other more often than the European giants or Brazil? Sure, the United States underachieves based on these factors, but data cannot explain everything. And yet, maddeningly, though the authors acknowledge this, they routinely undercut their data with subjective analysis, which is fine if you're basing your conclusions on the data but which does not induce much confidence when data is supposed to reign unquestionably supreme. Perhaps, then, what the book proves is that, though numerical analysis might help fans understand soccer more thoroughly and help clubs or countries perform more efficiently, the world cannot be understood solely through anecdote or data. This anticlimactic realization on the part of the reader, coupled with the authors' inept organization, ignorance of their book's own title, and repetition of certain points, makes Soccernomics disappointing, perhaps not surprisingly.

Grade: B-

Book 9: Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter

Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter
Seth Grahame-Smith

This is a book where you know you're getting exactly what's on the box: Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter takes the standard biography of Abraham Lincoln and inserts the unholy undead. It's a clever- and fun- conceit, one that is both the book's greatest asset (somewhat obviously, perhaps) and its largest liability. The promise seems great at first, with a present-day introduction ripped straight out of Hawthorne and a sly twist on Lincoln's early biography that sets up the main idea of the narrative. Unfortunately, however, that twist- namely, and this will surprise no one, that vampires are real- becomes the novel's only surprise, and every insertion of vampires into the standard lore surrounding Lincoln's life weakens the novel considerably. By the time the fourth or fifth Great Crisis has been re-attributed to vampires, readers can be forgiven for thinking the author rather more lazy than creative; sure, the idea of re-crafting one of our finest leaders into a menace to the undead is creative, but simply adding vampires where it is convenient is not. Why vampires? What does this say about our re-fashioned Honest Abe? I hardly expected the book to be a pinnacle of insightful literature, but without even an attempt at these deeper questions of meaning, the book's conceit quickly becomes tiresome, even as the tension increases and the nation plunges ahead toward Civil War. It's not like Grahame-Smith was unaware of the promising ambiguities littered throughout the text; indeed, he even attempts to introduce such moral grappling into his text as different vampires choose sides and begin to spar. Instead of exploring the moral questions raised by this development, which have implications that impact the novel to its very final line, Grahame-Smith seems content to rest on his laurels, which are trifling indeed. His complacency turns a novel from a seemingly slam-dunk romp into a tedious recapitulation of well-trod history. With vampires.

Yet even when he adds vampires in ways more intriguing than "this pivotal death in Lincoln's life was a result of vampire poisoning," Grahame-Smith can't quite pull it all together. I applaud the attempt to weave vampires' unquestioned evils with those of the South, but simply stating a proposition does not a case make. There is so much more that can be done with this premise, and while I understand that the book is meant to be just surface fun, its flippant ability to raise intriguing propositions while instantly proceeding to ignore- or even outright undermine- them is downright maddening. The book so frequently shows potential, only to ignore it for easy laughs that simply stop coming after the first 50 pages or so. That the author does not seem entirely bereft of talent only makes things worse. His grasp on straight-up horror writing is firm, and some scenes are truly chilling, particularly when juxtaposed with what seems at first a silly premise and with hilariously altered photographs and other illustrations. I may question, and be subsequently annoyed by, the choice to refer to Lincoln as a folksy "Abe" throughout the entire narrative, but it does effectively render the famous President far more accessible than more formal histories might. Likewise, a clever usage of dreams is effective, but as similarly over-used, overwrought, and worn as the remainder of the novel's greatest tricks; it's great the first time, but any subsequent reappearances should have been consigned to the cutting-room coffin. Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter is not meant to be a serious novel, but its intimations of serious implications raise expectations that simply aren't met; the book is fun for a while, but the charm wears off, and instead it is a clever, but ultimately futile, endeavor, exactly what one would expect from the box.

Grade: B-

Book 8: Sex on the Moon

Sex on the Moon: The Amazing Story Behind the Most Audacious Heist in History
Ben Mezrich

It sometimes seems that everything, and, perhaps, everyone, has a price, but what of those things that are too unique, too valuable to be measured by any measure of value at all grounded in reality? Surely the lunar samples retrieved by the various Apollo missions belong firmly in this category, and thus the caper posed in Ben Mezrich's Sex on the Moon, which involves theft of several moon rocks, may indeed be called audacious. Though the book attempts to put this crime on a pedestal, however, much of the text simply undermines the task, which boils down to a NASA insider's not particularly keen observations, a lucky lockpicking trick plucked from a run-of-the-mill spy film, and a whole lot of gusto. And while these may not a brilliant Crime of the Century make, in Mezrich's hands they coalesce into a hell of an interesting story, if not particularly well told or able to really live up to its billing. Though Mezrich delights in trite clichés, the fact that the story is more of a character study of Thad Roberts, the perpetrator, makes it work, as Thad seems to be the kind of guy who revels in clichéd thinking and grandiosity. Despite his centrality to the narrative, however, it is difficult to tell whether Thad is intended to be sympathetic or, rather, whether the reader should wish to smack him into reality. Mezrich's tendency to catapult the reader through time and, occasionally, space does not help matters, and the relationship that ultimately moves Thad from "wouldn't it be cool to steal some moon rocks" to utterly lovestruck, moon-promising thief is woefully underdeveloped. And though one wonders whether, given Thad's somewhat impulsive personality, that was precisely the case in real life, the plot jumps seemingly at will, from an introductory getaway to the story's present day to a few years earlier to the narrative present to a year later. Mezrich always leaves hints as to the passage of time, but the effect is a bit jumpy, if not quite up to vomit-comet levels.

This effect is most destructive when the story rolls around to the grand act itself, with so little pomp that one wonders whether the author realizes it should, by rights, be the climax of the narrative. Instead, the energy is dissipated and the low-key theft is retold in a matching low-key tone, which may fit thematically but which makes the big reveal a bit of a letdown, to say nothing of the mundane nature of the theft itself. The getaway, aptly foretold in a prologue, is skipped entirely, and it seems that it takes only a few pages to get to the not-at-all-suspenseful conclusion. The narrative arc and pacing could have been handled better, yet despite all of its faults, Sex on the Moon is utterly compelling reading. Maybe it's Thad's strange mix of a mad scientist's determination, self-reinforcing inflated ego, and cluelessness, or maybe it's simply the fact that every kid wants to go to Space Camp; regardless, the book is difficult to put down, even if its calling itself audacious is really the most audacious thing within. The idea of going behind the scenes at NASA is as enthralling to readers as it first was to Thad, and readers are treated to nifty behind-the-scenes visions of the space shuttle simulator and the astronauts' zero-gravity training pool, visions that add to the atmosphere of the novel and keep it interesting despite other missteps and mishandlings. Mezrich's unseemly pleading for a movie deal toward the end (I actually groaned when characters began saying, "My life could be a movie!") is immature and very quickly gets out of hand, yet there is something of a compelling story in all of this, though told in a stilted manner and with only two or three particularly interesting main players. Additionally, one gets the feeling that the story, held so closely to Thad's view of events, may occasionally stretch the truth, but despite a number of literary problems Sex on the Moon is an enchanting, if flawed, character study wrapped around a not-quite-classic heist tale.

Grade: B+

Book 7: Dying Inside

Dying Inside
Robert Silverberg

Science fiction is often seen as the domain of the space opera, the home of works that may not be, strictly speaking, literary, but which excite and entertain nonetheless. That may be true of many books, but Robert Silverberg's Dying Inside, though definitely a work of science fiction with its central conceit, straddles genres in its exploration of aging. Centered on David Selig, a telepath who finds his powers dwindling as he enters middle age, the story examines the impact of telepathy his life, told expertly through well-chosen anecdotes thoughtfully interspersed with the main narrative. The science fictional element surely isn't missing, and Silverberg has clearly thought out many implications of being a telepath, including a reaction entirely opposite to David's, in the persona of self-serving, yet strangely enticing, Tom Nyquist. We also see some unexpected, yet brutally probable, side effects of telepathy when mixed with mind-altering substances and, though the book is more a meditation on loss and the effects of one's choices, there are some thoughtful and, to my mind, original insights into telepathy along the way. Most importantly, the book doesn’t automatically construct Selig as a hero, and his isolating special power is just that- isolating. Though he encounters the occasional new-agey pseudoscientist and, indeed, a fellow telepath who has a refreshingly different perspective on their power, David must face his fate largely alone, and he does not choose to change the world with his keen powers of infallible insight. Nor is he prone to use his powers for his own personal gain; rather, he is content to feel sorry for himself, burdened by the sheer exhaustion of dealing with the duplicity of humanity.

Not that we can blame him, and indeed his pathos, while occasionally exhausting, adds to the depth and reality of Silverberg's character. Is this not a realistic reaction? David is, despite his whininess, strangely compelling as a failure, as someone coming to terms with a wasted life and discovering how his power has affected him and how he might approach a life without it. This is not enough, mind you, to completely carry the book, and there are times when David becomes almost unbearable, particularly when wallowing in passages that don't add much to the narrative. Overall, however, his emotions are deftly handled and come across in prose that is alternately sarcastic, poetic, and simply descriptive. While Silverberg's choice to include lengthy selections from his own college term papers is questionable, they bear some relevance to the plot and to David's characterizations, and similar stumbling blocks are generally overcome as David looks to his past in an effort to make sense of the present. The novel is not perfect, and for those a bit younger it may resonate less than with those approaching their own mid-life crises, but Dying Inside is a prime example of how science fiction can illuminate aspects of humanity in a fresh way, with potentially new insights.

Grade: B+

Book 6: Birds of America

Birds of America
Lorrie Moore

Usually short story collections have ups and downs, but most do have a general level of quality, with a few stories rising above to enchant and a few being, well, less than memorable. Given my previous experiences with Lorrie Moore, I expected Birds of America to present a group of witty and endearing gems; what I got, however, was almost precisely the opposite: a group of disjointed, cloying, and boring stories with only one that seemed to justify the time put into reading it, let alone the rest of the collection. Don't be fooled by the abstract, too-long title, for "People Like That Are the Only People Here: Canonical Babbling in Peed Onk" is a moving tale of a parent's worst plight, and its impersonal manner transcends the plane of pretentious litfic experimentation on which it is built, becoming instead a universal exploration of pain and suffering, an oasis of meaning in a desert bereft of entertainment or, sadly, plot. This story has plot, and characterization, in spades, and almost- but only almost- makes one look more fondly upon the author. Unfortunately, the majority of the stories in this collection, while having their moments, meander along pointlessly until reaching a noncommittal ending that really has nothing to do with the preceding story. It's possible to read these as portraits, and while yes, they are in a sense rich and layered, they fail to captivate; these are still lives, not moving images, and one cannot blame readers for simply wishing that Moore would get on with it already. Too much in here bows to the litfic intelligentsia, appearing to work in profound subtlety but being instead almost unbearably boring. There are moments, of course, where Moore displays her searing ability to peer into the depths of the human soul, but these are quickly swallowed by the boredom that plagues each of these stores. Likewise, both "Which Is More Than I Can Say About Some People" and "Charades" each come very close to being meaningful, before eventually wandering off into the same meaningless, but critically beloved, territory of utter pandering. Lorrie Moore is, I believe, capable of much more than she shows in Birds of America, but the collection sags under the weight of its own assumed importance and never becomes, well, interesting.

Grade: C-

Book 5: The Relativity of Wrong

The Relativity of Wrong
Isaac Asimov

It's hard to be one of the most productive authors in the English language without racking up some serious mileage across genres, and thus Isaac Asimov accentuated his science fiction work with numerous essays for various pulp magazines. Seventeen of these, primarily related to atomic-level physics and its variants in biology and astronomy, are collected in this slightly mis-titled volume, which comprises a just-beyond-introductory level look at various complex scientific concepts. The essays are arranged well, both on an individual level and within three larger sections (with the titular essay placed at the end), and integrate well as a whole, even on such diverse topics as the discovery of ATP and of the Andromeda Galaxy. Beginning with the discovery of the isotope, Asimov gradually explores increasingly difficult, yet intertwined, scientific concepts, always careful to place them within the context of contemporaneous scientific knowledge and development. This works well to bring the casual reader up to speed, but these essays by and large do assume a passing familiarity with high school chemistry, an assumption that is not immediately apparent and which may disappoint some readers who become lost along the way; though they form a coherent look at several aspects of scientific development, these are not for the fainthearted and are heavy in facts though, mercifully, not figures. It's fun, however, for even the casual reader to peer into the minds of scientific geniuses, even if the material can occasionally fly straight over one's head, and Asimov's writing is clear even if the ideas explored aren't. He also does a brilliant job tying everything together and, at the beginning of every essay, steps back to offer an amusing, and often entirely unrelated, personal anecdote. There is humor in this collection, and though detailed and rigorous it is rarely dry, somewhat surprising given the depth of its musings. Welcome, too, is the final essay, presenting Asimov's musings on the popular binary view of correctness, and though its implications are only explored at a surface level, it is a welcoming philosophical note that closes the collection on a level of self-awareness that services the preceding essays well. The Relativity of Wrong may occasionally overwhelm less scientifically-inclined minds, but its essays present well-reasoned and concise, historically-minded introductions to several aspects of modern chemistry and physics.

Grade: B+

Book 4: Lucifer's Hammer

Lucifer's Hammer
Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle

As the title of this book suggests, Lucifer's Hammer is full of mayhem and just a hint of religious undertones, delivered as a comet violently smashes into Earth and destroys civilization as we know it (or knew it in 1977). Though we begin with both feet solidly planted in the technological world, readers can feel the mounting tension as the comet begins to capture the world's imagination, personified most specifically through various denizens of the greater Los Angeles area, with a United States Senator and his hot, slightly slutty daughter thrown in for good measure. Readers who don't know much about the geography of this part of California are advised to at least glance at an atlas beforehand, as the authors assume a working topographical and sociological knowledge of the area; without it, moments of the narrative can jar readers out of the otherwise enrapturing tale. And, though the scope of this worldwide disaster novel is somewhat restrained, the choice seems a good one; the hard science that drives the novel seems to suggest the mid-California mountains as a likely place for human survival, and at the very least this is a disaster novel that pays attention to the everyday men and women on the street, with nary a President to be found. The cast, large as it is, is admirably handled and well-enough juggled, though the list of "Dramatis Personae" at the book's front is a bit misleading, as it emphasizes some decidedly minor characters while leaving out some fairly important ones. Regardless, it is fascinating to watch a spectrum of people react to the news about the comet, prepare for or pretend to completely ignore its impending strike, and, eventually, react, though the cast is overpopulated with burly manly types and is sorely lacking developed, well-rounded women.

In fact, it's not simply the absence of strong women that may rankle some readers but, rather, the way in which otherwise powerful women are consistently dismissed as the authors' personal politics manhandle their way into the novel. For every ass-kicking moment of inspired driving, there is a female character all too happy to accept that she can be no more than a cook in the new, manly society of manly physical labor; worse, the men treat the women as afterthoughts and, in a brilliant display of macho sexism, as an outright prize. It is tempting to attribute this to the times (it may indeed be the authors, and not a character, who essentially say, "To hell with this women's lib nonsense"), but Niven and Pournelle go out of their way time and again to remind readers that women need to be put in their place, even when they know precisely what's going on; they are good for cooking, pushing paper, and introducing dramatic conflict as men jostle for their affections. What begin so promisingly as strong, independent women instead become relegated to the kitchen and the bedroom, creature comforts but, ultimately, not very useful; save, of course, for the Soviet doctor who of course renounces communism entirely. Perhaps this is a personal grievance, but the authors demonstrate throughout the novel that their political viewpoints can come across without use of the Obvious Hammer, then sadly allow the book's climax to be overtaken by an anti-environmentalist rant. This unnecessary proselytizing undoes the book at several otherwise powerful moments, and threatens to derail a thoroughly depicted, perfectly good apocalypse.

All is not doom and gloom, however, and it is possible to revel in this book despite the authors' occasional lapses in judgment. The first chapters of the book are thoughtfully interrupted by a look at the Solar System's first moments, and readers get a first-hand introduction to the planet's doomsday device; the effect is perfectly chilling, and brilliantly echoed at a key future moment. Otherwise, much of the book is standard disaster fare, with a plot that revolves around the (manly!) jostle for land, power, and survival (not necessarily in that order), with some surprisingly powerful, but too infrequent, emotional asides that ruminate on the true effects of apocalypse. Disaster scenes and post-comet visions of destruction are artfully realized, and though some of the cast is mysteriously dropped, referenced only by a throwaway line rather than a proper death scene, readers will come to care about the exploits of the remainder, and almost every thread is neatly tied, just not at the most efficient pace. Niven and Pournelle have clearly thought through the matter of the end of the world, and though their politics can dampen the novel's impact, there is plenty of heart to accompany the standard horror and some truly shocking reversions. Lucifer's Hammer is a satisfying novel of apocalypse that shows sparks of brilliance, particularly in its use of science, but which falls too often into political rants to be truly classic.

Grade: B

Book 3: Mother Tongue

The Mother Tongue: English and How It Got That Way

Bill Bryson

This book bills itself as a funny general introduction to the history, and some of the resulting peculiarities, of the English language, and it serves this purpose well for the uninitiated, though those with any sort of background in the subject won't find much new information here. After beginning with some brief musings on the state of English in the modern world, and its rising importance, providing a good setup for what is essentially a series of quasi-linked essays about different facets of the language, including its ancient and recent history as well as some of its salient features. Though the history is brief and feels at times a bit rushed and jumbled, it flows logically enough and carries some of Bryson's trademark humor; most importantly, it provides sufficient background information without getting too technical, allowing him to make relevant observations later without alienating readers early on. Unfortunately, however, this lucid and entertaining, if brisk and a bit shallow, history is followed by a mix of wry observations and lists of illustrative terms that is far too greatly weighted to the latter. I enjoy a few good puns and appreciate examples as much as the next person, but Bryson devotes too much space to these, joyful though they are, and they make the text so unreadable that even I skimmed paragraphs filled with italics. The occasional lists are appreciated as a change of pace, but Bryson is sadly unable to weave these sufficiently into the narrative to capture, and much less hold, readers' wandering attention; after all, this isn't meant to be a textbook, rather an overview for general readers. To make matters worse, there is a surprising lack of consistency within the text, ranging from a change between parenthetical citations and footnotes (bafflingly split between the first chapters and the final few) and in the repetition of examples, to the point where the book's final section so closely echoes the first as to make it hardly worth reading. This is sloppy writing but, worse, sloppy editing, and at times can be so frustrating as to overshadow the book's clarity and, indeed, its fun. Chapters on wordplay and, yes, swearing are appreciated even though they seem a bit like an afterthought, and help highlight some of the fun of language, maintaining the book's lighthearted feeling and keeping it from feeling too much like a textbook. Likewise, the book holds up well 20 years after its publication, with the main problems coming from omissions impossible to foresee; it is indeed quite fun to note that Bryson's criticism of George Bush would be equally well applied to his son, who made the same nuclear/nu-ku-ler mistake the author himself cites earlier in the text. Bryson's clear delight in the contradictory, the absurd, and the British shines through here as in much of his other work, and The Mother Tongue is, despite its stumbles, a solid and entertaining introduction to the English language and its many charms and absurdities.

Grade: A-

Book 2: The Master and Margarita

The Master and Margarita
Mikhail Bulgakov

It's not quite fantasy, it's not quite revisionist history, it's not quite a Faust story, and, well, it definitely is a satire, but The Master and Margarita is one novel that defies most attempts to categorize it and, perhaps to a lesser degree, to fully comprehend its nuances. Though the prose reads fluently (and here the work of translators Diana Burgin and Katherine Tiernan O'Connor must be commended, because they are nearly invisible, in a good way), the story occasionally stops and stutters, and it's probably best to sit back and let the narrative flow by on a first read. The quick interchanges between modern Russia and ancient Judea make some sense within the greater context of the book, but though the transitional sentences are well-woven into modern Moscow, everything comes crashing down when the two inexplicably meet toward the end of the novel. Strangely, however, despite the apparent difficulty of grasping the true Greater Meaning of the book, particularly given the layers of symbolism necessary to even consider writing a political satire in Soviet Russia, The Master and Margarita is an enjoyable novel, and achieves a balance between pretentious layers of inaccessibility, the slapstick antics of the Devil's cohort, clever jabs at Stalin's government, and a welcome realistic revisiting of the death of Jesus. Everything may not need to tie in perfectly, after all, and though some of the more fantastic elements and, indeed, the story of Margarita and the Master, may not seem to quite fit in, the chaos somehow holds together. We open with two Muscovites musing over the existence of Satan with the Devil himself, here slickly and convincingly portrayed as a sly sort of gentleman, part prankster, part high society, and part tired older man. Soon enough, he has announced himself through his own antics and those of his supporting cast of troublemakers, consistently amusing if a bit repetitive, and everything dissolves into surreal landscapes and an even odder plot, which is roughly when Margarita and the Faust motif appear. Throw in Pontius Pilate and the plot is a mix of disparate elements; yet, impossibly, the novel seems to work.

n some ways, it doesn't and it won't for many readers; this is the kind of book that makes it obvious that readers are missing several crucial pieces of information or levels of understanding, but it somehow manages to play to audiences at varying levels of comprehension, and if one can gloss over the parts that make the eyes gloss over, the book is incredibly rewarding. First and foremost, that Bulgakov even managed to write the book is a miracle of no small proportions, coming as it did in the midst of Stalin's notorious Purges, when the author was well-known to the dictator as a subversive. And the author conveniently displays as much talent as bravado, creating a Pontius Pilate subplot that is poignant among a backdrop of hellion arsonists and bizarre balls that somehow become more than simply silly. Likewise, there is a very real undercurrent of direct confrontation against the Soviet system, and it repeatedly bubbles to the surface in scenes such as a remarkable dream inside a theater that foretells with startling accuracy some of the horrors of Auschwitz and the German concentration camps. Yet life in the USSR carried on, and as foreign currency shops and speculators are ruthlessly parodied and subtly criticized, the novel exposes the very human reality of 1930s Moscow, complete with its schemers, frustrated artists, and those trying to just get by. For a novel that dabbles so much in the surreal, The Master and Margarita remains remarkably accessible, anchored by the realistic retelling of the death of Christ that may or may not be pivotal to, and connect with, its umbrella stories of the Devil in Moscow and Margarita's subverted Faust bargain for the Master.

Grade: A-