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-
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-
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