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Ummm. Ummmmmmmmmm I could be all cutesy with this, like some previous reviews. I could also be apocalyptic, like some previous reviews. In truth, there was some resemblance between this and another recent read, The Circus of Dr. Lao. In each, you never know what to expect. Like the primus stove carried around by Sir Kitteh Behemoth, and like the band of the same name (Primus), there was one thing you could expect: to always expect the unexpected. You ever read guitar magazines? Okay, okay, but did you read guitar magazines...on weeeeeeeed HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. No, no, really: did you read guitar magazines in the, oh say, mid-1990s? You might've seen this review for a Primus album called Tales from the Punchbowl. The review in this guitar magazine was titled, "Expect the Unexpected," and in this article the reviewer went on to enumerate the talents of the three musicians in the band, only to wind up with a middling rating. He said this was because, though variety and the unusual were nice, even the unusual can become predictable. And in some portions of The Master and Margarita I could hear this review resounding inside my head. I could also hear nervous peals of insane laughter, but that's a topic for later discussion. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Excuse me.

Listen, this is how I was originally going to begin this review:

The opening sentence of Mark's review for The Master and Margarita, the review itself being translated by Pevear and Volhonsky:

In the hour of the the man across the street mowing his lawn, I began, thumbing the pages fast, a blur before my eyes, the intrepid journey of this shadow-hung compendium of copious note assemblage.

See, if makes fun of the overly poetic, overly literal translation. I kinda like the overly poetic, overly literal translation myself. But there were times when the verboseness did hinder clarity of meaning. I'll get back to that. [come back to that. 1] It's cutesy, right? Meh. Oh, oh, HAHAHAHAAHA, but also, also I was gonna write the same paragraph done in the Burgin-O'Connor style. Meh. Not feeling it. The book deserves better.

So, how do you, as a person who normally "reviews" a book he's (or she's) read as soon as he/she/you're finished, just throwing the review out there, extemporaneously: how do you (HAHAHAHAHA) begin to set down (I'm having problems with Sit and Set lately. No reason reason, it just one often sounds better than the other, but in the final analysis - there you go again, said Reagan, apropos of an election year, instead of the coming of the wet snow, because, I mean, it's the middle of, well, no, actually the end of summer and how the heck is it gonna snow now? That's a lie. It's a big ole lie. Just a few years ago I saw it HAHAHAHA snow in July. July!! Can you believe it?? And, well, really, that's not that odd - it always winds up being the wrong one that is picked) notes for what you thought when, even if you lived to be 80 (not that I'm saying I'm going to live to eighty, heaven's no; I mean, what HAHAHAHA what would you do with all that extra time? Read more books? Yes, probably but...) you would never hope to comprehend all that is going on in this, this, this...behemoth of a novel?

I will admit to having problems grasping exactly what is going on from, oh, say, HAHAHAHA (stop that!) ((why?)) (because these good(reads) people will think you're crazy.) ((psssh, they already know that. besides, I was doing pretty well til the old one-two punch of this son of a Binxy.)) (you better remind the "good" people that Binxy is your cat.) ((HAHAHAHAHA.)) (what?) ((what? what, you say? I just found it amusing that you said, 'your' cat, as if one could OWN a cat.)) (oh. yeah. right. uh. dammit. it's your fault. you read the novel, not me.) ((you wanted to read it too.)) (...) ((HAHAHAHAHA.)) the twenty-eighth chapter onward, but still, I believe I have a grasp on what was happening. The thing is, and this goes back to reading The Savage Detectives, I didn't find myself in awe of the final revelations (nyuck, nyuck, nyuck.) ((see, it's spreading, HAHAHAHA.)) I could tell what Bulgakov was going for, but it still didn't feel like a satisfying ending.

This needs more thought, I think. In the meantime, I'll just hang this sign:



-------



Dear Diary,

It was a strange week. After posting the above, men I didn't know arrived wearing white jackets and whisked me away. I said, "Are we going to Club Med?" and one of the guys, the one with the Van Dyke beard, said, "You could say that..." I said, "Oh boy, oh boy!" and the other guy, the one who only had two blond hairs left on his head, hairs he had twisted into a herringbone braid, said, "Shet ap." So I shet ap, and I began to think. What had happened? Where had these men come from? And why? Had I offended someone?

They threw me unceremoniously in the back of an inconspicuous black van that smelled like rye bread and spoiled ham. There was a window above my head, one that looked in on the van's cab, or, back into the hold, I guessed, depending on your perspective.

Well, I thought, let's see if we can retrace our steps here. The first thing I remember is visiting with Binx after writing the above. But Binx wouldn't've ratted me out, would 'e? Surely not. So. But wait. Binx is a cat. And cats are cliquish.

Outside, we hit a pothole and I was thrown against the bare walls of the van. "Hey!" I yelled. But no one answered.

The silent treatment. I could dig it. I could be silent too.

Minutes later we skidded to a stop. The rattle-trap motor continued to bump and grind, even after the driver switched off the ignition.

When they opened the door, there was a streetlight gleaming outside the van. I could see a nondescript building about twenty paces away and to the left.

"Out," said Van Dyke.

"Anyone every told you you look like Dick?" I asked.

"Shet ap," said Shet Ap.

"Anyone ever told you you talk to much?" I said.

"Move it, smartass."

They pushed me toward the nondescript building. The walls were white and overhead a stark light shone. They opened a door to my left and sat me in a small black chair, one like you used to pull up to your desk in grade school. It was too small and my knees almost touched my chin.

"What's all this about?" I said.

"Ask him," said Van Dyke.

Satan walked in, his red three-piece spotless.

"I understand you haven't finished your review," he said.

"No I haven't."

"And why not?"

"Because there were some scenes in which I didn't think you guys acted the way you were supposed to, given what I had read before. You-"

"Still, do you think thinking about it is going to get you any closer?"

"I thought so."

"Did you think about any of the other reviews you wrote?"

"No."

"So why now?"

"Because you hurt my head."

"I'm Satan. It's my job."

"Lemme ask you something. Do you think you got a raw deal? Do you think you should've been damned for all eternity just because you attempted a little coup? Here on earth, people are killed for that, yes, but are they damned for all time?"

"Guess it depends on what religion you follow."

"And how many of these revolutionaries are with you now?"

"Oh, seven, eight hundred."

"The leaders, or all their followers as well?"

"Just the leaders."

"What happened to the followers?"

"They were merely followers. They were excused."

"So why were the master and Margarita...you know?"

"It was God's plan. I was merely fulfilling his wishes."

"Didn't you find it strange?"

"Yes. But I am bound to do his will."

"Why didn't you rebel. Again?"

"Very funny. Look, what did you think of the damned book?"

"Aren't we discussing that now?"

"Why do you keep answering everything I say with a question?"

"Do you find it annoying?"

"Stop it."

"Or what?"

"I can hurt you. I have a secret police."

"You mean Van Dyke and Shet Ap over there? I'm scared. Super-dooper scared."

"We know your friends. They read the book, too. We're all connected now. One big devilish family."

"Okay, I'll stop."

"Tell me. Now."

"Four stars, bud. Four."

"Was that so hard?"

The next morning I woke up in my own bed, the covers knotted around my legs, as usual. I got up, made coffee, sat down to begin reading and thought: ya know, that Sartre guy might just be right.

----

I was skimming the pages of the next Sookie Stackhouse book when the backdoor swung open and in stepped a cat wearing a jacket and cap, but no pants.

I said, "And who might you be? Donald Duck?"

He said, "No, I'm Behemoth, and I'm here to fix your problem."

"I don't have a problem," I said, "save a large cat walking on its hind legs, bustin through the back door."

He laughed. It sounded like a purr. He said, "I need to use your stove."

Moments later flames were shooting from the Kelvinator and the cat, Behemoth was dancing around it singing a song: "He-he-ho, you gave us fo'. We set the stove / on fi-yur." As he sang Behemoth danced round and round the old Kelvinator, slipping through the walls and appearing again as he made a circle.

And then Behemoth's tail caught fire.

He yowled and howled and I said, "HA HA HA," and I stuck my tongue out at the cat who was patting and puffing on his singed tail hairs.

There was a siren outside and the smoke inside was getting pretty thick.

"We best get the hell outta here," I said.

"I'm going to hell," said Behemoth. "This joint is cursed!"

"Yeah, no kidding." I hunkered down and crawled toward the front door.

Before I could get there a fire crew consisting of ten foxtrotting sparrows danced and gambled through the living room, trailing a large fire hose.

"It looks like a big worm," said the lead sparrow. "I want to eat it!"

The foxtrotting sparrows stopped dancing, dropped the fire hose, pulled from behind their backs checkerboard patterned napkins and proceeded to fork (with forks pulled from the inside cuffs of their dancing shoes) heaping spoonfuls of rubber into their cawing beaks.

"Delicious!" they said in unison.