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Re-reading can be a terribly useful practice. I enjoyed the book enough before I suppose, but not nearly so much as this time. Part of it is that I'm reading a better translation, funnier and more poetic, by Mirra Ginsberg, whose impeccable Zamyatin translations greatly impressed me back in June. Unfortunately, her 1967 translation was of the censored original Russian publication from which editors omitted some 60 typescript pages (!) from the final version prepared by Bulgakov's wife Elena Sergeevna. Some of these are not so vital, but some truly are, so I've tried to splice them in from the more recent, more complete (though not quite so beautiful) Burgin/O'Connor translation. (The first time, I'd read Richard Pevear's translation for Penguin Classics, but Pevear is a better historian (see his introduction) than he is a crafter of sentences, and often he translates words but not their original feeling).

Anyway, all of this leaves me with, I think, a more complete sense of the book. And what a book it is, combining slapstick satire of Bulgakov's contemporary Moscow, dark secular scrutiny of the political manipulations of ancient Jerusalem, fantastic visions far beyond the socialist-realist requirements of soviet lit in the 30s, oblique renderings of existence under the Terror, and what it is in fact a very moving contemplation of guilt and forgiveness. This latter especially: I think that I had forgotten, or previously missed, what a sad book this was in its final reckoning, and I'm glad to have had the chance to revisit these aspects especially. Additionally, during this reading I've been far more aware of Bulgakov's entirely post-modern ambiguous story-layers and fine-tuning of narratorial voice. All of which adds up to an excellent novel. True, it was not entirely finished at Bulgakov's death, and so there are flaws and questions may never be answered, but it's still a rich and varied tour-de-force, and an incredible labor of love for an author well aware that it would never see publication in his lifetime.

Of course, as is directly noted many times throughout the story (with what hindsight reveals as a tragic self-awareness and perhaps more of that post-modern metatextuality), literature is immortality, and manuscripts do not, ultimately, burn. Bulgakov was apparently annoyed to be "reassured" by friends that his great work would be a classic after his death, but he seems to have known they would be proven right. Just as the Master's novel is completed after his death (albeit by his own voice) in the story, Bulgakov's novel was finally assembled from drafts by his wife -- the model of Margarita -- and and at last released to great, and well-deserved, acclaim.

...

Previously:

THERE ARE MANY TRANSLATIONS

1. Mirra Ginsberg's, which, having loved her translations of Zamyatin's stories, I'm reading this time. However, it's older and apparently based on an incomplete, censored Russian text. Hmmm. Anyway, hers sounds like this (it's pretty great):

Oh, yes, we must take note of the first strange thing about that dreadful May evening. Not a soul was to be seen around--not only at the stall, but anywhere along the entire avenue, running parallel to Malaya Bronnaya. At that hour, when it no longer seemed possible to breathe, when the sun was tumbling in a dry haze somewhere behind Sadovoye Circle, leaving Moscow scorched and gasping, nobody came to cool off under the lindens, to sit down on a bench. The avenue was deserted. (Ginsberg, p.3)

2. Richard Pevear's, for Penguin Classics, is one of the latest and most popular. I read this version before, it's good:

Ah, yes, note must be made of the first oddity of this dreadful May evening. There was not a single person to be seen, not only at the stand, but also along the whole walk parallel to Malaya Bronnaya Street. At that hour when it seemed no longer possible to breathe, when the sun, having scorched Moscow, was collapsing in a dry haze somewhere beyond Sadovoye Ring, no one came under the lindens, no one sat on a bench, the walk was empty. (Pevear, p.7)

3. And Michael Karpelson's, also newer, not the best:

By the way, it is worthwhile to note the first strange thing about that horrible May afternoon. Not a single human was to be found in the vicinity of the booth or, indeed, in the entire alley that ran parallel to Malaya Bronnaya Street. At an hour when it seemed almost impossible to breath, when the sun, scorching Moscow, was plunging into the dry haze somewhere beyond Sadovoye Ring Road, no one sought shelter in the shade of the lindens, no one sat down on the benches. Empty was the alley. (Karpelson, p.3)

4. And then there's Micheal Glenny. Oh Micahel Glenny:

The was an oddness about that terrible day in May that is worth recording: not only at the kiosk but along the whole avenue running parallel to Malaya Bronnaya Street there was not a person to be seen. It was the hour of the day when people feel too exhausted to breath, when Moscow glows in a dry haze as the sun disappears behind the Sadovaya Boulevard--yet no one had come out for a walk under the limes, no one was sitting on a bench, the avenue was empty. (Glenny, p.3)

Limes? And hilariously, the drink stand sign, which both the others translate as "Beer and Soft Drinks", says "Beer and Minerals" in Glenny's version. Let's not read the Glenny.

AND THEN, when they try to order drinks, Ginsberg says they asked for "Narzan", which I found on a mineral water review website:

Most famous water in Russia. It comes from Northern Caucasus mountain spa town Kislovodsk. Very pleasent place. The word (non russian) Narzan means 'sour water' as well as the russia name Kislovodsk. You can go there, it is a peaceful town, and see how 'Narzan' pours out of the earth and drink it, free of charge.

Interesting. And highly specific. Instead, Pevear just reduces it to "seltzer" and Glenny, despite having some idea that minerals were involved (from his weird translation of the sign), somehow gets "lemonade". Let's not read the Glenny.

5. And there's a fifth I can lay hands on, incidentally, but it's at home so I can't excerpt just now. Diana Burgin and Katherine O'Connor's. Will examine later. (later -- and here it is:)

And here it is worth noting the first strange thing about that terrible May evening. Absolutely no one was to be seen, not only by the refreshment stand, but all along the tree-lined path that ran parallel to Malaya Bronnaya Street. At a time when no one, it seemed, had the strength to breathe, when the sun had left Moscow scorched to a crisp and was collapsing in a dry haze somewhere behind Sadovoye Ring, no one came to walk out under the lindens, or to sit down on a bench, and the path was deserted. (Burgin and O'Connor, p.3)

It seems like this is a matter of much debate. As I said, Glenny and Ginsberg both worked from a censored 1967 Russian version, while Pevear and Burgin/O'Connor used the "complete", post-communist manuscript. Certain amazon user reviews denounce Glenny in favor of Ginsberg, or Ginsberg in favor or Burgin/O'Connor. One detailed list, from someone who has read four different translations, rates Ginsberg's the most readable and best at getting the nuances of the tone and humor, which seems important (she also notes that Pevear, though maybe most technically accurate doesn't get the humor at all -- which would explain why I didn't find this all that funny upon first reading. Of course, she also hates Glenny. Poor Glenny. Though still, let's not read the Glenny.)

[This discussion goes on -- and on and on -- here]