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�All power is violence over people.�

Mikhail Bulgakov, who is no stranger to the pale fire of a burning manuscript, has created a masterpiece of fiction that truly cannot be burned. Having been completed, but not fully edited, by the time of Bulgakov’s demise, this novel survived Soviet censorship and the test of time to remain one of the foremost Russian novels of the 20th century, and still holds relevance in today’s world. From political intrigue and scathing social satire to religious commentary and witches on broomsticks, this is one of those rare books that can nestle its way into the deep places of almost any reader’s heart. Bulgakov lovingly loads each page with semi-auto-biographical frustrations and sharp irony as he unleashes the (literal) powers of hell upon Soviet Moscow.

Manuscripts don’t burn�

Inspired by the epic Faust in its various forms, notably the opera which our author frequently attended, Master and Margarita spins the story of a Mephistopheles, Woland, and his cohorts as they wreck havoc upon the Moscow. This allows Bulgakov to deliver a potent slap in the face to all facets of the obdurate Soviet society that oppressed him and his contemporaries. Specifically targeted are those of the arts, particularly the authors of the times who used their words to tow the party line and the literary critics whom Bulgakov detested. The bitter satire of these writers, many of which are thrust into an existential epiphany that they are nothing but pathetic frauds when compared to Russia’s heroes of the pen such as Alexander Pushkin. Mass mockery is made of the numerous beaurocrats and departments, the ease in which a citizen can be arrested, and endless other events that make the daily life of the 20's seem utterly absurd. It is no surprise countless characters find themselves in the asylum, the only place with order, comfort and logic in all of Bulgakov’s depiction of Moscow.

Juxtaposed with Moscow is the tread of Pontius Pilate, which may or may not be the pages of the Master’s book. As the Master is not a far cry from Bulgakov himself, readers may notice a wonderful spiral into metafictional oblivion beginning here, and may begin to question the very notions and fabric of the novel they hold in their hands. Such as, who really is the intrusive narrator who whimsically guides us through this drama of demons, dreams and destiny, and where does the line between fiction and supposed-fact lie? However, I digress, and I return you to the tread of Pontius Pilate. Or, dear reader, shall I digress yet again, and direct your attention to the implicit irony inherent in the novel’s heroes: Woland (your charming Mephistopheles) and Pontius Pilate, the man who signed the death certificate of Jesus. Things are not always what they seem in this novel, and much of the dialogue and events are interestingly ironic. But yet, what is more flagrant to the upheld Soviet atheism than the devil himself preaching that Christ did in fact live? For how can they deny religion when the devil is right in their face? Bulgakov is a funny genius.

And now, finally, I return to the Pilate thread, which itself is teeming with irony. For in the Pilate chapters, the reader will find a story that is seemingly biblical shorn of all religious implications and instead illuminating political plots and an attempt at a historically plausible event (the Master was a historian, or so he says) while the biblical allusions and quotations are found within the Moscow chapters instead. The ‘Satan’s Grand Ball�, of all places, has the most frequent biblical quotes and allusions. In a way, Pilate’s world is not unlike Bulgakov’s Moscow, full of dirty politics and persecution. On the other hand, the modern Moscow, which denies religion is full of religious symbolism (the 12 members seated at the MASSOLIT table, the severed head on a plate, etc).

Each sentence of this book is a joy. The writing simply flows and is incredibly comical, plus the characters are very lovable. Woland’s demonic procession are highly entertaining and the reader will be compelled to keep reading just to see what chaos can be stirred by them as they flood the city. The Master, whom is a hero to all repressed authors, and his lovely Margarita are the gems within this story however. Although they lend their names to this novels title, these two lovers make up a very small portion to the story, and aren’t even relevant until part 2 when the book finds a groove and takes off like a cannon shot after wandering along the streets of Moscow for the first hundred and some odd pages. Always aware of his literary predecessors, Bulgakov leaves constant ‘scholarly jokes� (as the translators put it) and allusions for a reader with an eye for Russian novels to discover. Anyone who is as enamored with the prose of Nikolai Gogol as I am should definitely read this novel. Gogol is apparently a large hero of Bulgakov’s and he makes several allusions as well as stylistic choices fashioned off this master of absurdity.

There are many different translations of this book, I myself chose the Diana Burgin and Katherine Tiernan O’Connor version published by Vintage (because really, you can’t go wrong with Vintage usually, not always but usually) because it offered a full version of the text and included many very helpful and insightful notes that really helped highlight the social context and the more apocryphal references. Nate has a wonderful review that highlights the differences between the many translations and was very helpful in my choosing of this text. As I cannot read it as intended in it’s original language, I felt this was at least �second-grade fresh�.

I cannot stress more how incredible this book is. It is just an all-around good time and a marvelous example of magical-realism used to its highest capacity. Despite it’s often dark and macabre nature, it is uplifting and laugh out loud funny. Plus, the ending is a kick to the head. I read much of this through the subways of Boston recently while on a much-needed and exceptional vacation, and, like Pilate and his crucified friend, the memory of both have become one. Bulgakov’s masterpiece has survived censorship and translation to make it to you, don’t pass it by!
5/5

�Gods, my gods! How sad the earth is at eventide! How mysterious are the mists over the swamps. Anyone who has wandered in these mists, who has suffered a great deal before death, or flown above the earth, bearing a burden beyond his strength knows this. Someone who is exhausted knows this. And without regret he forsakes the mists of the earth, its swamps, its rivers, and sinks into the arms of death with a light heart, knowing that death alone��
Seriously. How incredible is that?