In a strange piece of advice to writers, Philip K. Dick once suggested that God should never appear as a character in a novel. Few authors would feel limited by such a rule—a prohibition that tells us more, perhaps, about Mr. Dick (who, in his novel Valis , came close to breaking his own commandment) than about the craft of fiction. On the other hand, many writers would be unhappy if they couldn't bring the Devil into their stories. Satan himself, or one of his associate demons, figures in a number of novels, including works as diverse as C.S. Lewis's The Screwtape Letters , Thomas Mann's Dr. Faustus , and Chuck Palahniuk's Damned .
But any short list of great Luciferian novels must include Mikhail Bulgakov's The Master and Margarita , written between 1928 and 1940, but unpublished until the late 1960s. Bulgakov builds his story around a compelling idea, rife with both humor and pathos: namely, the Devil decides to visit the Soviet Union in order to see firsthand whether human nature has changed under communism. Has a new era of collectivism eliminated covetousness, greed and all those other familiar sins? Or have the old vices merely found new outlets, under different names perhaps? Of course, the new regime has not just abolished capitalism and private ownership, but religion as well; so the Devil is put in the ticklish situation of visiting a place where he himself officially does not exist.
The Devil arrives in Moscow in the person of a Mr. Woland, a practicing magician, specializing in the black arts, who arranges to give a performance at the local Variety Theater. He is accompanied by several subalterns, who include his assistant Korovyov, an enormous talking cat named Behemoth, the fanged and wall-eyed Azazello, and a scantily-clad maid Hella. Together this unholy crew wreaks havoc with local comrades, high and low. The Devil takes particular interest in the arts, and meddles incessantly with those involved in literary or theatrical matters, but soon his influence is felt everywhere—in taxis, retail stores, government offices, restaurants and other locales. Woland's stay in the capital city last but a few days, but before his team departs, their antics have caught the attention of the Soviet police, and have spurred a massive—albeit unsuccessful—manhunt.
This story line, brilliantly conceived and artfully executed, is filled with diverse characters and fanciful incidents, and could stand on its own as a complete, satisfying novel. But Bulgakov packages it with two related but contrasting stories. The first involves "the Master" of the novel's title, a writer living in poverty who struggles to complete a psychological novel about Pontius Pilate—a angst-ridden work of Dostoevskian proportions—only to find that such a book is far too controversial to be published under the Soviet regime. The Master's only loyal reader is his lover Margarita, the wife of a wealthy man who longs to leave her husband and join her fate with the unfortunate author. She is determined to do whatever she can to help "the Master"—which is her affectionate name for the writer—even if it means dealing with the Devil. The third plot line is a novel- within-a-novel: the fictionalized account of Pontius Pilate, chapters of which are interspersed with the other sections of The Master and Margarita .
The story of "the Master" draws on tragic elements of Bulgakov's own life. He too found it difficult to publish his work under the Soviet regime. Bulgakov even wrote a personal letter to Stalin in 1929, asking for permission to emigrate if the government could not find a productive use for his talents. Stalin, who had admired Bulgakov's play The Days of the Turbins , intervened on the author's behalf, and helped him secure a position with the Art Theater. Even so, Bulgakov's most important work could not be published in his lifetime, and he labored for years over The Master and the Margarita —just like the Master in the story—even though it was inevitable that such a novel would be banned. The book would not be published until 1966, a quarter century after Bulgakov's death, and even then more than 10% of the work was eliminated and other sections changed. A complete version of The Master and Margarita would not be made available until 1973.
The emotional range of this work is as extravagant as its plot. Bulgakov shows great skill as a comic writer, wresting wry, dark humor from the juxtaposition of devilish cunning and communist ideology. His depiction of Woland's magic show at the Variety Theater—a public spectacle designed to evoke greed and crass materialism from the comrades in attendance—ranks among the most compelling scenes in modern fiction. Yet for all his comic genius, Bulgakov is even more attuned to the tragic elements of his story. His characters battle with an unforgiving destiny, and Fate (with a capital F) looms large here— almost on the scale of classical mythology or Attic drama. The psychic toll is heavy. During the course of this novel, many of the characters either appear to be mad, or veer toward actual insanity. In another book, this oppressive tone of foreboding and mental collapse might seem excessive or contrived, but takes on a far different quality here when mixed with Bulgakov's comic touches, the toxic realities of his socio-historical setting, and the surreal fantasy of his story.
The result is a masterpiece of the grotesque and ludicrous. Over time, this book has gradually established its credentials as a classic of twentieth century fiction, one of only a handful of counter-culture novels from the Soviet years in Russia to overcome the censorship of the period and achieve a lasting impact on the global literary community. But don't let the renown of this work prevent you from appreciating its essential strangeness. The Master and Margarita is a haunted, troubling book, and the fact that it is no longer prohibited by authorities does not mean that it isn't still dangerous to read.