A Fantastically Stronger Understanding of Reality: Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita

During the early days of this website, I spent a lot of time researching what would become the fourth essay to be posted, ‘Henry James’ Solution to the Novel Problem’. The piece dealt with the integral relationship between the realist movement and the rise of the novel form in the 18^th century, and many of the scribblings written after the publication of that essay furthered that particular exploration. Today, I would like to return to that line of thought, and consider whether the inherent realism within the novel form implies that there is no place for fantasy within its pages whatsoever.

The term ‘novel’ these days has taken upon a general ubiquity, in that people tend to use it to refer to any piece of fictional writing that is of a certain length. It is more a classification of form than it is of genre— there is the flash fiction piece, which is extremely brief, then the slightly more substantial short story, then the novella, which may require a few sit downs to complete, and then at last the novel to describe anything beyond that. However, especially in its early years, whether or not something was a novel was far more a question of content than construction. Unlike romances or fairy tales, the novel form worked to capture an authentic and specific account of real human experience, taking place in a world recognisable as contemporary society. Just because a book was 500 pages didn’t necessary constitute it as a novel— if it dealt with fairies and demons, or knights and damsels in far-off immaterial kingdoms of imagination, then it was something else entirely.

Using this criterion, the term ‘fantasy novel’ appears a complete oxymoron. If a novel is a work of literature intent on capturing believable human experience, then it cannot also contain dealings with the unnatural and the fantastical. As such, it can be argued that such works as The Lord of the Rings do not actually qualify as novels, but as fairy tales (which is how Tolkien himself often chose to refer to them).

Complications arise, however, when one considers not the reality of the literal setting of the more fantastical genres, but the authenticity that it can have to genuine human experience. After all, a book does not technically have to be set in present day Earth to make an insightful commentary on what it is to be human. For example, both the science fiction and dystopian genres will usually contain fantastical inventions and innovations in technology, but those imaginary societies are used to comment on real world issues and injustices. When one reads 1984 or The Man in the High Castle, it is obvious that they are purely fantastical stories, and yet they feel extremely relevant to the human experience of contemporary society. They are imaginary, and yet real— does this qualify them for a place within the novel form?

It may seem as though I am being pedantic, but if we are to follow this particular line of inquiry to fruition, then we must find some clear-cut, exclusionary strictures with which to separate the realist novel from the more romanticised forms of literature. One would be hard-pressed to find a piece of writing that is not relevant to or reminiscent of the human experience in some manner, for that is the only lens through which the author (unless they are of another species) can perceive and reflect upon the world. Therefore, one must keep the guestlist into the realist novel club reduced, by insisting that only works that concern existing societies and settings, authentic characters fleshed out enough that they could believably walk the streets of our own lives, and narratives bound by the expected laws of our own human universe, should be allowed in.

This brings me to the particular topic that I had in mind when penning this scribbling. There are certain real events in history that seem so fantastical, so detached from common experience, that it is hard to believe that they really happened, let alone find the relatability to empathise with the people who lived through it. More often than not, it is because these eras are like hellish nightmares, that one would never wish to spend more than a few moments imagining themselves as being part of. The fascist empires of Hitler’s Germany or Mussolini’s Italy would be immediate example; likewise, the communist wastelands of Stalin’s Russia.

As such, a novel employing purely realist techniques to evoke an authentic account of life within one of these real-life nightmares may struggle to truly convince the reader of the tangibility of such atrocities. After all, hindsight is a wonderful distancer, a perfect tonic to soothe otherwise painful realities. ‘Such things could never happen here, in this more enlightened age’, a typical example may run. Or, ‘Those people were primordial thugs. I, and the population at large, would never lower my moral standards enough to partake in such obvious crimes’. Or even, ‘Somebody (else) would surely do something to stop such villains from claiming absolute power. We have learnt something from all this mess, right?’

Which is why, upon reading Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita, written slap-bang in the centre of Stalin’s dictatorship, I was surprised to find that it was precisely its fantastical, gothic elements that gave a far more compelling and understandable sense of what it was like to live in Soviet Russia than all but the most accurate and authentic of realist accounts could. In the book, Stalin is never mentioned, nor are any of his cabinet— Bulgakov’s is a Moscow entirely sundered from its tumultuous political reality. Instead, the malevolent force blackening the streets of the city is the presence of Woland, namely Satan, and his bizarre and brutish retinue of demonic figures.

Likewise, the horrendous crimes against Stalin’s own population are not directly referenced, but merely alluded to under the guise of witchcraft. The constant arrests and abductions become acts of black magic, as troublesome people are teleported away across entire countries, or terrorised and consigned to the madhouse as a result. Riches and luxuries are bestowed upon gleeful people and then ripped away again as if they never existed, for example the women’s new, expensive clothing vanishing as soon as they leave the Variety theatre. Nasally voices sound as if by magic on the end of phonelines, reading people’s minds and warning them to not act against Woland’s favour— naturally, if they choose to ignore these warnings, calamity soon follows. Even the concept of the possession of foreign money being an act of political treason is touched upon, as newfound wealth suddenly transforms into useless and treacherous alien currencies.

Lastly, one of the most compelling and memorable sequences of the book is a vivid description of one of Stalin’s infamous flamboyant show trials, as we see hapless citizens succumbing to the overwhelming eloquence and ruthlessness of their corrupt judges, incriminated for acts that would in any other society be viewed as harmless and arbitrary.

Whilst the specific horrors of Soviet Russia can and have faded into history, the abstract, fantastical terror of supernatural evils is one that pervades all eras and all peoples. Because of this, paradoxically, the fairy-tale like quality of The Master and Margarita’s most imaginative recounts of Soviet atrocity are actually those that evoke the greatest understanding in the modern reader of what it would’ve been like to be subjected to such oppression. As we are overwhelmed and disoriented by Bulgakov’s chaotic descriptions of the various bizarre happenings besieging Moscow, we also realise how chaotic and confusing living in a time of such political malpractice would’ve been as well. Though it is not described literally, we can relate to the paranoia and bafflement that the Muscovites would’ve felt at the constant barrage of disappearances and criminal charges, because at the time it must have seemed like they were really in the grip of some malicious supernatural force. And though the name of Stalin may not by this time evoke the same immediate, visceral terror that it would have done, the fantastical figure of Satan, and the potential for evil and suffering that he wields, for some reason appears far more comprehensible to our minds. Or at least, to mine.

It is clear that the novel form’s main endeavour was to provide an accurate and authentic account of the life of a particular individual in their contemporary society. However, as The Master and Margarita shows, there are certain instances where a touch of fantasy can help the reader to empathise with the plight of its characters yet more. In the process, one may even gain a greater understanding of real people living through real events, that otherwise seemed like quaint, brief missteps in the museum of humankind.

Thank you for reading,