The characters in Bulgakov's The Master
and Margarita live in an obviously absurd world. The extremity of
that absurdity is such that instead of creating a rich tapestry of
fantasy or magic realism, it instead renders the plot—such that it
is—annoying to many readers. And yet, I don't think that annoyance
is truly rooted in an utterly unrecognizable heft of absurdity
permeating the plot, characters, and setting; rather, the absurdity
in the novel is vexing because it echoes a fear we have about our own
existences: our world is also absurd, and if it isn't as profoundly
absurd, it is at least persistently absurd. There is an uncomfortable
resonance there, which is why the narrative chafes.
Many of the characters in the novel
attempt to make sense of the absurdity that surrounds them in a way
that is recognizable to many of us: they attempt to write their way
toward sense, order, and understanding of the world around them. Take
Ivan, the poet, as an example:
'The poet’s attempts to compose a
report on the terrible consultant had come to nothing. As soon as he
received a pencil stub and some paper from the stout nurse, whose
name was Praskovya Fyodorovna, he had rubbed his hands together in a
businesslike fashion and hastily set to work at the bedside table. He
had dashed off a smart beginning, “To the police. From Ivan
Nikolayevich Bezdomny, member of MASSOLIT. Report. Yesterday evening
I arrived at Patriarch’s Ponds with the deceased Berlioz …”
And the poet immediately became
confused, largely due to the word “deceased.” It made everything
sound absurd from the start: how could he have arrived somewhere with
the deceased? Dead men don’t walk! They really will think I’m a
madman!
Such thoughts made him start revising.
The second version came out as follows, “ …with Berlioz, later
deceased …” That didn’t satisfy the author either. He had to
write a third version, and that came out even worse than the other
two, “… with Berlioz, who fell under a streetcar …” What was
irksome here was the obscure composer who was Berlioz’s namesake;
he felt compelled to add, “ …not the composer …”' (Chapter
XI: Ivan is Split in Two).
Even those most comforting pastimes and
passions of the intelligent and creative—writing, words,
literature, art—fail to give sufficient structure or stability to a
world seething with nonsense, surreality, coincidence, and chaos.
Words might comfort us, but in the end they don't work; language
becomes so slippery and imprecise that even Ivan's third draft of his
account refuses to give a definite shape to his experience.
So it goes with all of us, but perhaps
writers feel this failure more keenly. Bulgakov certainly does: the
novel is brimming with writers and other creatives who turn to
writing or storytelling as a bulwark against an uncertain world, only
to have a chance for greater meaning slip away into the tumult of a
world that cannot be tamed by words alone. Ivan feels this, as does
the Master, as does Margarita, as does anyone connected to MASSOLIT,
as does Pontius Pilate and Levi Matvei as they witness The Story of
Stories unfolding. Does Bulgakov? I'm terrifyingly certain he did.
