Moscow, 1930s. The Devil drops by for a visit.
I first discovered this book in my youth. I have always had a fondness for old book stores and it was one day, back in the 70's that I was foraging through a load of dusty tomes in a Charlotte Street book shop in Brisbane that I sniffed out a new but strange book. Its title intrigued me. Perhaps as a young and somewhat optimistic young buck, I felt it might be a Russian version of " Lady Chatterley's Lover. " I sauntered toward the cashier with a casual air and a look of student style indifference. and paid a modest sum and chortled and sniggered smugly as I went back to my student digs to digest a night of Russian porn and the sensual delights of The Master and Margarita. Oh, a good night ahead!
Yet what I had purchased for pennies turned out to be a life changing book for me and it had absolutely nothing to do with a gardener pulling weeds while guzzling bundy ginger beer and an older woman swooning at the sight of the gardeners youthful bare chest. I had been duped yet it was the best con I have ever fallen for.
Mikhail Bulgakov was born in 1891 in Kiev, in present-day Ukraine. He first trained in medicine but gave up his profession as a doctor to pursue writing. He started working on The Master and Margarita in 1928 but due to censorship it was not published until 1966, more than twenty-five years after his death.
The book used crazy parable-like fantasy to jab at tyranny, yet he faced censorship and couldn’t publish freely in his lifetime. Even then, parody had its critics and censors. So what was it about? How it ended up in a second hand bookstore in Brisbane for my humble self to grab is something I will never really be able to fathom.
Well, here is the story in a few words. The Devil arrives in the form of Woland, a mysterious foreigner with a supernatural entourage, including a giant talking cat. As they wreak havoc on the corrupt literary elite and bureaucrats, their story intertwines with that of the Master, a tormented writer whose unpublished novel about Pontius Pilate has driven him to despair. Meanwhile, Margarita, the Master's devoted lover, makes a Faustian bargain to save him.
Bulgakov weaves a tale about power, censorship, love, and redemption, ultimately questioning the nature of truth and freedom. This short video will help you to understand what the book is about.
A far cry from Lady Chatterley and Redhead's garden.
I felt and still feel that The Master and Margarita was more of an outpouring - his way of processing the absurdity and oppression around him. He was sick, constantly under surveillance, and struggling with censorship. I imagine writing that novel was as much about catharsis as anything else. He kept revising it right up until his death in 1940, knowing it wouldn't be published in his lifetime. That doesn’t seem like someone expecting literary immortality - more like someone who just had to get the words out.
And there always the cat.
It’s kind of tragic, though. He burned an early draft, then rewrote it, and his wife eventually managed to get it published decades later, when it was finally recognised for what it was. In a way, he was writing for the future, but probably out of sheer necessity rather than a grand vision of legacy.
The Master and Margarita doesn’t feel like it was written to please readers or impress critics - it felt and feels deeply personal, almost like a fever dream poured onto the page. The way he blends satire, fantasy, and philosophical depth suggests he was wrestling with something internal rather than just making a statement for others to read.
I suppose that’s part of what makes it so powerful. It wasn’t a calculated act of rebellion; it was raw, unfiltered frustration turned into art. Maybe that’s why it still resonates with me - because it was never meant to be propaganda or a political manifesto, just one man’s attempt to make sense of madness.
As a young student back then, it grabbed me by the heartstrings and coattails. On reflection I got it. I got the frustration. I got the passion.
The fact that it wasn’t crafted for mass consumption is probably what made it so authentic. It wasn’t diluted by the need to appeal to the mainstream or shaped by external expectations. It was just Bulgakov, wrestling with his demons, putting his thoughts down as if he were writing in a secret diary.
Maybe that’s why so much truly great literature comes from suffering - when writers aren’t thinking about fame or influence, but just trying to express something raw and personal. It’s ironic, though, that something so private ended up having such a massive cultural impact later. Almost as if the more personal something is, the more universal it becomes.
The publishing world today is driven more by marketability than raw artistic expression. If you’re an unknown writer without connections, it’s nearly impossible to break through - especially if your work challenges the mainstream narrative or doesn’t fit neatly into a trendy genre.
Bulgakov had censorship to deal with, but in a way, today’s gatekeeping is just a different kind of control.
It’s not just about political ideology; it’s also about what sells, what’s "safe," and what appeals to social media-driven marketing. A writer pouring their heart out without worrying about audience expectations probably wouldn’t even get a foot in the door.
I have been thinking about how this book actually made it to getting published. Sure, these days there is self publishing but there’s something about a real book - the weight of it, the smell of the pages, the way you can flip through it and see the passage of time as you read. E-books are convenient, but they feel disposable, like they don’t have the same permanence. A physical book exists in the real world, while an e-book just sits on a screen, easily deleted or forgotten in a digital pile. I think Shaydee wrote about this some time ago.
The real tragedy of today's publishing and media landscape is this: The Master and Margarita would be shredded before it even had a chance. The trolls would call it "problematic," the critics would dismiss it as "too bizarre" or "not marketable," and publishers would avoid it because it doesn't fit neatly into a sellable trend. Even if Bulgakov somehow managed to self-publish it, it would get buried under an avalanche of algorithm-driven content.
Back then, censorship was blunt - either you got published by the state, or you didn’t. Today, censorship is more insidious. It's not just about being banned; it’s about being ignored, suppressed, or drowned out by noise. A book like The Master and Margarita wouldn’t be forbidden - it just wouldn’t exist in any meaningful way.
Behemoth ( the cat ) is literally the cat among the pigeons. Without him, the story wouldn’t have had the same energy, chaos, or biting humour. He’s the ultimate disruptor, stirring up trouble wherever he goes and exposing the absurdity of Soviet society.
In a way, Behemoth is what makes the novel work. Without him, Woland’s entourage would feel too grim, the satire would be less sharp, and the supernatural elements wouldn’t be nearly as entertaining. He keeps things unpredictable, reminding us that the Devil’s mischief isn’t just about fear - it’s about how stupid our world is.
Maybe Bulgakov understood that a great satirical work needs that wild, uncontrollable element. The cat doesn’t just shake things up - he makes sure the pigeons never settle back down. Much like Ratty Airways here and our love of eccentric rats, tadpoles and poor PP trying to save Dusty Gulch from extinction.
I guess what it comes down to is that it wasn't really the book I fell in love with. It was the idea. The notion that it didn't matter what your story was, it was your story. And, even if no one wants to hear it , read or share it, we all have the right to be heard. Though I hasten to add that people who espouse views on wiping out babies, Jews, white people and my fellow Australians ... well, that is not freedom of speech. That is just putrid. Yet for some strange reason our government protects those that hate us and we now feel like Bulgakov.
When our governments suppress free speech, they are suppressing the right to write about a devil in Moscow, a shed in Longreach or a fuckwit in Canberra.
And now you know how I came upon my name.
Crazy Cat
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