A Phenomenological Examination of the Nature of Satire
As Found in The Master and Margarita
By Mikhail Bulgakov

	One of the enjoyable features in reading this novel was to discover the liberal sprinkling of satire spread throughout it. I had to admire the expert manner it was constructed and wondered why being a satirist in a totalitarian society is a dangerous occupation, to say the least. Of course one can have an intellectual intuition of the risks such a critic might incur it is another thing to emotionally understand this phenomenon and reactions to it in such a politically controlled milieu. In 1930 this author wrote a famous letter defending his rights to be a satirist asking his own country to let him immigrate if they had no need for the art of this type of person For reasons of his own, Stalin transmitted in a personal telephone call to the author the fact that he would not let this brilliant writer leave. Still, even with some minimal recognition by Stalin (and no doubt because of it) Bulgakov never published this novel. Indeed, it was his wife who would first have it published, in a serialized form, in the years 1966-67, 27 years after the death of the author in 1940 (who started this novel in 1928 and left it completed but not quite completely edited). Similarly, another novel, Heart of the Dog, was not published until 1987. Sadly, important works of this writer had to wait for the disintegration and collapse of communism in his own country to be read by his own people and by an international audience through translations. The author’s well-deserved, and recently acquired, reputation is now beyond dispute. (1)

	How is satire achieved? Is it merely being ironic, saying one thing and meaning the opposite? Why, simply, is satire received in such an unwelcome fashion by the powers-that-be in a totalitarian society? And why is satire so thoroughly enjoyed by people both subjected and not subjected to the rigours of a totalitarian state? (2)

	A famous Chinese writer once wrote how he loved the smell of oranges when he got off the train in Beijing. Unfortunately, in the workers’ paradise, so-called oranges were never to be found in the north of China and certainly not for sale in that railway station. Everyone in the know read this sentence as a brilliant piece of satire. Initially it was overlooked by the powers-that-be in their censorship of that work. It caused them some serious reflection because to censor it in future editions would be tantamount to admitting that the Communist system was a failure. On the other hand, to leave it in left the authorities as the ongoing butt of a piece of well-designed, highly successful and very effective satire; an attack in the form of a succinct critique of the relative ineptness of that country’s political system to grow or acquire and distribute food for its own people. Using this short simple piece of satircal humour as my starting point, what phenomenological observations can I make about this type of phenomenon, using this matrix of essentially non-argued comments as a map to briefly explore in greater depth a key satirical passage to be found at the end of this novel. (3)

	For a start this type of comment is indeed ironic - stating something but meaning the exact opposite. However, I do not believe it is merely being just ironic. Implicit is a veiled, or not so veiled, criticism of the political system set up in such a manner so as to be entertained in parallel to the text. This sense of parallelism is reinforced by the repetition of features that anologically parallel such a society even if the text is ostensively set in another country, era or even in a magical or mythical landscape (as much of this novel is set). Furthermore, all humour has a point and a target, and in satirical humour, also often has an implicit political program with the intention of noting the urgent need for some form of political reform. In this instance the target is undoubtedly the authorities. That the perceived pain of such a criticism in some sense is proportional to both the intensity of the ontological commitments rigidly held by ‘important’ representatives of that political system and the artfulness of that satire! Hence one must expect the reaction entertained to be in an adverse manner proportional to the intensity of its negative reception; a reaction exercised by those in a position to instigate the same – the inevitable target of such animosity being no doubt the author and their entire artistic production although also immediately focussing on a suppression of that particular work. Lastly, this authoritarian discomfit is magnified through the knowing look of the ‘others’. Of course the satirist has one defense and that is to claim that they should be read literally… although to commit this type of mistake more than once is not an ‘accident’ but surely the sign of a serious ‘carelessness’ on the part of that author along with an indication that they are not being truly ‘patriotic’, etc, as perceived from the official point of view of those authorities! (4)

	Now I would like to focus on a brilliant sequence of satire executed between pages 396-403 and 406-408. Two characters, Koroviev and Behemoth (usually in the form of a cat), are passing the official writers’ club known as Griboyedov House. Koroviev say to his companion, referring to these premises (with a very decent, cheap restaurant), “How lovely to think of all the talent ripening under that roof.” Behemoth replies “Like pineapples in a hothouse.” The image is quite funny and no doubt self-referential to some extent. Koroviev commenting “what a delicious thrill one gets to think that at this moment in that house there may be some future author of a Don Quixote…” But from the light manner this comment is cast we would be more inclined to believe it is not being said seriously; that these premises are more likely the location of second-rate and third-rate literary hacks. Indeed, it is noted that on burning down no doubt bigger premises will be built in its place with the implication that it will be the occupied by even more literary poseurs. (5)

	This implied concentration of non-first-rate authors is reinforced in the scene where they are seeking admittance to these august chambers. They are asked for their membership card; which of course they do not possess. They rhetorically ask: that if they were writers why would they need a card to enter? Would Dostoyevsky need a writer’s card they ask? As Koroviev states “A writer isn’t writer because he has a membership card but because he writes.” But, they are fortunate as the alert maître d’hotel had “immediately guessed who his guests were” and thought that with their reputations it would be less trouble to just let them enter. Not a wise decision as it transpires… (6)

	Various mouth-watering items on the menu are discussed. Those second-rate writers are well looked after. Shortly after “their second glass of delicious, chilled, double-filtered Moscow vodka”, with the arrival of some guests overheard discussing various rumours of these same characters’ exploits, recounted as a foretaste of what is about to come, three men with revolvers, police of some description, rush in and start shooting. But our characters are bullet proof. A fire is started, the fire burns a hole in the canvas awning above their table and they make their exits through the same. Later we are told they feel it their duty to return and to see what they can salvage, or, more correctly, loot. From the hallowed halls of these writers a small landscape painting is recovered, a whole salmon and a half-burnt cook’s apron. In this engineered climax we have these hilarious anti-climatic revelations of what they only were able to save. Each one of these three items, if you will think about it, reflects badly on this hothouse of literary culture. (7)

	In the form of a conclusion, in the light of my matrix of comments (in paragraph no.4) what conclusions might we briefly draw? (8)

	Everything “said” is meant ironically. Very little of the text is meant to be interpreted literally other than those straight features that assist in this ironic set-up. The irony is not without a political objective. Implicit is a criticism of the way the political system treats and mistreats its writers. The institutionalized repression of this ‘stick and carrot routine’ being symbolized by the ornate writer’s membership card? Effectively, through ongoing re-iteration of paralleled analogical features a comparison is being drawn with the harsh world of reality as if metaphorically held for us to see in an over-lit, moving mirror. Such obvious implicit criticism attacks very artfully and powerfully the very foundational beliefs of such a system. And one must expect the reaction to reflect such psychic pain experienced by those active powers-that-be (through their ability to officially suspend all sense of disbelief, and, through their inability, or refusal, to [transcendentally] suspend, as a consequence, their rather dysfunctional foundational beliefs). (9)

	Censorship is one thing but self-censorship is another thing entirely; a more insidious phenomenon! Bulgakov burnt a considerable proportion of his work but we are fortunate that the secret police of the time laboriously copied entries from his diaries that on being returned to him were later burnt by the author. The Communist government then had not long been in power after a lengthy period of civil war and were no doubt vigilant for the slightest return of dissent. In hindsight it was perhaps wise of both him and his wife to have delayed the publication of a number of his more mature works for I am sure the authorities might well have been more successful at suppressing the entire oeuvre of this author than that innocent sentence that slipped past the Chinese authorities dealing with such an innocuous topic as oranges. But, then, that is the skill of the satirist that innocent topics when read more deeply are not as innocent as they first might seem…. (10)

         Noël Tointon, Sydney, 20.3.05.