Imagine that it is a cold and wet December afternoon in London. Outside, the wind is scattering handfuls of sleet against the windows, impatiently dragging ragged black clouds across the grey winter sky, hurrying on to night and storm. The few passers-by are muffled in coats and gloves and hurry toward their destinations as if spurred on by the fading of the day. The last skeletal leaves of winter are torn from the trees and trampled into the gutter. The sodden pages of a newspaper flutter past as the wind gusts again.
Inside, the light is weak, seeming only to pull shadows from the corners of empty rooms. Despite the heating, cold seeps from the windows and floors, strikes up through the feet, whistles under doorways. The kitchen windows are fogged with condensation.
But around the fireplace of the front room, all is cheerful. A log fire blazes and crackles in the grate. The table is laden with teapot, milk jug and cups, whilst hot buttered crumpets and cake sit temptingly in the soft golden light of the lamp. Seated in your comfortable if somewhat battered leather armchair, you listen as a dear and witty friend reminisces over tea about a character he deeply admires.
He knows his subject well, and his affection shines through, although he does not hesitate to criticise when criticism is his subject’s due. A splendid raconteur, you friend brings to life the episodes he describes. You lean back into the armchair and, as you listen, the story passes before your eyes in a series of visions, now bathed with the warm sun of August, now set against the icy backdrop of Winter. Your friend’s words unfold the life story of his hero with all the fascination and reverence of a connoisseur unfolding some precious and fine piece of embroidery. Entranced, you live the story alongside him. And all is warmth, and comfort, and as you listen you are conscious of always wanting to know what happens next, yet never wanting the story to end.
And that, my dears, is what reading Bulgakov’s “the Life of Monsieur de Moliere” is like for me.
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It's cold in Texas. I smell fresh baked pumpkin pies. I'm also drinking hot tea, and I'm also carried along in your story telling. Don't stop, what does happen next?
The afternoon slowly becomes evening, and you talk with your companion of other friends and other times, of memories shared or personal, of folly and of wisdom, of the passing of years.
Darkness falls, the lamps make small pools of yellow light, the fire burns low to a dull orange that seems to writhe amongst the black ashes in the hearth; and suddenly you realise how much time has slipped by as you talked. It has become late and your friend stands, makes his farewells, dons overcoat and scarf and steps out, resolute, into the wind and rain.
And you close the door, walk back into the parlour and, chuckling at some memory of the afternoon, clear away the cups, put out the lamps, and go to your bed.
And in the dark stillness of the room, the fire burns slowly out.
Springheel
Now you have me interested in knowing how you came to know of this author and what promted you to give him a try...
I have, as I said, always had a fondness for Russian writers, but I don't recall anyone making a particular referral to Bulgakov. I seem to recall that in one of the many idle hours I have spent browsing in bookshops, I came across a copy of a book of Bulgakov's called "The Heart of a Dog". I was in a very Russophile frame of mind at the time (I recall I had just finished Yevgany Zamyatin's "We") so I picked it up and started reading and fortunately, the translation was a good one (which counts for a lot, obviously, if you can't read foreign titles in the original) and I was fascinated. It has just dawned on me that this was in 1989! Anyway, I hunted the chap's translations down slowly over the years. Sadly, very few left to find now.
Sometimes, you just find a writer who could almost be writing FOR you. Bulgakov achieves that for me.
After cooking and serving, I went through my bookshelves to see if I had any of the titles you had mentioned, even a piece in an anthology, and I didn't. Just War and Peace and Anna Karenina. Your reading seemed a perfect compliment for a cold gray day.
After leaving the law library early this afternoon, I walked north up Broadway to Little Italy for veal parm and warm bread. After the waiter tempted me with the dessert cart, I gave in and ordered cheesecake. Having eaten the cheesecake and paid the bill, I walked a few blocks north toward Union Square for exercise. My walk brought me to the Strand Bookstore when that Russian author whose last name begins with "B" popped into my head.
I walked over to Fiction, then searched for the aisle with authors whose names start with B. Ahh, ok, found it. Now, what is that author's name and how do I spell it. Out comes the Blackberry. Google, "Springheel Jack Blog" ...a-ha....Bulgakov...B-u-l-g-a-k-o-v. No books. Better check Information.
"yes can I help you?"
"I'm searching for a Russian author named Bulgakov. His name is spelled B...."
"yes, I know who he is, just a second."
"We have two new paperbacks up front, The Master and Margarita and A Dead Man's Memoir."
"Thank you."
I should report to Springheel Jack that Bulgakov lives on in Union Square, New York City - it's the thought that counts.
Who is your favorite British author? I'm afraid of translations...what is just as good?
John,
it is gratifying to hear that Mikhail Afanasyevich Bulgakov is getting a level of publication and recognition in New York that he was denied for many decades in Moscow. Dead Man's Memoir is sometimes published as "Black Snow" and I was recently about to buy it when I realised I already had it under that title... It is an excellent book - but Master and Margarita is generally considered Bulgakov's masterpiece.
Lady C, I cannot name a absolute favourite British Author. I like Evelyn Waugh for the wit, wisdom and the style of everything he wrote; Orwell, if only for the bleak horror of "1984"; Laurence Durrell, for the Alexandria Quartet; Robert Irwin, for "the Arabian Nightmare". Further back, I bow my head in homage to the Great Samuel Johnson, and admire Jonathan Swift,Tobias Smollett, and the grossly under-rated Robert Smith Surtees. But then I start to think of Thackeray, of Dickens and Trollope, of Kipling and Conan Doyle... No, it's hopeless... I can't pick one. My Apologies, madam...One must read them all.
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