All I can say about The Master and Margarita is that it’s an absolute, unbelievable, pants-charming-off delight; and once again my words fall greatly short of describing the brilliance of a book to anyone who hasn’t read it.
First read in a lonely hotel room in Bangalore years ago while I struggled to clear my head of confusion and undeserved transferred guilt, this novel is a bit of a carnival featuring lovers, writers, historical figures, the Devil, a giant black cat, Jesus Christ, Pontius Pilate and layers, layers, layers, layers. It’s funny and clever and ruthless and heartbreaking. It’s a riot. It manages to suck me right in even on my worst days and fill me up to here with wonder and awe. If there was no other book in the world and only this, you wouldn’t find me complaining one bit.