The Master and Margarita | Read-along, 2026
Manuscripts don't burn: Join me in reading The Master and Margarita in January and February 2026
I’ll be reading this wonderful novel over January and February. This will be my fourth time reading this novel and I’m very excited about it! Weirdly, it wasn’t on any reading lists for my undergraduate degree at the University of St Andrews, but I read it anyway. It became an instant favourite.
The novel holds a special place in my heart as it’s the one I was reading in the middle of the night when the hospital called to say my mum had died. I’d awakened with a premonition and come through to the living room with a blanket and my book. It’s an imprinted memory now, and shall always have my wee mum in my heart as I read this novel.
Schedule
Reading this novel over two months equates to roughly fifty pages a week. Here is the schedule I’m planning to stick to:
Which Translation?
Ah yes, that old question. My first answer is always that you should read the one you have on your shelf. If you don’t have a copy, then I’d say choose whichever translation your library has or that you can borrow from a friend. But if you have to buy a copy, then you need to pick a translation. In that case, I’d say buy whichever one your local independent bookshop has in stock. If you’re ordering online, price and cover design are issues. And, if you’re anything like me, paper and print quality matter, too.
All that is to say that the translation doesn’t necessarily have much of an impact on how much you will enjoy the story. That might sound weird coming from a former translator, but the more literature I read in translation and compare, the less importance it plays. For this reading, I will be choosing the Penguin Deluxe Classic Edition because it’s bloody gorgeous. Have you seen the cover art? It also uses excellent paper, and the print quality is a delight. That all adds to the reading experience for me.
EDIT: I discovered after publishing this post that the Ginsburg translation used the 1966–1967 serialised publication of the novel in the Moskva journal. That version was censored, wiht around 23,000 words being cut. Despite that, the translation is actually very good. So bear that in mind when you’re deciding which translation to go with. The Glenny translation came out in the same year, but is of the uncensored original text that only came out in 1973, So Glenny must have had access to an illicit copy of the manuscript.
I’ve provided the first few paragraphs of five translations below so you can get an idea of the flavour of each. I’ve also included the footnotes from each edition. You’ll see that the Penguin editions provide a lot more in that regard. Explanatory footnotes are something else to consider in your choice, as are the introduction and other extras, such as a chronology and a bibliography of further reading. I’ll provide more translation points from the four I have during the read-along.
Mirra Ginsburg, 1967
Never Talk to Strangers
At the hour of sunset, on a hot spring day, two citizens appeared in the Patriarchs’ Ponds Park. One, about forty, in a gray summer suit, was short, plump, dark-haired and partly bald. He carried his respectable pancake-shaped hat in his hand, and his clean-shaven face was adorned by a pair of supernaturally large eyeglasses in a black frame. The other was a broad-shouldered young man with a mop of shaggy red hair, in a plaid cap pushed well back on his head, a checked cowboy shirt, crumpled white trousers, and black sneakers.
The first was none other than Mikhail Alexandrovich Berlioz, editor of an important literary journal and chairman of the board of one of the largest literary associations in Moscow, known by its initials as MASSOLIT. His young companion was the poet Ivan Nikolayevich Ponyrev, who wrote under the pen name of Homeless.
When they had reached the shade of the linden trees, which were just turning green, the literary gentlemen hurried toward the brightly painted stall with the sign
BEER AND SOFT DRINKS
Oh, yes, we must take note of the first strange thing about that dreadful May evening. Not a soul was to be seen around—not only at the stall, but anywhere along the entire avenue, running parallel to Malaya Bronnaya. At that hour, when it no longer seemed possible to breathe, when the sun was tumbling in a dry haze somewhere behind Sadovoye Circle, leaving Moscow scorched and gasping, nobody came to cool off under the lindens, to sit down on a bench. The avenue was deserted.
Michael Glenny, 1967
Never Talk to Strangers
At the sunset hour of one warm spring day two men were to be seen at Patriarch’s Ponds. The first of them — aged about forty, dressed in a greyish summer suit — was short, dark-haired, well-fed and bald. He carried his decorous pork-pie hat by the brim and his neatly shaven face was embellished by black horn-rimmed spectacles of preternatural dimensions. The other, a broad-shouldered young man with curly reddish hair and a check cap pushed back to the nape of his neck, was wearing a tartan shirt, chewed white trousers and black sneakers.
The first was none other than Mikhail Alexandrovich Berlioz, editor of a highbrow literary magazine and chairman of the management committee of one of the biggest Moscow literary clubs, known by its abbreviation as MASSOLIT; his young companion was the poet Ivan Nikolayich Poniryov who wrote under the pseudonym of Bezdomny.
Reaching the shade of the budding lime trees, the two writers went straight to a gaily-painted kiosk labelled ‘Beer and Minerals’.
There was an oddness about that terrible day in May which is worth recording: not only at the kiosk but along the whole avenue parallel to Malaya Bronnaya Street there was not a person to be seen. It was the hour of the day when people feel too exhausted to breathe, when Moscow glows in a dry haze as the sun disappears behind the Sadovaya Boulevard — yet no one had come out for a walk under the limes, no one was sitting on a bench, the avenue was empty.
Katherine Tiernan O’Connor and Diana Burgin, 1995
Never Talk to Strangers
One hot spring evening, just as the sun was going down, two men appeared at Patriarch’s Ponds. One of them—fortyish, wearing a gray summer suit—was short, dark-haired, bald on top, paunchy, and held his proper fedora in his hand; black horn-rimmed glasses of supernatural proportions adorned his well-shaven face. The other one—a broad-shouldered, reddish-haired, shaggy young man with a checked cap cocked on the back of his head—was wearing a cowboy shirt, crumpled white trousers, and black sneakers.
The first man was none other than Mikhail Alexandrovich Berlioz, editor of a literary magazine and chairman of the board of one of Moscow’s largest literary associations, known by its acronym, MASSOLIT, and his young companion was the poet Ivan Nikolayevich Ponyryov, who wrote under the pen name Bezdomny.
After reaching the shade of the newly budding linden trees, the writers made a beeline for the colorfully painted refreshment stand bearing the sign: BEER AND COLD DRINKS.
And here it is worth noting the first strange thing about that terrible May evening. Absolutely no one was to be seen, not only by the refreshment stand, but all along the tree-lined path that ran parallel to Malaya Bronnaya Street. At a time when no one, it seemed, had the strength to breathe, when the sun had left Moscow scorched to a crisp and was collapsing in a dry haze somewhere behind the Sadovoye Ring, no one came out to walk under the lindens, or to sit down on a bench, and the path was deserted.
Pevear and Volokhonsky, 1997
Never Talk with Strangers
At the hour of the hot spring sunset two citizens appeared at the Patriarch’s Ponds. One of them, approximately forty years old, dressed in a grey summer suit, was short, dark-haired, plump, bald, and carried his respectable fedora hat in his hand. His neatly shaven face was adorned with black horn-rimmed glasses of a supernatural size. The other, a broad-shouldered young man with tousled reddish hair, his checkered cap cocked back on his head, was wearing a cowboy shirt, wrinkled white trousers and black sneakers.
The first was none other than Mikhail Alexandrovich Berlioz, editor of a fat literary journal and chairman of the board of one of the major Moscow literary associations, called Massolit for short, and his young companion was the poet Ivan Nikolaevich Ponyrev, who wrote under the pseudonym of Homeless1.
Once in the shade of the barely greening lindens, the writers dashed first thing to a brightly painted stand with the sign: ‘Beer and Soft Drinks.’
Ah, yes, note must be made of the first oddity of this dreadful May evening. There was not a single person to be seen, not only by the stand, but also along the whole walk parallel to Malaya Bronnaya Street. At that hour when it seemed no longer possible to breathe, when the sun, having scorched Moscow, was collapsing in a dry haze somewhere beyond Sadovoye Ring, no one came under the lindens, no one sat on a bench, the walk was empty.
Michael Karpelson, 2006
This is a transcript of the audiobook, published by Naxos and available on Audible. The text is out of print and used copies of the Wordsworth edition are expensive.
Never Talk to Strangers
Once, upon an unusually hot hour of sunset in spring, two gentlemen appeared at Patriarch’s Ponds in Moscow. The first sported a grey summer suit and was short, plump and bald. He carried his respectable fedora in his hand, and black, horn-rimmed spectacles of supernatural proportions adorned his clean-shaven face. The second, a broad-shouldered young man with curly reddish hair, wore a cowboy shirt, craggy white trousers, black trainers and a checked cap cocked to the back of his head.
The first was none other than Mikhail Alexandrovich Berlioz, chairman of the board of one of Moscow’s largest literary organisations, known by the acronym MASSOLIT, and editor of a thick literary journal. His young companion was the poet Ivan Nikolayevich Poniorov, who wrote under the pen name of “Homeless”.
Upon reaching the shade of the freshly budding Lindens, the writers first dashed towards a brightly painted booth, bearing the sign “beer and sodas”.
By the way, it is worthwhile to note the first strange thing about that horrible May afternoon. Not a single human being was to be found in the vicinity of the booth, or indeed in the entire alley that ran parallel to Malaya Bronnaya Street. At an hour when it seemed almost impossible to breathe, when the sun scorching Moscow was plunging into the dry haze somewhere beyond the Sadovaya Ring Road, no one sought shelter in the shade of the Lindens. No one sat down on the benches. The alley was empty.
Hugh Aplin, 2008
Never Talk to Strangers
AT THE HOUR OF THE HOT SPRING SUNSET at Patriarch’s Ponds two citizens appeared. The first of them – some forty years old and dressed in a nice grey summer suit – was short, well fed and bald; he carried his respectable pork-pie hat in his hand, and had a neatly shaved face adorned by spectacles of supernatural proportions in black horn frames. The second – a broad-shouldered, gingery, shock-headed young man with a checked cloth cap cocked towards the back of his head – was wearing a cowboy shirt, crumpled white trousers and black soft shoes.
The first was none other than Mikhail Alexandrovich Berlioz, the editor of a thick literary journal and chairman of the board of one of Moscow’s biggest literary associations, known in abbreviation as MASSOLIT,2 while his young companion was the poet Ivan Nikolayevich Ponyrev, who wrote under the pseudonym Bezdomny.3
Entering the shade of the lime trees that were just becoming green, the writers first and foremost hurried towards a colourfully painted little booth with the inscription “Beer and Minerals”.
Yes, the first strange thing about that terrible May evening should be noted. Not just by the booth, but along the entire tree-lined avenue running parallel to Malaya Bronnaya Street, not a single person was about. At that hour, when people no longer even seemed to have the strength to breathe, when the sun, having heated Moscow up to an unbearable degree, was toppling in a dry mist somewhere down beyond the Garden Ring Road, nobody had come along here under the lime trees, nobody had sat down on a bench: the avenue was empty.
Buy the book
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Join the Read-along
Neither existing nor new subscribers will be added to The Master and Margarita read-along. I set it up this way to avoid annoying subscribers who aren’t interested in this particular novel. So if you’d like to join, you’ll need to go into your settings and check the radio button to join and get the emails as I publish them. I’ve also set it up as a podcast and plan to record the essays as audio, just as I did for The White Guard. Hopefully I’ve set it up correctly this time and won’t be publishing to the Thomas Covenant audio feed!
Video of this announcement
Homeless: In early versions of the novel, Bulgakov called his poet Bezrodny (‘Pastless’ or ‘Familyless’). Many ‘proletarian’ writers adopted such pen-names, the most famous being Alexei Peshkov, who called himself Maxim Gorky (gorky meaning ‘bitter’). Others called themselves Golodny (‘Hungry’), Besposhchadny (‘Merciless’), Pribludny (‘Stray’). Worthy of special note here is the poet Efim Pridvorov, who called himself Demian Bedny (‘Poor’, author of violent anti-religious poems. It may have been the reading of Bedny that originally sparked Bulgakov’s impulse to write The Master and Margarita. In his Journal of 1925 (the so-called ‘Confiscated Journal’ which turned up in the files of the KGB and was published in 1990), Bulgakov noted: ‘Jesus Christ is presented as a scoundrel and swindler... There is no name for this crime.’
MASSOLIT: The organization is an invention of Bulgakov’s.
Bezdomny: The poet’s pseudonym, reminiscent of those of Maxim Gorky (“bitter”), Demyan Bedny (“poor”) and others, means “homeless”.
Thanks for the comparison of translations. The P&V is the one I read last time, but I am not a fan of their translations. I like the feel of the O’Connor and Burgin.
My favorite book by far …. I hope everyone enjoys it immensely - good way to start the year 🎁