Fierce debates are raging over the fate of the Mikhail Bulgakov Museum in Kyiv: should it be closed down entirely, kept open, or left partially accessible to occasional visitors? At least, that’s the buzz around me in Okhtyrka among those who are clued in. Surprisingly, there are more informed folks than I expected: twelve, maybe even all fourteen people out of the city’s 40,000 residents. This whirlwind of opinions isn’t likely to settle even after a supposedly final decision is made. It’s rare to see such a mix of interests, views, and tastes even in peacetime, let alone during a war!
Some people believe it’s obvious that this Kyiv native, though a Russian writer and not a Soviet one, deserves to have his memory honoured. To deny him that would be somewhat uncultured. Others see Bulgakov not as the author of notable literary works but as someone who staunchly opposed Ukraine’s independence and mocked and scorned Ukrainian national revival. For them, remembering him in his birthplace—especially in Kyiv—is unacceptable, and his memory must vanish, they insist. A small minority thinks Bulgakov isn’t significant enough to warrant maintaining his apartment-museum, especially in Ukraine. They don’t believe this issue deserves such intense debates.
Then there’s me. I think if Mikhail Bulgakov could see his museum in modern, independent Ukraine, which has long separated from Russia and is now defending itself against its brutal invasion, he would find this museum as a mocking revenge. Not as recognition of him as an author but as an individual. “You didn’t want Ukraine to become a full-fledged independent state—well, here’s your slap in the face!”
Deciding on whom to celebrate or condemn, the author or the individual is one of those age-old dilemmas that never fails to spark heated debates.
Readers of Bernard Shaw can easily admire his wit without necessarily knowing about his admiration for Soviet socialism. After meeting Stalin, Shaw famously wrote, “Here in Russia, I am convinced that the new communist system can lead humanity out of the current crisis and save it from complete anarchy and destruction.” When we come across an author who is ordinary in some respects but also hailed as a genius of wit, it’s easier to accept than when they also hold views that seem foolish to us.
Shaming or merely insulting the author personally is disgraceful—it’s a direct attack and reflects inner coarseness or a temporary lapse of reason. However, critiquing his work with even the harshest words is completely acceptable.
But even for a classic, maintaining composure can be challenging if it isn’t innate! This is especially true since the line between the author as a person, and the author as a creator can be quite delicate. This distinction is often obscured by an intense curiosity about the author’s personality, biography, private life, letters, diaries, and the accounts of those who knew them, including family members and contemporaries.
It’s a real distraction! Engaging in such minutiae, people love to gossip about it as if chatting about absentees at the well. Someone who claims to know “absolutely everything” about Leo Tolstoy and eagerly shares it with me often raises my suspicion, which unfortunately proves valid far too often—they seem to know more about the author’s life than about his literary works.
Almost every notable figure, especially in unique contexts like Ukraine’s, becomes a target of this kind of curiosity.
A significant dilemma arises when the author isn’t just a private individual and an artist but also a publicist or, worse, a public figure bordering on politics—perhaps not the democrat and atheist we might prefer, but rather a staunch monarchist or even a communist. In such cases, it becomes exceedingly hard to avoid projecting our negative sentiments onto their prose or poetry.
“So, are you going to finally spit it out—who are you backing: the Reds or the Whites? Should that darn apartment be turned into a museum or not?”
My response is no. It shouldn’t be either an apartment or a museum. Keeping it “under Bulgakov” in any way would be wrong. In-ap-pro-pri-ate. He’d be the first to tell me I nailed it with that word.
