In the twenties and thirties in Leningrad a man finished a novel, carried the printed version from the typewriter and, in a solemn ritual, destroyed the drafts before placing the manuscript on a window sill. Then a fierce wind swept through the city, making the work vanish from sight. It seemed to be scattered across roofs, wells, and the canal’s cold water—where could the book have gone?
Mikhail Bulgakov burned the first version of The Master and Margarita after censorship shut it down. He then began rewriting page by page, trying to resurrect a novel that had already been destroyed years earlier. He wrote of being possessed by a demon as he rebuilt the work, though this new creation carried fresh energy and power. Possible titles circulated, such as Devil, Black Theologian, Black Magician, or Advisor’s Hoof.
He also remarked that, with his own hands, he threw a draft of a novel about the devil onto the stove. Yet manuscripts have a stubborn life of their own and do not burn completely.
A second attempt followed, another volume to rebuild. Volume two, volume two, the refrain sounded familiar. Gogol’s name surfaced as a reference point, revealing the volatility of great writers. Yet there were even more dramatic acts of burning and erasure elsewhere in literature.
Dante Gabriel Rossetti, a poet and Pre-Raphaelite artist, mourned the loss of his wife Elizabeth Siddal by placing an unpublished notebook of poems in his coffin and swearing off writing for a time. Yet the ache persisted, and after seven years he still wished to publish the poems. He asked her to open the tomb. The image underscores how some creations seem indestructible, and how manuscripts sometimes matter more than dust.
All writers, it seems, carry a touch of madness.
As one acquaintance once remarked: genius often means shedding cultural baggage. It even involved an odd exemption from physical education through participation in the Olympics.
Gazing at Dante Gabriel Rossetti and what his texts may contain remains uncertain, yet the memory of his famous portrait Beatrice persists, especially in the way romantic images find a home in many profiles. Gogol, too, stands as an Olympian in another sense. He visits a Roman tavern with a long wish list: macaroni, cheese, oil, vinegar, mustard, and ravioli. The waiting staff scurries from the kitchen bearing each item. Gogol takes in the table’s abundance and sets about the rituals of nourishment with gusto.
On a night in Moscow, Gogol faced a similar ritual of destruction. He summoned a maid, perhaps a male servant in some retellings, and ordered the opening of the office chimney to retrieve a briefcase from a closet. The manuscript inside was placed in the oven as Gogol stood with a candle and burned the pages. The flame proved stubborn, guttering at the corners until it finally waned. He then unfolded a bundle of notebooks, untied the ribbon, and laid the pages out so that the burning could proceed more methodically.
The parallel between feasting and burning is striking: words bright as oil, scenes dense with meaning, and the rough dough of characters ready to be scorched. The fire consumed everything, yet Gogol himself grew ill and did not recover. The burned text seemed to feed the illness, a reminder that a book has a stubborn afterlife.
Bluma Zeigarnik, a Soviet psychologist who explored pathopsychology, observed that unfinished tasks persist in perception. In a cafe study, she noted that waiters could recall a customer’s order only until payment completed; once the moment passed, the order vanished from memory. This idea hints at why incomplete works linger in memory and influence future art.
One must be able to finish a point, to add more, and to end a relationship or a book. Unfinished work may stay with an author, haunting long after publication would have ended. It is possible that the debt of an unfinished manuscript is paid back through its enduring presence. The unfinished novel clings to Bulgakov, Rossetti’s buried poems surface in memory, and Gogol’s second volume, even when burned, leaves a trace. In literature, the stubborn memory of an order persists, like a powerful, restless waiter who never truly forgets a request.
The author offers a personal view, which may diverge from editors’ positions. The narrative blends myth, memory, and the stubborn energy of literary work that survives attempts to erase it.