IfirstreadMikhailBulgakov'sTheMasterandMargaritaonabalconyoftheHotelMetropoleinSaigononthreesummereveningsin1971.Thetropicalairwasheavyandfullofthesmellsofcorditeandmotorcycleexhaustandrottingfishandwood-firestoves,andthehorizonflaredambiguously,perhapsfromheatlightning,perhapsfrombombs.Latereachnight,aswasmycustom,Iwouldwanderoutintothesteamybackalleysofthecity,wherenooneeverseemedtosleep,andcrouchindoorwayswiththepeopleandlistentothestoriesoftheircultureandtheirancestorsandtheirongoinglives.BulgakovtaughtmetohearsomethinginthosestoriesthatIhadnotyetclearlyheard.Onecouldcallit,intermsthatwouldsoonthereaftergainwidecurrency,"magicalrealism".ThedeadpanmixofthefantasticandtherealisticwasattheheartoftheVietnamesemythos.Itisattheheartofthepresentzeitgeist.AnditwasnotinventedbyGabrielGarciaMarquez,aswonderfulashisOneHundredYearsofSolitudeis.GarciaMarquez'slandmarkworkofmagicalrealismwaspredatedbynearlythreedecadesbyBulgakov'sbrilliantmasterpieceofanovel.ThatsummerinSaigonavodka-swilling,talkingblackcat,acovenofbeautifulnakedwitches,PontiusPilate,andawholecastofbenightedwritersofStalinistMoscowandSatanhimselfalltookuppermanentresidenceinmycreativeunconscious.Theirpresence,perhapsmorethananythingelsefromtherealmofliterature,hashelpedshapetheworkIammostproudof.I'moftenaskedforalistoffavoriteauthors.Hereismyadvice.ReadBulgakov.Lookaroundyouatthenewcentury.Hewillshowyouthingsyouneedtosee.