The October Revolution in 1917 profoundly shocked the cultural ecosystem. The new authorities recast notions of freedom, of the arts, and of the public. Links between and among audiences at different levels that had thrived in the prerevolutionary cultural market were dismantled. Over time the government imposed strictures on culture requiring alignment with political directives. By 1934, the official policy of Socialist Realism was mandatory and compliance enforced by rewards and terror. The early years of revolutionary ferment yielded aesthetic innovation of the highest order, yet the mounting pressures took their toll on creativity. Writers, artists, and performers responded variously. Some took cover in works employing irony and in the (somewhat) safer terrain of children’s literature. By seeding children’s literature with values counter to those practiced by Soviet officialdom, selected writers and artists spread counter-values to a new generation. They worked with the guile of the fox, the flight of the firebird, and, perhaps, the recklessness of the Fool. By keeping alive Russian stories of wise Fools, sentient animals, and magical powers, their creators carried forward folkloric traditions barred from the reigning Socialist Realism. In doing so, they protected limited public space for artistic innovation.

Irony refers to a use of language in which the actual import of words is different from their literal meaning, or in which a work carries multiple messages. The culture of reading and viewing on the eve of the Revolution and in the 1920s incorporated reading for multiple meanings due to the traditional practice of reading aloud in groups. Listeners who commented, questioned, and discussed among themselves automatically gave works layers of meaning. When the Bolsheviks shocked this universe with an onslaught of ideological works, readers sought and found irony. For example, from the outset, it was clear that the Bolsheviks espoused with great seriousness the “science” of “scientific socialism” and the routinely heroic “Soviet man.” Each of these received masterful ironic treatment by Ilf and Petrov, Zoshchenko, Bulgakov, and others. Works for children, too, took on layers of ironic interpretation. Not even music escaped. Shostakovich wrote his “film opera” of Marshak’s poem Silly Little Mouse in part as an ironic retort to Pravda’s earlier criticism of his work. Skill with irony gave creators and audiences channels of communication and outlets in parallel to those officially sanctioned; in short, a supply of fresh air to counter creative suffocation.