Literary ciphers: the hidden messages of writers

To make the obvious hidden — that’s what the best minds of humanity have been doing for the past four thousand years. For practical purposes: cryptographers conceal information from prying eyes for the sake of security. For creative purposes: ciphers, cultivated in the field of creative practices, yield an endless harvest of new meanings.

“Business” cryptography is the domain of specialists. We gratefully use their work, staying away from the processes of creating strong ciphers and selecting the right key. “Creative” cryptography, on the other hand, involves all of us in mind games. Literature is especially rich in encrypted messages. Of course, we can turn to mediators — literary scholars — for interpretation. But there is a risk of receiving yet another layer of encryption if the key is chosen incorrectly.

A predictable thought flashes through the mind: “Let them teach me! I also want to understand at once what is written between the lines!” Excellent! That’s exactly what we were aiming for. The introductory lesson on unpacking literary meanings at the School of the Cipher is about to begin. We will learn by trial and error.

Look, the profile of a teacher of literary encryption has mysteriously appeared on the school board:

— The topic of our lesson today is “Causative”.
— Oh, why such Tarabar?
— Glad to see you’re familiar with this term. But the veil of mystery over the lesson topic hasn’t lifted yet. In the 15th century, “Tarabar script” was indeed used as a system of secret writing. Cryptographers would arrange consonant letters in two rows and use substitute letters from the corresponding row when writing (vowels “did not participate” in the process).

Our topic is easier to decode. It’s an abbreviation of “The Secret Becomes Apparent!” This elementary encryption technique is well known to both our classical and contemporary authors. For example, behind the masks of pseudonym-abbreviations were hidden Anton Pavlovich Chekhov (Anche), Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin (A. P.). Of course, such transparent ciphers were not intended for secrecy. “The Sun of Russian Poetry” used the number code “1-14-17” (1 = A., 14 = the poet’s room number at the lyceum, 17 = P.). Pseudonym-abbreviations are more like a symbolic mark of uniqueness for a new creation, a sign of burning bridges between a newborn masterpiece and dusty old tomes. “I gave my surname to medicine,” A. Chekhov once explained the origin of his rich collection of several dozen unique pseudonyms, encoded in various ways. By the way, one of the most memorable masks the great classic tried on was the bold “speaking” signature “Schiller Shakespearevich Goethe.”

Not all abbreviations in the literary space are intuitively clear. For instance, the abbreviation-title of Viktor Pelevin’s collection of selected works, “DPP(NN),” easily leads potential readers into the dense thickets of possible interpretations or the dead end of hopeless “I give up!” Perhaps that was the intention. The author thoughtfully provided a decryption in the subtitle: “Dialectics of the Transitional Period from Nowhere to Nowhere.”

A guaranteed success awaits every novice decipherer of literary meanings when interpreting acrostics. In a manner accessible as an ABC book, this cipher is used by Konstantin Aksakov. The key lies “under the doormat” — in the title “Acrostic”:

The sum of the initial letters of the lines clearly highlights the meaningful unit (in this example — Moscow), which, according to the Author, should be considered key to understanding the poetic work. Aesthetic. Like a vertical neon sign you can’t pass by. Effective as a means of preventing thoughts from wandering aimlessly among intertwining rhymes.

As an example of using anagrammatic technique, appreciate the masterpiece of Dmitry Avaliani, a recognized guru of modern combinatorial poetry (a philosophical decryption for skeptics is provided by the Author himself):

Melancholia… Am I not a brute? (Russian: Melankholiya… Ne khamlo li ya?)

“Don’t jingle the keys to secrets,” — warned Polish poet and philosopher Stanisław Jerzy Lec.

When entering the artistic space of a work, remember that you are a guest. Don’t forget it! You may touch, but you must not break. The text has an Author — the host and the master (a visual poet in my place would have already inscribed this secret hint into a triangle — a Bermuda one, of course).

Respect the hierarchy. Deciphering a literary message does not mean producing a freshly squeezed remake in the end.

— It can. And often does. Ciphers — or rather their phantoms — fool readers and even researchers. For instance, Richard Wallace at the end of the last century “figured out” Jack the Ripper. Finding non-existent anagrams in the works of Lewis Carroll, the self-proclaimed investigator reconstructed detailed descriptions of the murders. His letter games led to a “confession” Carroll had never made and had nothing to do with. Likewise, Professor Valery Chudinov claimed to have found “secret writings” in Pushkin’s own illustrations. The researcher managed to see exotic messages supposedly inscribed in microscopic letters along the lines of the poet’s many sketches. But these ghostly mysteries remained mysteries only in the eyes of the beholder. To those reading Pushkin, this “key” sounded far too loud.

— So, does this mean that any Author is so skilled in the art of ciphering that readers can never keep up, chasing after hidden meanings and running into dead ends?

 — No need to overdo it! A book is for the reader, like a dessert is for the gourmet. At the same time, I will be glad if you leave my master class with the thought that great literature should not be read in one gulp “overnight” and not consumed as a dry concentrate of brief summaries.

Encrypted literary messages are often hidden in details. To pass by them without noticing is like swallowing a candy whole without biting into it and tasting the filling. Think for yourself, how would a chocolatier react to such a fleeting enjoyment of taste? With a pine nut or marzipan? It matters! The chocolate shell — the text — is not enough to penetrate into the author’s innermost thoughts.

The literary cipher is a very personal story, meant for a truly close reader. The author is ready to pour out their soul to anyone who takes the first step towards them, pulling that key out from under the doormat.

To the Reader, like to confession, came with her poems Anna Akhmatova. Only those who sought spiritual closeness could read the encrypted messages she left. The poetess was quite the huntress of men’s hearts. A stunning woman – she could afford it. In the “triangle” format, including the Bermuda one, of course, with the victims of broken hearts. One of her confessions looks like this:

Who was the Silver Age Diva writing these verses about? From the poetic text as such, no photographic likeness emerges: no mustache, no blue eyes. The poem is dated 1916. Among the chronological “suspects”: Arthur Lurye, Boris Anrep, and Nikolai Gumilyov (her official husband, by the way). The list could go on. But is it necessary if the key has been found? The acrostic points to the perpetrator of this poetic celebration. 

It is unknown how Anna Akhmatova would have encrypted a fellow literary colleague — Sasha Sokolov — in her poems. In any case, it would require quite a bit of imagination. The writer was quite skilled at encryption himself. And in a big way! Three years of studying at the Military Translators Institute did their job. His novel “School for Fools” is a real quest for deciphering hidden meanings. The boundaries of time (“non-existent time” — that’s the norm) and space (the Land of Kozodoy, the roof of the omnibus) are blurred. The main character-narrator sometimes splits into two, the storyline constantly breaks apart, never quite coming together. What filling lies hidden in this original textual candy? Where is the key? As usual, it’s at the entrance. In the title itself, which refers to a significant detail of the author’s biography: the young man was so out of place in the necessary frames that the question of placing him in a specialized institution was considered quite seriously. There’s also a “spare key” to the decryption. The book’s “father in an old pajama,” who will undoubtedly interest “Those Who Come,” strongly resembles the real father — the disgraced agent “Devi”, a world-renowned spy. To talk heart-to-heart, to reminisce — the autobiographical key is the guiding light in the dark kingdom of the novel’s meanings.