My childhood reading in Russia was divided between ordinary printed books–that is to say, rectangular objects recognizable by their covers and spines–and loose paper sheaves, underground artifacts that friends of friends of friends had been disseminating and passing to friends of friends until a copy reached one friend or another of my father’s. The principal engine for the dissemination of “samizdat,” as those sheaves were called, was the typewriter, loaded with as many as six carbons, and the avowed aim of the disseminators was the collapse of the existing regime. The disseminators of those forbidden typescripts, who were known as...

The self-indulgent rooster, crowing solely for his own biological pleasure, is seen by some as nature’s alarm clock and an enduring symbol of the countryside.  Others prefer it as coq-au-vin. Some would say that the critical reaction to Second Nature was no more than I deserved.  I had already made a nuisance of myself, what with those convoluted explanations of feeling and coquettish invocations of the Russian soul, so by wringing my neck the reviewers were merely performing a socially useful task.  My point is that whatever critical opprobrium I may deserve for all that self-indulgence, the genuinely interested reader...