MOSCOW -- Writing a book is not unlike planting a garden. You make elaborate plans for each section; you comb encyclopedias and guides for advice; you collect every piece of information about the species that interests you; you say to yourself that, unlike other gardens, yours is going to be consistent, orderly, and will have meaning to it.

But when you start the real work, involving heavy digging, weeding and watering, you immediately lose the overall vision and forget about your beautiful initial plan. How could you possibly think about the color scheme when your back hurts, your nails chip and the damn Madame Lefebres, or whatever the name of the wretched rose is, starts dying as soon as you begin thinking about sticking it into the ground?

Only when you're finally done (in a couple of years if the weather and the roots are generous) can you actually see your creation en bloc -- and it is going to surprise you, believe me. Who could've thought that gooseneck spreads like wildfire as does peppermint, that coral bells look more like a heap of dung and that hollyhocks grow as tall as the Empire State Building?