Vladimir Nabokov, of course, would go on to become one of the most important writers of the 20th century, earning not only critical acclaim but international fame and financial success as well. Sergei would never be famous — in fact, his existence has been all but covered up by his family — but in its own way his life would be just as remarkable. Shy, awkward and foppish, the opposite of his gregarious brother, Sergei had a secret: He was gay.

Sergei’s homosexuality would cast a long shadow over his strange and heroic life, and it would also, ultimately, be the cause of his horrifying and untimely death. It cast a shadow over Vladimir’s life as well: He loved his brother, but whatever else he may have been — a brilliant writer, a loving father — Vladimir was a confirmed homophobe, and his gay brother was a constant source of shame, confusion and regret to him.

Vladimir’s tortured relationship with Sergei is one of the secret stories of an otherwise very public life, and Nabokov scholars are only now slowly coming to terms with the depths of Nabokov’s prejudice. They’re also becoming increasingly aware that Sergei is a crucially important figure in his brother’s work, a presence with whom Nabokov grappled, in different ways and with different degrees of success, throughout his lengthy oeuvre. Meanwhile, the facts of Sergei’s life are still obscure — forgotten or concealed behind euphemisms or confined to the dusty realm of footnotes and archives.

It’s a question worthy of a Nabokov novel: How could the lives of two brothers, both brilliant and talented, both rich and handsome, have led to two such different places: one to literary immortality, the other to the hell of a Nazi concentration camp?

Sergei Vladimirovich Nabokov was born in St. Petersburg on March 12, 1900. The Nabokovs were members of imperial Russia’s most exclusive social circles, and the children grew up in a glamorous whirl of country estates, liveried servants, balls, boating parties and annual vacations in Biarritz, France, and on the Riviera. The family was extraordinarily wealthy; their lineage included princes and generals and government ministers, and even their faithful dog, Box II, was descended from a pair that belonged to Anton Chekhov. Nabokov once told an interviewer, “I probably had the happiest childhood imaginable.”

But Sergei did not. While Vladimir was the eldest and the center of attention, Sergei grew up out of the limelight, shy and unhappy and somewhat odd. Elena Sikorski, nie Nabokov, the girl with the dachshund in her lap, is now 93 and the last surviving Nabokov sibling, but she remembers her aristocratic Russian youth with absolute clarity. When I telephoned her at her home in Geneva to ask about Sergei, she spoke of him fondly, but not without regret. Her voice is surprisingly deep, with an elegant, stateless European accent and just a hint of a quaver. “He was not the favorite of the family,” she recalls. “I think that he was rather miserable during his childhood.”

Nabokov was fascinated by doubles, and his work is full of them — mirrors, twins, reflections, chance resemblances. Sergei was his brother’s double, a “shadow in the background,” as Nabokov put it. All his life Vladimir would be the golden wordsmith, the master of language; Sergei was afflicted with an atrocious stutter that would only get worse as he got older. He idolized Napoleon and slept with a bronze bust of him in his bed. He also loved music, particularly Richard Wagner, and he studied the piano seriously. Vladimir, by contrast, was almost pathologically insensitive to music, which he once described as “an arbitrary succession of more or less irritating sounds.” He would creep up behind Sergei while he was practicing and poke him in the ribs — something he remembered with bitter remorse in later life. “They were never friends when they were children,” says Sikorski. “There was always a sort of aversion.”

Nabokov said that he hardly remembered Sergei as a boy. He once wrote, “I could describe my whole youth in detail without recalling him once.” But Sergei lurks in every corner of “Speak, Memory,” Nabokov’s 1951 memoir, “quiet and listless,” peering at his older brother “like a little owl,” or stumbling around a roller rink in Berlin as his indefatigable brother repeatedly laps him. In a photo of the two boys taken in 1909 in front of their grandmother’s mansion, 10-year-old Vladimir stands with his hands on his hips, legs apart, imperiously staring down the camera. Sergei hides under the brim of his sun hat, one arm held protectively across his midsection, the other stroking his cheek in a strikingly girlish gesture. In retrospect it seems surprising that it took the rest of the family as long as it did to discover what Sergei probably already knew.

When he was 15 and Vladimir 16, Vladimir found Sergei’s diary open on his desk and read it. He showed it to their tutor, who showed it to the children’s father. In retelling the incident Nabokov writes, with uncharacteristic dryness, that Sergei’s journal “abruptly provided a retroactive clarification of certain oddities of behavior on his part.”

Among those oddities was Sergei’s withdrawal from the famously progressive Tenishev school, an all-boy private school also attended by Nabokov and by poet Osip Mandelstam. According to Nabokov’s principal biographer, Brian Boyd, Sergei left because of a series of “unhappy romances.” It’s unlikely that he found much sympathy within his immediate family. According to Sikorski, who quaintly refers to Sergei’s homosexuality as his “attitude,” the family instituted a kind of “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy. They took Sergei’s revelation “absolutely quietly. Nobody ever spoke about it to him, and he was left to do as he wished.” Marina Ledkovsky, Sergei’s second cousin and a professor emerita at Barnard College, remembers that her own mother “pitied him quite a bit … He adored his mother, and adored his father. He was so affectionate — that’s why it was so very hard for him.”

When the revolution came in 1917, the Nabokov family fled Russia, barely escaping with a fraction of their fortune on a Greek cargo boat loaded with dried fruit. Neither Vladimir nor Sergei would ever return to his motherland. After brief stops in Athens and Paris, Vladimir wound up enrolled at Cambridge University; Sergei started at Oxford but joined his brother at Cambridge a semester later. There they played tennis together — Sergei lacked a backhand but never double-faulted — and hung around with the same set of displaced Russians. In Sergei’s letters from the period, which have never been translated or published, most of his worries are about money and about his parents, who settled in Berlin.

The two brothers went on to earn identical degrees, seconds in Russian and French, but in all other respects Vladimir and Sergei were utterly different. “No two brothers could have been less alike,” wrote Lucie Lion Nohl, another imigri, in a memoir of her acquaintance with Nabokov:

Vladimir was the young homme du monde — handsome, romantic in looks, something of a snob and a gay charmer — Serge was the dandy, an aesthete and balletomane … [He] was tall and very thin. He was very blond and his tow-colored hair usually fell in a lock over his left eye. He suffered from a serious speech impediment, a terrible stutter. Help would only confuse him, so one had to wait until he could say what was on his mind, and it was usually worth hearing … He attended all the Diaghilev premieres wearing a flowing black theater cape and carrying a pommeled cane.

Composer Nicolas Nabokov, cousin to Vladimir and Sergei, paints much the same double portrait:

Rarely have I seen two brothers as different as Volodya and Seryozha. The older one, the writer and poet, was lean, dark, handsome, a sportsman, with a face resembling his mother’s. Seryozha … was not a sportsman. White-blond with a reddish tint to his face, he had an incurable stutter. But he was gay, a bit indolent, and highly sensitive (and therefore an easy butt for teasing sports).

When the brothers graduated in 1922, they joined their family in Berlin, which had become the social and cultural center of the Russian diaspora. Sergei fit easily into the growing gay community there, and he was friendly with German activist Magnus Hirschfeld, founder of the world’s first gay tolerance organization. Sergei and Vladimir went to work at a bank, but the 9-to-5 routine didn’t suit them: Sergei quit after a week, Vladimir in a matter of hours. Vladimir remained in Berlin, where he met and married his wife, Vira, but Sergei moved on to Paris.

Paris in the ’20s meant the legendary Paris of expatriates, the Paris of modernists and the avant-garde, of Joyce, Hemingway, Stein, Picasso and the surrealists. Sergei would spend much of the next two decades there. While Vladimir never stopped mourning the Russia of his youth, Sergei most likely felt at home for the first time in a city that celebrated art and music, and that took his gayness in stride.

It becomes more difficult to track Sergei when he passed out of his brother’s exhaustively documented life, but some details of his time in Paris survive. We know that in the winter of 1923 Nicolas introduced him to painter Pavel Tchelitchev, whose work now hangs in New York’s Museum of Modern Art and who painted sets for Sergei Diaghilev. Tchelitchev was also gay and also a Russian imigri, and the two of them shared an apartment with Tchelitchev’s lover, Allen Tanner.

The flat was so tiny that when Tchelitchev saw it he remarked, “We are to live in a doll’s house!” It had no electricity and no bath — they had to wash themselves in a zinc tub using water heated on a gas stove. Sergei survived by giving lessons in English and Russian. His circumstances may have been straitened, but the cultural scene in which Sergei found himself was rich beyond all measure. According to Andrew Field, Nabokov’s first biographer, Sergei was good friends with Jean Cocteau, and he was also connected, through Tchelitchev and his cousin Nicolas, to Diaghilev, to composer Virgil Thomson, to those aristocratic aesthetes the Sitwells and even to the legendary salons conducted by Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas at 27 Rue de Fleurus.

He must have cut quite a figure. Sergei was an incorrigible dandy, and he wore a bow tie at all times. According to one story, told by a former archbishop of San Francisco, he was notorious for attending Mass in full makeup. Nicolas’ son Ivan is now in his 60s, too young to really remember Sergei, but he remembers his mother’s account of him. According to her, Sergei was “the nicest of all the Nabokovs … a sweet, funny man … much nicer, much more dependable and much funnier than all the rest of them.”

According to Ledkovsky, Sergei was deeply kind, “always a gentleman,” devoted to music but also steeped in Russian, French and English poetry — all languages that, along with German, he spoke fluently. “He could recite anything by heart, and when he recited poetry, he would not stutter at all.” He was also himself a poet, in her opinion a good one, though none of his work survives. “He was a very talented, brilliant man,” says Ledkovsky. “If he were not so timid and shy, if he didn’t feel so … out of place, who knows? He might have been the equal of Vladimir.”

The story of Sergei’s life in Paris has a Cinderella ending. Sometime in the late ’20s or early ’30s he met and fell in love with a wealthy, aristocratic Austrian, whom Nabokov’s biographies have heretofore referred to as “Hermann.” After a great deal of research, he emerges as one Hermann Thieme.

Charming, handsome, something of a dilettante, Thieme was the son of an insurance magnate. His family owned (and still owns) Schloss Weissenstein, a magnificent 12th century castle in the tiny Alpine village of Matrei im Osttirol near Innsbruck, Austria. During the ’30s Hermann and Sergei often retreated to Schloss Weissenstein. Iva Formigoni, Hermann’s niece, now lives in Milan, Italy, but she still remembers the two of them lounging around the castle grounds together and playing tennis and bridge with her and her parents. When Sergei came to stay with Ledkovsky’s family in Berlin, he kept a picture of Hermann on his night table. (“I immediately noticed him,” she says, “because he was so extremely good-looking!”)

In a letter that Sergei wrote to his mother, he describes the joy his relationship with Hermann gave him. “It’s all such a strange story, sometimes even I don’t understand how it happened … I’m just suffocating with happiness.” Some of Sergei’s shyness seems finally to have left him. “There are people,” he wrote, “who would not understand this, to whom such things would be completely incomprehensible. They would rather see me in Paris, barely surviving by giving lessons, and in the end a deeply unhappy creature. There is talk about my ‘reputation’ and so on. But I think that you will understand, understand that all those who do not accept and do not understand my happiness are strangers to me.”

Was his own brother one of those strangers? After Vladimir met Hermann for the first time, he described the scene to his wife in a letter: “The husband, I must admit, is very pleasant, quiet, not at all the pederast type, attractive face and manner. All the same I felt rather uncomfortable, especially when one of their friends came up, red-lipped and curly.”

Nabokov simply didn’t like homosexuals. Even after Sergei’s death, Nabokov used homophobic slurs that make the modern reader cringe. In one letter he describes Taos, N.M., where he spent a summer, as “a dismal hole full of third-rate painters and faded pansies.” And he referred to gay Russian critic Georgy Adamovich as “Sodomovich.”

According to Andrew Field, his first biographer, Nabokov considered homosexuality to be a hereditary illness. Nabokov’s homophobia is in fact one of the dirty little secrets of 20th century literature, on a par with T.S. Eliot’s anti-Semitism. “I believe Nabokov was quite homophobic,” says Galya Diment, vice president of the Nabokov Society and a professor in the Slavic department at the University of Washington. “It behooves his fans and admirers to admit it — and also to regret it.”

Where did this prejudice come from, in a man who spoke out vehemently against both racism and anti-Semitism (his wife was Jewish)? Nabokov’s father, also named Vladimir, was a politician, and he was deeply involved in legislative debates over homosexuality. In pre-revolutionary Russia consensual homosexual intercourse was a crime (as it still is in parts of the United States), and although V.D. Nabokov, as he was known, argued for the decriminalization of sodomy, his attitude toward homosexuality was complicated: He made it abundantly clear that his legislative arguments were based on purely constitutional grounds, on abstract notions of freedom and privacy, and that he personally considered homosexuality to be “deeply repugnant” to any “healthy and normal” person. V.D. Nabokov died in 1922 in Berlin, shot in the chest while breaking up the attempted assassination of a visiting Russian dignitary. Nabokov’s diary records that in their last conversation, the night before, Vladimir and his father had discussed Sergei’s “strange, abnormal inclinations.”

Abnormal or not, homosexuality was actually an important part of life in the Nabokov family. In “Speak, Memory,” we meet little Vladimir’s beloved governess, “lovely, black-haired, aquamarine-eyed Miss Norcott,” who “was asked to leave at once, one night at Abbazia.” What grown-up Vladimir doesn’t tell us is that Miss Norcott was dismissed because she was a lesbian. Nabokov also had no fewer than two gay uncles. Konstantin Nabokov, his father’s brother, was chargi d’affaires at the Russian Embassy in London. Vasily Rukavishnikov, Vladimir’s maternal uncle, was also a diplomat, though a less successful one. He did succeed, however, in making an indelible impression on his young nephew.

Uncle Ruka, as he was universally known, was a wealthy, eccentric dilettante, and there’s every indication that he was in love with the young Nabokov; certainly his attachment to his favorite nephew went beyond what was appropriate. He appears to have subjected Nabokov to a mild form of sexual abuse: “When I was eight or nine,” Nabokov writes in “Speak, Memory,” “he would invariably take me upon his knee after lunch and (while two young footmen were clearing the table in the empty dining room) fondle me, with crooning sounds and fancy endearments.” In his biography of Nabokov, Boyd notes “Humbert’s first feignedly nonchalant fumbles with Lolita,” and suggests that “the adult Nabokov’s disapproval of homosexuals and his solicitude for childhood innocence may all have their origins here.”

Like Sergei, Uncle Ruka was gay, stuttered and loved music passionately. He considered his greatest achievement to be an original poem that he set to his own accompaniment, but of all the Nabokovs it was Sergei who learned to play it by heart. Of course, Uncle Ruka paid no attention to him. When he died in 1916 he left his entire estate — a mansion, 2,000 acres of land and a fortune in rubles — to his favorite nephew, Vladimir, who was a wealthy 17-year-old for a year before the Russian Revolution took it all away again.

Since Nabokov’s death in 1977, the responsibility for managing his posthumous reputation has fallen to his son Dmitri, who is fiercely protective of his father’s public image: One member of the Nabokov family interviewed for this article later asked to retract her statements, for fear of incurring Dmitri’s wrath. Dmitri himself declined to be interviewed — “out of respect for his uncle,” according to his literary agent — but in 1997 he did take part in a revealing exchange on the Internet.

When his father’s attitude toward homosexuality came up on NABOKV-L, a public e-mail list devoted to Nabokov’s work, Dmitri leapt into the fray. “I knew it was only a matter of time before the sexual-preference police would go to town on my father,” he wrote. He summed up Nabokov’s ambivalence perfectly: “He had a sense of justice, a homosexual brother, and not one but two homosexual uncles. Among the writers he admired there were plenty of homosexuals, from Proust to Edmund White. He had a number of homosexual friends. I also know he would have been less than happy had his son inherited those genes.”

After Sergei’s death, Vladimir described him in a letter to Edmund Wilson as “a harmless, indolent, pathetic person who spent his life vaguely shuttling between the Quartier Latin and a castle in Austria.” Nabokov rarely mentioned Sergei in print — at least not by name. It wasn’t until the third published version of his “Speak, Memory” that Nabokov even felt able to include an account of Sergei’s life. In an early piece of autobiography, recently published in the New Yorker, Nabokov describes his brother “drifting in a hedonistic haze, among the cosmopolitan Montparnassian crowd that has been so often depicted by a certain type of American writer. His linguistic and musical gifts dissolved in the indolence of his nature.”

At no point did Nabokov, who in “Lolita” would wring pathos from the sufferings of a child molester, ever have the courage to publicly state that his brother was gay. “It may be a kind of prudery,” muses Michael Wood, author of a book on Nabokov, “The Magician’s Doubts,” and chairman of Princeton University’s English department. “He obviously had a terrific affection for his brother. He also had a fixed distaste for homosexuality.”

But however distasteful he found it as a person, Nabokov as a writer found homosexuality perversely irresistible, and gay characters turn up in almost every one of his 17 novels. There’s invariably something strangely wooden about them. Nabokov was the archenemy of clichi, a writer passionately committed to overturning tired literary conventions through careful observation of the real world, but his homosexual characters are as a rule egregiously stereotyped.

From the giggly ballet dancers of Nabokov’s first novel, “Mary,” to the ghastly Gaston Godin, Humbert Humbert’s neighbor in “Lolita,” to the egomaniacal narrator of “Pale Fire,” they are vain, silly, usually effeminate — he uses the word “mincing” a lot — shallow, intellectually trivial and ineffectual, and the narrator generally introduces them with a nudge and a wink and a snigger. Many of them are pedophiles. Not once did Nabokov, the master observer, describe an instance of mature love between adults of the same sex — even though a glowing example of that love was right before his eyes.

Although Nabokov’s gay characters are two-dimensional at best, Sergei found other, more interesting ways to haunt his brother’s fiction. In “The Real Life of Sebastian Knight,” Nabokov’s fictional account of a man’s attempt to write the life of his mysterious half-brother, one finds uncanny references to Sergei everywhere, from the title character’s name, which alliterates with Sergei’s, to his foppishness and his failures at sports, to a series of uneasy meetings between the brothers in Paris that closely parallels those of the real-life Nabokov brothers. “The similarities of Sebastian and Sergei fit so well together, it’s an aspect of the work that you really have to consider,” says Michael Begnal, an English professor at Wesleyan University who writes on Nabokov. “My impression was that he had to put the whole Sergei situation to rest in his own mind, and in a way that’s what he’s trying to do.”

When he learned of Sergei’s death in 1945, Nabokov was in the middle of writing “Bend Sinister,” his most political novel. Like Sergei, the hero of “Bend Sinister” speaks out against a brutally repressive regime, and like Sergei, he would pay for his courage with his life. But Nabokov’s feelings about his brother were never simple: In “Bend Sinister” it’s not the hero who’s gay but the dictator who orders his death. In 1967, when he finally told the story of Sergei’s life, Nabokov’s writing conveys a sense of unspoken strain and remorse: “For various reasons,” he writes, “I find it inordinately hard to speak about my other brother.”

In “Ada,” his longest novel and one of his last, Nabokov made his best and final attempt to come to terms with his feelings about his brother in print. “Ada” is the story of an incestuous love affair between Van Veen and Ada Veen, brother and sister. Their younger sister, Lucette, is also passionately in love with Van, and she spends most of the novel trailing around after the couple, getting in the way and generally making a pest of herself. Van’s indifference drives Lucette to despair, and toward the end of the book she throws herself from a cruise ship in the middle of the Atlantic.

Brian Boyd, who is probably the single greatest living authority on Nabokov, believes that the real inspiration for Lucette was Sergei. “The centrality of Lucette in ‘Ada,’” he argues in an e-mail, “in some ways seems to reflect Nabokov’s sense of Sergei: the non-favorite, the frail one beside his confident sibling, the concentration camp victim … the one we’re invited to ignore, and even want to dismiss from the story, but eventually realize we should never have overlooked.”

If Boyd is right, “Ada” gives us a last glimpse of Nabokov thinking about Sergei — and maybe, at last, starting to think about him in a new light. “I think that Nabokov often tries to be inhumanly secure, and confident, and happy, and unregretful,” Wood observes. “If he pulled that off, he would be a monster. It’s a fine thing to try — and an even finer thing to fail.”

Whatever peace Nabokov may have made with Sergei in fiction, it came long after Sergei’s death in fact. Did the two brothers ever bridge the gap between them? “Absolutely not” is the firm answer from Sikorski, their sister. “Perhaps the last years of his life they were closer, but otherwise never.” It can’t have helped that by all accounts Sergei didn’t get along with Vira, Nabokov’s wife.

Still, in the late ’30s, when both brothers were living in Paris, there were signs of warmth. Vladimir writes in “Speak, Memory” that they were “on quite amiable terms” at the time. When their mother died in Prague in 1939, and Vladimir was unable to get away from Paris, Sergei described the funeral for him in a letter. Writing on the spare, elegant stationery of Schloss Weissenstein, he closed the letter affectionately: “I want you to know that I am with you with all of my heart.”

If they had any last words to offer each other, Sergei and Vladimir never got to say them. In the spring of 1940 Hitler invaded France, and by May the Germans were bombing Paris. Vladimir and his family left for America on the last boat out of St. Nazaire, but Sergei was away in the countryside at the time. He returned to Paris to find their apartment suddenly empty.

He chose to stay in Europe with Hermann. The Nazis were already rounding up homosexuals as actively as they were Jews, and to avoid attracting suspicion Sergei and Hermann saw each other only rarely. Sergei took a job as a translator in Berlin, but he had no stomach for war, and the Allied bombings frightened him horribly. “He was just so terrified, poor thing,” Ledkovsky remembers. “Even my mother was consoling him.” The fighting grew more intense, and flight became impossible; Sergei had almost no money, and as a refugee from czarist Russia his only travel document was a flimsy Nansen passport.

In 1941 the Gestapo arrested Sergei on charges of homosexuality. It released him four months later, but he was placed under constant surveillance. It’s ironic that at that moment, after a lifetime of shyness and stuttering, Sergei could not keep silent. He began to speak out vehemently against the injustices of the Third Reich to his friends and colleagues. On Nov. 24, 1943, he served as best man at Ledkovsky’s wedding. Three weeks later he was arrested for the second time.

The file that the police kept on Sergei accuses him of “staatsfeindlichen Au_erungen” — subversive statements. There may have been more to the story: Princess Zinaida Shachovskaya, a fellow Russian imigri (whose relations with the Nabokov family have sometimes been strained), has written an as yet untranslated memoir in which she asserts that Sergei was in fact involved in a plot to hide an escaped prisoner of war, a former Cambridge friend who had become a pilot and been shot down over Germany.

After his arrest Sergei was taken to Neuengamme, a large labor camp near Hamburg, where he became prisoner No. 28631. Conditions were brutal: The camp was a center for medical experimentation, and the Nazis used the prisoners to conduct research on tuberculosis. Of the approximately 106,000 inmates who passed through Neuengamme, fewer than half survived, and as a rule, the guards singled out homosexuals for particularly harsh treatment.

Sergei’s conduct in the camp was nothing less than heroic. Nicolas Nabokov’s son Ivan says that after the war, survivors from Neuengamme would telephone his family out of the blue — they were the only Nabokovs in the book — just to talk about Sergei. “They said he was extraordinary. He gave away lots of packages he was getting, of clothes and food, to people who were really suffering.” Meanwhile, Hermann had also been arrested, but he was sent to fight on the front lines in Africa. He would survive. He spent his later life at Schloss Weissenstein, without a career, caring for his invalid sister. He died in 1972.

In America, Vladimir was beginning a triumphant new life. While Sergei was at Neuengamme, he spent the summer of 1944 sunning himself in Wellfleet, Mass., with Edmund Wilson and Mary McCarthy. That fall he collected butterflies for Harvard’s Museum of Comparative Zoology, enjoyed the benefits of American dentistry and taught Russian to Wellesley College undergraduates, with whom he flirted shamelessly. The New Yorker was beginning to print his poems. He became the first person under 40 to receive a Guggenheim Fellowship. He knew nothing of what was happening to his brother in Europe.

In “The Real Life of Sebastian Knight” the narrator has a dream the night before Sebastian dies. He imagines that his half-brother’s hand has been horribly maimed in an accident. In the early fall of 1945, in his apartment in Cambridge, Mass., Nabokov dreamed of his brother Sergei. He saw him lying on a bunk in a German concentration camp, in terrible pain. The next day he received a letter from a family member in Prague. According to camp records, “Sergej Nabokoff” had died on Jan. 9, 1945, of a combination of dysentery, starvation and exhaustion. Neuengamme was liberated four months later.

Why? Because although to the average surfer the pages of Amazon.com are just so much browser-window dressing, for an attention-starved author they are tiny peepholes through which a writer can eavesdrop, voyeuristically, on his or her book as it interacts with the real world. And that has some serious consequences. It’s turning Amazon into a powerful force, a force that’s changing the very structure of literary culture as we know it — a force, dear reader, that made me do terrible, terrible things.

Right off the bat I clicked on “I am the author, and I want to comment on my book,” and I even spent some time leafing through Amazon’s pages to see which of my fellow authors were experimenting with this brand-new literary form. My brief survey turned up the work of Rebecca Wells (of “Ya-Ya Sisterhood” fame), Christopher Morse (on his “Island of the Sequined Love Nun”: “It’s one thing to watch some guy on National Geographic living with the natives, it’s quite another to do it yourself”) and the innovative English novelist and essayist Alain de Botton, author of “On Love” and “How Proust Can Change Your Life.”

De Botton says he came across Amazon when he was just starting out online, and it had the same effect on him that it had on me. “I was so amazed by the site technologically that I lost my normal reserve and revealed all. Since then, I’ve lived to regret it a number of times, though there have been some nice surprises, too.” Nice indeed. De Botton posted his e-mail address, one thing led to another and, as luck would have it, one of his online correspondences eventually blossomed into a real-life, nonvirtual love affair. “It was a wonderful, unexpected event,” de Botton muses, “and far from what I had bargained for when I put my details on Amazon.”

I too would get more than I bargained for from the reading public. But my surprise wasn’t quite that nice.

It’s worth noting that nobody on the Amazon side of things monitors author postings very closely — witness the occasional amusing error. It occurred to me to wonder how Amazon even knows it’s the author who’s writing in, but on that score Bill Curry, Amazon’s director of public relations, is determined to stay mum: “That’s just something we prefer not to address.” Somebody’s paying attention, though, because my attempt to pass myself off as John Updike commenting on “In the Beauty of the Lilies” (“I’m a talented but ultimately overhyped middlebrow writer …”) failed completely.

Meanwhile, I was paying close attention to the datapoints that Amazon.com kept flowing past me in a steady stream. The site kept track of what other books the people who bought my book bought, supplying me with an ever changing cast of literary bedfellows. Me and David Remnick? Golly! (Note that the correlation doesn’t necessarily go both ways — “Warp” doesn’t show up on the page for Remnick’s “King of the World.”) I also monitored my Amazon.com sales rank, which according to Curry is computed daily — hourly for books in the top 10,000. After a hot debut in the low four figures, “Warp” descended, gracefully, to its current position of 136,495th, just behind an out-of-print edition of Samuel Richardson’s “Charles Grandison.” Whoops — make that 147,649th.

But most of all I waited — God, how hungrily I waited — for the customer reviews to start arriving. And then they did. And that’s when the ugliness began. And the lies, and the fear, and the deception.

Once the book actually hit bookstores, it didn’t take long for readers
to start speaking their minds. The first of them, as it happens, was a
friend of mine — since his name’s Max, let’s call him Max. “WARP is one
clever, stylish, and sleepless weekend in the abyss that is
life-after-college,” wrote Max. He gave it four out of five stars. So far,
so good.

But matters went downhill from there. “This book is infantile trash,”
wrote the next reader. “Rarely have I read a book quite as puerile as this
one.” One star. “Unreadably trite. The main character is extremely
self-absorbed and the narration suffers from the author’s arch media
references.” Two stars. “Worthless tripe … The world doesn’t need any
more books like this.” One star.

I’m a proud man, but my poor book was being pilloried in a public
marketplace. Action was called for! You can probably guess what happened
next. As a novelist, I’m comfortable with fictional alter egos, so I went
undercover. “I loved this book,” I wrote, posing as “a reader from” (for
some reason) “Philadelphia.” “I highly recommend it.” Five stars.

But the readers struck back. “Lame, lame, lame … I kept waiting for
the book to get better. It didn’t.” One star. “Nothing to write home about.
Read this book in 30 minutes standing up in a bookstore. Didn’t seem to
demand closer reading than that.” One star. Thanks for nothing, Washington,
D.C.

How could I stand by and watch this happen? It was like seeing your kid
die onstage in his fourth-grade musical. “To the person below who gave the
book 30 minutes, I say, keep reading!” I wrote, this time assuming the
guise of a reader from Atlanta. “It’s hilarious the way Grossman weaves the
story together … The best debut I’ve read in ages.” Five stars.

For a few months, silence from both sides. Were they on to me? Could the
readers, like killer bees, like rattlesnakes, smell my fear? Fuck ‘em, I
say! “Fabulous,” I wrote, a little hysterically, as “reader from New York”
(my disguise was wearing thin). “Utterly original … Don’t miss this –
really.” Five stars. At least I’d managed to up my average rating
(helpfully computed for me by the folks at Amazon) to a break-even two and
a half stars.

Amazon’s Curry estimates that over the course of its four-year
history, Amazon’s 6.2 million customers have contributed around 2 million
reader reviews. (Barnesandnoble.com also allows
readers to review books, although it didn’t add the feature until last
October, and participation has been sparse. So far, a spokesperson told me,
they haven’t had a single author stop by to comment on his or her own
book.) To my eye, the vast majority of the reader reviews are surprisingly
articulate and well-intentioned, although Curry did recall one instance
when a review of the Bible had to be removed because it was signed, “God.”

Christopher Morse swears by his reader reviews. “Not only do I read
them,” he told me, “but every author I know reads them, and so do agents
and editors. It’s the only forum I know of where the readers can review a
book — and as an author I’m not suspicious of some hidden agenda, which I
often am with professional reviews.” Now that Amazon is selling CDs,
musicians are getting into the act, too — if you’re a fan, don’t miss
Kristin Hersh’s eloquent commentary on her latest album, “Murder, Misery, and Then Goodnight.”

What happened to me when my readers started writing back? It wasn’t
just the loathing, although God knows that stung. It felt like an invasion
of my turf, something that flew in the face of my conviction that I, a
“professional” writer, had somehow earned the write to speak, while my
readers — rank amateurs! — hadn’t. But there’s a broader dynamic at work.

According to German philosopher Jurgen Habermas, readers and writers
have been growing apart over the past 400 years or so. In the 17th century,
the theory goes, most of the literate English-speaking people in the world
more or less knew each other, and they all read and wrote, and they all
read what each other wrote. But in the 18th century a rift opened between
readers and writers. So many people were becoming literate that not
everybody could publish anymore — there were more readers but
proportionally fewer writers. Writing became a separate, professionalized
craft, something qualified writers did to make money, rather than something
all literate people did as a matter of course.

Which pretty much brings us up to the present day. But Habermas didn’t
count on the Internet. Whatever else it may or may not be doing, the Net is
pushing the pendulum back the other way, narrowing and blurring the
Habermasian rift between professional writers and their readers by giving
the readers a chance to talk back. Writers are getting to know their
readers again — and like two people who’ve been in the sack together but
have never actually seen each other by daylight, sober, the encounter is
more than a little awkward.

In October, exactly a year after “Warp’s” official publication date, the
last (so far) of my customer comments appeared. It stuck to the formula.
“Not only did I not like this book,” a reader from Los Angeles wrote, “but
I resent the fact I spent time reading it. I strongly suggest that this
book remain unread.” One star.

I blinked. Yes, it still hurt. De Botton tells me that he doesn’t even
read his reader reviews on Amazon: “I get too sad if anyone is nasty about
me.” I sympathize. But I’m also toughening up. Rereading my latest pan
today, I think: Is that the best you can do, reader? This town is big
enough for the two of us. Bring it on, I say! I’ve seen worse.