Michael David-Fox. Amerikanskaia rusistika: Vekhi istoriografii poslednikh let. Sovetskii period. Antologiia. Samara: Samarskii Universitet, 2001. 376 pp. No price listed (cloth), ISBN 978-5-86465-185-8.

Reviewed by Alexei Kojevnikov (Institute for History of Science and Technology, Moscow, and University of Georgia, Athens)
Published on H-Russia (March, 2003)

This anthology includes some of the best examples of recent American historiography of Russia and the Soviet Union. The first volume, devoted to the Imperial period, appeared in 2000; the second one, reviewed here, deals primarily with Soviet history. Michael David-Fox very selectively chose seven articles and book chapters of practically classic stature, the ones that are--or should be--studied in any graduate program in the field. As the familiar texts appear together in translation, they attain an additional meaning as a volume representing a particular scholarly community to Russian audiences. I am thus writing this review from the perspective of an imagined Russian reader.

The U.S. tradition of Russian studies obviously acquired its distinctive character from having come of age in the crucible of the Cold War and being in the focus of strong political and ideological pressures during almost the entire period of its existence. In the preface to the volume, P. S. Kabytov and O. B. Leont'eva remind readers that the field of Soviet history as pursued in America should not be confused with sovietology. Indeed, while the latter and its successor disciplines remained so mired in ideological prejudices that their academic reputation can probably no longer be salvaged, the former has come a long way towards emancipation from the mentality of confrontation. The adoption of the word 'rusistika' for the title page--a slight misnomer, but free from undesired connotations--helps highlight the intended distinction.

With apologies for unavoidable simplification, David-Fox summarizes the development of the field as a tale of three academic generations, which are, of course, ideal types or major trends rather than much more diverse real communities.[1] The "fathers" can be modeled symbolically by a scholarly figure active around the 1950s, often with some intellectual indebtedness to the Russian emigration and a special interest in the political history of the period leading directly into the Revolution. For such a scholar, the tasks of historical investigation--for example, finding possible or lost alternatives to the Bolsheviks--served an additional higher goal of understanding what went wrong and preventing the looming threat of communism elsewhere. The "sons" (or, better, deti, in the original, gender-neutral expression) matured in the 1960s, accepted the USSR as a reality, managed to travel to the real Soviet Union for a year of graduate studies, and embraced the new genre of social history of the masses and common folk. Their special interest lay in the revolutionary decades prior to the mid-1930s, and their higher motivation came from a different set of values: in part, from a wish for better socialist alternatives to Stalinism, but more broadly, from the domestic rebellion against anticommunism, the "fathers'" ideology that had driven America into the Vietnam debacle.

The "grandchildren" methodologically switched to cultural history, while their chronological interests, following the fashion of Gorbachev's perestroika, moved emphatically into the Stalin period. Meanwhile, the standards of professional practice changed abruptly, thanks to the opening of the Soviet archives. Although the current generation might wish to present itself as less dependent upon political emotion, it is as strongly contingent on its own formative experience--the anticommunist revolutions of the 1980s--as previous ones were on the Cold War and the Vietnam War. The end of the Soviet system in Europe produced a powerful impression that has since been coloring the "grandchildren's" way of looking back at the historical past, and will probably continue do so until some new formative event of comparable historical importance occurs. Yet, with the USSR phenomenon now placed squarely in the past, rather than in the feared future or real present, this generation's higher goal has become uplifting the field of Soviet history into historical scholarship proper, as methodologically sophisticated and academically balanced as the histories of other and more distant cultures and periods.

This basic attitude is actually shared by all the authors in the anthology, even if they belong to different generations in real life and may pursue otherwise divergent approaches. To succeed in the desired transformation, one needs, besides improved methodological weaponry, also to cleanse the field's Augean stables, disposing of the half-century accumulation of prejudices brought there mostly by osmosis from the larger society and polity. It is thus not surprising that most papers in the collection have to position themselves against some powerful historiographic "myths" widely held among the general public, mass media, and fellow historians.

Peter Holquist's "Information is the Alpha and Omega of our Work" (1997) opens up a comparative analysis of the rise of the "surveillance," or "national security" state. In 1913 Tsarist security police employed about fifty censors to search for subversive elements by monitoring the subjects' private correspondence. In 1920 about 10,000 such censors worked in the Bolshevik service with a much more comprehensive job assignment: the state bureaucracy collected, analyzed, and tried to influence an extremely broad range of views and opinions deemed politically important, that were circulating among the population. Holquist's unnamed "opponents" who wrote on the Bolshevik surveillance before had the judgment prepared in advance: for them, the development illustrated either the "totalitarian" nature of the communist regime or the "autocratic" nature of the Russian society both before and after the revolution. Holquist, however, investigates prior to making conclusions and reveals a different, gloomier picture.

He finds mass surveillance born as a broad international phenomenon in the cataclysm of World War I. It was first introduced into the fighting armies to monitor the mood of soldiers and subsequently extended to civilian populations as well. In Russia, the war practices of the Imperial army were adopted and greatly developed by the Civil War regimes, both White and Red, across the political spectrum. Other belligerent nations instituted similarly vast apparata of surveillance, with, for example, post-war Britain having higher per capita density of postal censors than Bolshevik's Russia. Those disturbed by an apparent loss of the comfortably familiar polar contrast between "us" and "them" may still reach out for some important difference--what kind of information was collected and disseminated, how it was used, and with what consequences for individuals and societies in general. Holquist, inspired by Foucault, abandons the Manichean approach for a comparative one, in which different bureaucratic systems of surveillance are seen as a family of related practices, symptomatic of the emerging twentieth-century methods of controlling populations in developed societies.[2] I am inclined to concur: if, for the sake of brevity, personal experience can be allowed, I for one felt a much stronger pressure from surveillance here during the computerized (yet still relatively innocent) 1990s, than back there, in the USSR of the 1970s.

Alfred Rieber's "Persistent Factors in Russian Foreign Policy" (1993) originally appeared in a research volume on Imperial, not Soviet, Russia, but the topic of his paper--the myths of the "Russian menace" and the "aspiration to world domination"--continued to be at least as influential during the twentieth century as in the century before. Rieber criticizes three persistent tropes that each have claimed to provide an exclusive "explanation" of why Russia's territory increased so dramatically over the centuries: geographical determinism (landlocked Empire), political determinism (Asiatic despotism or Russian autocracy), and ideological determinism (Russian messianism, or the "Third Rome" idea). Originally designed to suit the Tsarist Empire, these vintage arguments were used in analyses and predictions on Soviet foreign policy almost to the end, until their analytical impotence revealed itself too manifestly during Gorbachev's time. Rieber explains that history, unlike myth, does not derive from one single explanatory idea. He suggests a less deterministic scheme that allows a window of possibilities, but is still based on long-term, "persistent" factors, of which he lists four: (1) relative economic underdevelopment, (2) vulnerable borders, (3) multicultural society, and (4) marginality of culture. In his reconstruction, these major factors have been permanently in play since the fifteenth century, creating the background for Russian foreign-policy decisions, which expanded the tiny principality of Moscow into a gigantic Empire, with occasional setbacks in the sixteenth, mid-nineteenth, and early and late twentieth centuries.

Rieber's correction does repair the old schemes' primitive crudeness, yet still remains within the confines of the old discourse by looking at Russian imperialism as a phenomenon entirely sui generis, rather than part of more general, European and global imperialism.[3] This tacit assumption leads one to look only for causes peculiarly Russian, whereas the feature one endeavors to explain is not specifically Russian at all, but common to all empires. The tradition of such tortured argument is over a hundred years old in the Anglophone literature. Back then, in the late nineteenth century, Russian imperialists claimed that the vastness of territorial expansion rivaling that of the British Empire was the proof of Russia's legitimate place among other "civilized" (=colonial) powers. British imperial ideologues were busy warning against Russian "expansionism," but refused to see themselves as part of the problem. They needed to craft their arguments in such a way as to avoid unwelcome parallels and "discover" causes of Russian colonial advances--be they geographical, political, or ideological--that were applicable to Russia alone. The Cold War authors found such logic (or rather lack thereof) equally appealing and upheld the tradition, but historians today need not continue with this strongly limited discourse. Once Russian imperialism is considered within its proper context, rather than in artificial isolation from other species of its kind, it will be possible to see more clearly its features, both generic, such as territorial expansion, and more specific ones, for example lack of racism.

A chapter from Katerina Clark's Petersburg, Crucible of Cultural Revolution (1995) discusses an extremely difficult, possibly unanswerable, problem of a change in cultural style, in her case from the revolutionary avant-garde to socialist realism, or Stalinist culture. Historical reconstructions often feel obliged to claim knowing why such transitions happened the way they actually did, and exactly when. In the Soviet case, in particular, it was often taken for granted that the dramatic cultural change had to be ordered from above. Clark rejects the temptation to write history according to "socialist realist canons." With great aesthetic sensitivity, she monitors the messiness of cultural life in Leningrad during the 1920s, covering roughly one year per book chapter and trying to understand which events represented "trends," rather than mere occurrences. As she comes to the relatively uneventful year of 1925, Clark recognizes in some developments the roots of the soon-to-be-seen Stalinist style, thus dating the transition several years earlier than most historians.

To be sure, little if anything was yet certain in the pluralistic and incoherent cultural landscape of that year. A few groups of artistic militants started demanding stronger political control of the arts, only to be publicly rebuked by prominent Bolshevik leaders who were in favor of the NEP-style collaboration with "bourgeois" artists. The film director Eisenstein, the novelist Gladkov, and the painter Brodsky produced important works that a decade later would jointly constitute the canon of socialist realism, but back in 1925 these works were still seen as belonging to different, even rival artistic trends. The arrival of imported Hollywood movies became another major source for the future socialist art, but even though the two genres are very similar aesthetically, ideological protocol required that their representatives speak dismissively of each other. Perhaps the closest anticipation of the later Stalinist culture can be seen in the mood of calming down after several years of exhaustive revolutionary hype, abandonment of the most extreme forms of iconoclasm and utopia, and the psychological need for a consolidation of sorts. Yet this mood was not going to last long: in a few years it would explode into another paroxysm of emotion, before calming down once again, in that second attempt finally crystallizing into the socialist-realist cultural conglomerate of the 1930s. So was, then, the future Stalinist style born around 1925? Clark seems to be saying yes, but only in potentia, as scattered elements not yet unified in any way. In exercising caution, I feel, she is paying proper respect to the self-contradictory cultural material she deals with. After all, writers and artists don't live according to one and the same cultural chronometer, especially in the periods when time moves too fast.

The problem of classes in Soviet society, with its specific system of political and economic privileges, is equally unyielding, having bogged down no lesser experts than Trotzky and Djilas. In "Ascribing Class: The Construction of Social Identity in Soviet Russia" (1993), Sheila Fitzpatrick proposes a novel approach by analyzing rules of class discrimination for groups such as kulaks, clergy, and "byvshie" (has-beens, ci-devant), who were officially denied important political and economic rights until the late 1930s. The process of sorting people out was extremely strenuous, messy, and painful, which Fitzpatrick interprets as resulting from a combination of the Bolshevik insistence that their policies must be based on the Marxist notion of class, and the fact that classes in the Marxist sense of stable economical categories hardly existed in Soviet Russia. The developing pre-revolutionary class system was largely destroyed, while the new society was still too unsettled and turbulent to form any stable identities. In that situation, the social categories ascribed to people by various state agencies, according to Fitzpatrick, were not the classes they pretended to be, but estates, legal definitions of a citizen's status, privileges, and obligations, similar to those that existed in the old Empire.

It still needs to be said in the Bolsheviks' defense that they must have understood the difficulty. Their language was overfilled with "class" when they were discussing issues of ideology and big politics. When issuing bureaucratic papers to particular individuals, however, they tended to shift their terminology, eventually settling on "social origin" (sotsial'noe proiskhozhdenie) and "social position" (sotsial'noe polozhenie). Those who designed the ubiquitous Stalinist questionnaires were thus aware that, notwithstanding general declarations of practicing the "class approach," the classificatory categories were not standard Marxist classes, but other social markers deemed more applicable to bureaucratic intents and purposes of the state. Fitzpartick has uncovered one of the central contradictions in early Soviet social policies, and by including in the equation Bolsheviks' own perceptions of the difficulties they faced, one can advance further in understanding their persistent attempts to fix protean identities in the fluid social dynamics of the revolutionary decades. One of the most popular markers identified people by their (or their parents') status before the revolution, which was often understood in terms of legal estates as they had existed previously. Some newly developed labels partially resembled estates, too, yet the difficulty here remains, I think, the same as with classes, in the unstable and therefore tentative nature of most post-revolutionary identities, including the ascribed ones. Perhaps the problem can be approached from another end: if one studies the eventual outcome in the more regular and hierarchical late Soviet society, its settled patterns, once understood, can throw a revealing light back onto the mixed and contradictory nature of the transitional state.

It is always a pleasure to argue with David Joravsky, especially since his anthology entry, "The Stalinist Mentality and Higher Learning" (1983), was so important for my own education in the field. Joravsky rejects as thoughtless the basic habit of sovietologists of analyzing almost any Soviet development in terms of the opposition between ideology (or "hardliners") and pragmatism, which in the field of history of science takes the form of a still persisting myth that Soviet ideology was hostile to the development of modern science. For example, quantum theory and Einstein's relativity are often alleged to have been spared an ideological ban only thanks to their practical importance for the development of nuclear weapons. Joravsky points out that pragmatism is already an ideological notion and that Soviet ideology included it as a core element. He explains the particular Stalinist version of pragmatic argument, the "relationship between theory and practice," which he sees responsible for what one may call the "paradox of Soviet science": on the one hand, the great value attached to science and the extraordinary successes of modern science achieved during the years of Stalin's rule, while on the other, extreme inconsistency in philosophical pronouncements, with evaluations of particular theories often fluctuating back and forth between inflated enthusiasm and ideological accusations. At one juncture, the government threw huge support behind modern genetics and its agricultural applications; a couple of decades later it declared the mainstream approach in genetics wrong, idealist, and racist, thus terminating established research programs. Standardized tests were once embraced as pedagogy's main tool in eliminating class privileges in education; later they were politically condemned for allegedly helping to preserve the very same privileges and abandoned in favor of traditional examinations.

For Joravsky, this irrational wavering signifies that anticommunists and communists were equally mistaken in characterizing (classical) Marxism as a comprehensive, all-pervasive ideology: as far as science was concerned, it came out rather empty and could not offer much in terms of consistently guiding principles. My diagnosis is that ambivalence and inconsistency in application does not necessarily mean the lack of basic ideas as such, but even Joravsky's more dismissive formulation still earned him accusations of "rehabilitating Marxism" from some colleagues back in the 1980s. In order to understand the apparent contradictions in science policies in the USSR, insists Joravsky, one should always keep in mind the Soviet politicians' belief that their decisions in each particular case were pragmatic, and not merely ideologically correct. Later archival studies have vindicated Joravsky's general prediction, if not necessarily his reconstructions in individual cases. Writing in the 1980s, without access to archives, one could only make clever guesses about politicians' undeclared goals and motivations in particular situations. Now, with documentary information gradually filling in many gaps, Soviet decisions appear less illogical or incomprehensible, but caused by genuine, practical problems. An intellectual historian par excellence, Joravsky knew even back then that at the most basic level those problems were not uniquely Soviet, but versions of a general contradiction between the necessity somehow to coordinate science, politics, and ideology in any real society, and the impossibility of genuinely reconciling them with each other.[4]

Stephen Kotkin's argument in "Speaking Bolshevik," a chapter from Magnetic Mountain: Stalinism as a Civilization (1995), opens with a question posed earlier by the historian Donald Filtzer: if Stalinist industrialization brought in higher levels of exploitation, why didn't Soviet workers resist and defend their class interests? (Some Soviet commentators, as I recall, were similarly puzzled that American workers show less class activism, despite a higher degree of exploitation, than their counterparts in Europe). To these Marxist questions there exists a Leninist answer: the intensity of class struggle depends not only on objectively existing interests, but also on how these interests are understood, i.e. on class consciousness. The new cultural history thinks similarly, and Kotkin offers a detailed study of how workers at the great Magnitogorsk metallurgical combine understood themselves and the conditions of their labor throughout the volatile 1930s. He first explains Bolshevik views on labor in the new Soviet society: namely, the ideology that glorified manual work and the workers' social status as nominal ruling class and owners of the production, cultivated their corporate pride, encouraged communal solidarity and commitment to the factory's success, promoted professional and general education, and created moral and material stimuli for overachievement at work. He then finds that workers often expressed themselves through their own words and deeds, in both official and unofficial situations, with the help of very similar categories. Their self-identification thus reveals the strong influence of the Bolshevik discourse and worldview.

Kotkin discusses further whether such beliefs were sincere and whether the Soviet system enjoyed popular support. To a Russian, the question is rather a no-brainer: even now, many continue to identify with Soviet values, and a great many more did back then, of course, in a variety of forms. One could simply trust the authorities, another saw the gap with reality, yet did not waver in commitment to the ideal, yet another privately disapproved of particular policies or political leaders, but identified with Soviet society at large. Many kept their strong beliefs even in the face of their own or relatives' arrest, and some were led into a rebellion against the regime in the name of its proclaimed values, all of which shows that Soviet identity was a wider cultural phenomenon, transcending the political regime per se. Anticommunists often had a hard time grasping this, and in their disbelief suspected an ever watchful NKVD agent behind any expression of Soviet convictions by a commoner. Kotkin shares similar suspicions and discusses them with seriousness unexpected from a cultural historian. In doing so, he overlooks more obvious and mundane sources of identity-building, such as peer pressure, education, and adult schooling (the latter must have been particularly important, given the degree of illiteracy among workers prior to their arrival in Magnitogorsk). His conclusion that, after all, we should accept the reality of other peoples' beliefs, even if we disagree with them, is hardly meant for historians, who should have known this axiom from the start. He either has in mind the audience of unreconstructed readers raised on anticommunist literature or is trying to pacify an inner Sovietologist.

"This is a communal apartment! This is a communal country!" sang a pop band during Gorbachev's time, ironically comparing the microcosm of a crowded apartment, its multinational dwellers and their minor squabbles, to the macrocosm of the larger Soviet Union. In "The USSR as a Communal Apartment, or How a Socialist State Promoted Ethnic Particularism" (1994), Yuri Slezkine reverses the metaphor, using the apartment as model to illustrate the Soviet-type solution to the nationality question. In the wisdom of many "experts," a failure to satisfactorily resolve this question led to the eventual breakup of the USSR. Slezkine argues that the problem was not that the solution did not work, but rather that it worked too well. Soviet nationality policy was founded upon belief in the objective reality of nationalities with such natural rights as the right for territory, language, culture, education, self-governance, and self-determination. These policies operated in one of the world's ethnically most mixed countries, with hundreds of languages and groups--nobody knew exactly how many. Eager to bring the messy reality into correspondence with its essentialist worldview, the Soviet state initiated a colossal nationality-building project, during which national identities were created where they might not have existed before, written languages developed for the groups that previously lacked them, along with literatures and education in native tongues, national territories demarcated and native cadres promoted to positions of power. Some of the national "rooms" within the larger Soviet "apartment" thus acquired identities, boundaries, and infrastructure that enabled their subsequent transition to independence, once the common principle that tied them together--the communist power--started collapsing.

Slezkine describes frequent instances in which, despite occasional objections by some communist insiders, the goal of promoting underprivileged national minorities took precedence over the ideologically more important principle of advancing lower classes. Though dubbed "internationalist," "Soviet nationality policy," he writes, "was designed and carried out by nationalists" (p. 329). I think "multi-nationalism" would be a more appropriate term--in the meaning akin to the current meaning of "multiculturalism"--because of the plurality of nationality-building projects and the ultimate goal of achieving their best possible equality. The enormous complexity of the ethnic map, with communities of all sizes, needs, levels of development, and mixed areas of living, required difficult compromises and ultimately gave almost every group some reason to complain. In the overall balance, however, larger gains were typically made by nations that formed union republics rather than by smaller nationalities, or Russians, the once entirely dominant ethnos. The Soviet republics' constitutional right to become independent, which for a long time sounded like a hollow phrase, in the end proved to be the key to their practical separation in a legal and nonviolent manner. In retrospect, one can characterize the peaceful dissolution of the union not only as a failure, but also as the ultimate triumph of Stalinist nationality policies.[5] On the heels of that last Soviet achievement-in-failure--the transition from Soviet republics to nation-states--came the tide of what I would really call nationalism, no longer constrained by the communist-endorsed emphasis on "multi" and with correspondingly lesser respect for the rights of national minorities.

A few general observations about the state of the field can be made on the basis of this limited but highly qualified and representative collection. A Russian reader probably first notices the degree to which the long legacy of the Cold War, and of the more recent post-communist resurgence of anticommunism, continues to weigh upon academic research. Even the best and most sophisticated historians constantly need to refute various popular myths and misconceptions that continue to actively circulate and proliferate in the non-academic literature and media, and from out there, over and over again, reenter academic discourse. This problem is not likely to subside quickly, since academics have limited influence on the broader political and ideological currents. What can be accomplished within the field itself, however, is an important self-check for other, subtler and deeply rooted legacies: the ones that have been around for so long that they may no longer be perceived as prejudices, have practically entered the unconscious, and can reappear even in the works of well-intentioned scholars.

Second, with the bulk of attention given during the last decade to the history of the Stalin era, a tendency has developed--expressed quite strongly in the reviewed volume--to conflate the Soviet phenomenon with Stalinism, and to feel that one can understand the former by studying the latter and generalizing upon it. Here we are likely to see an important change soon, once historians start looking in earnest into the history of late Soviet society. Several pioneering investigations suggest that under the cover of a rather conservative program of preserving the Soviet status quo, some deep changes, almost reversals, took place.[6] Many of our generalizations and conceptual tools developed and sharpened in the studies of Stalinism may thus well prove unsuited for analyzing the latter half of Soviet history. At least, we should be prepared for such a possibility.

Another trend that can be seen as rising is sometimes called "putting Soviet history back into European context," which actually means leaving behind us the polar vision of the world. Much as they boasted about their "socialist" uniqueness, Soviet communists dealt with many of the same problems that plagued other modern societies in the twentieth century. They were also sensitive to the international trends of their days, in some cases adopting solutions found elsewhere (even if naming them differently), or becoming the first to try certain debated reforms, putting them in practice faster, more fully, or in a more radical form than other societies. In other cases, they invented novel solutions which then spread widely and influenced international developments (sometimes also under modified names). The ideological establishments on both sides of the "Iron Curtain" ignored this integrated social dynamics of the twentieth century and insisted on seeing things as opposite, even if they happened to look related. Historians, too (with some prominent exceptions), were influenced by this ideological imperative: they emphasized contrasts, excelled in making "otherness," while turning a blind eye or putting different labels on similar or interdependent trends. This tradition still carries on, by inertia, but is starting to be challenged from all sides, as reflected in Holquist's "surveillance," Slezkine's "(multi)-nationalism," Clark's "socialist realism" as a version of Hollywood aesthetics (or vice versa), or Kotkin's description of the propaganda methods used to make workers feel as if their interest and the interests of the company were one and the same. Once serious attention is granted to such parallels and connections that have previously been largely ignored, we can certainly expect a wealth of interesting new findings and a change in the overall perspective, quite possibly leading towards a new integrated vision of the twentieth-century history. Therein, I think, lies the next major conceptual advance in the field.

Notes [1]. In the introduction to the first volume of the anthology: M. Devid-Foks, "Vvedenie: Ottsy, deti, i vnuki v amerikanskoi istoriografii tsarskoi Rossii," in Amerikanskaia rusistika: Vekhi istoriografii poslednikh let. Imperatorskii period (Samara, 2000).

[2]. See more in the forthcoming Cultivating the Masses: The Modern Social State in Russia, 1914-1941, by David L. Hoffmann and Peter Holquist.

[3]. In another paper, "Russian Imperialism: Popular, Emblematic, Ambiguous" (Russian Review (1994), 53: 331-335), Rieber argues for the need of a broader comparative view, yet in the reviewed article he follows the more traditional approach.

[4]. The other major theme of Joravsky's paper, the critique of "technocratic" pragmatism as a way of trying to hide and ignore the existence of such irreconcilable contradictions, is more important for discussing the problems of today's societies and, to a lesser degree, late Soviet society, than for the Stalinist period as such. The theme requires, in any case, much longer discussion than this review allows.

[5]. Overall, I would evaluate the general results of the Soviet liberation project in the following way: it betrayed peasants, was rather unimpressive (if compared to social-democracy) with regard to workers, achieved important, if limited progress in women's liberation, and greatly advanced the national liberation movement, both within the Russian imperial reach and beyond its limits. Of all the major initial goals proclaimed by the international communist movement, which in the beginning were all seen as all too radical and utopian, the one that eventually happened to be realized most fully is the destruction of the old colonial system and the demand of national independence for colonial peoples.

[6]. In my special field, such a study has been conducted by Konstantin Ivanov, "Science after Stalin: Forging a New Image of Soviet Science," Science in Context (2002), 15: 317-338.

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Citation: Alexei Kojevnikov. Review of David-Fox, Michael, Amerikanskaia rusistika: Vekhi istoriografii poslednikh let. Sovetskii period. Antologiia. H-Russia, H-Net Reviews. March, 2003.
URL: http://www.h-net.org/reviews/showrev.php?id=7367

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