A dash of openness can be a dangerous thing in an autocratic state.
 Mikhail  Gorbachev discovered this two decades ago when his campaign to inject some  daylight into Soviet society doubled back on him like a heat-seeking missile.  
 Now China's leaders are playing with the same volatile political chemistry as  they give their own citizens and the world an unexpectedly vivid look at the  earthquake devastation in the nation's southwest regions. The rulers of cyclone-battered  Myanmar, by contrast, are sticking with the authoritarian playbook, limiting  access and even aid to the stricken delta region where tens of thousands of  people were killed by the storm.
 While China's response to its natural catastrophe is certainly more humane,  and is only a small step toward openness, it could set in motion political  forces that might, over time, be unsettling. That's especially true in an age of  instant communications, even in a nation like China, which tries to control  Internet access.
 "When you start opening up and loosen controls, it becomes a slippery slope,"  Jack F. Matlock Jr., the American ambassador to Moscow during much of the  Gorbachev period, said last week as he watched the events in China. "You quickly  become a target for everyone with a grievance and before long people go after  the whole system."
 Chinese leaders are well aware of the Soviet experience. The bloody crackdown  against the democracy movement in Tiananmen Square in 1989 seemed motivated in  part by fears that a relaxation of repression would lead to a replay of Soviet  turbulence in China. It was no accident that China was the first country to  translate and reprint Mr. Matlock's 1995 account of the demise of the Soviet  Union, "Autopsy on an Empire." 
 And China has taken a different reform path, in effect offering its people  robust economic growth, with a degree of responsiveness when problems can be  blamed on local officials, in exchange for continued one-party rule. Playing up  the response to the earthquake, even as China restricts coverage of repression  in Tibet, could prove a shrewd move, rather than one that cascades into  instability. 
 Still, it is worth recalling a time when a little openness flew out of  control. 
 As a correspondent and bureau chief for The New York Times in Moscow in the  late 1980s, I had a ringside seat to observe the slow disintegration of the  Soviet Union under Mr. Gorbachev. The collapse of the Soviet empire and  dissolution of the Communist Party were not exactly what he had in mind when he  took power in 1985 and launched his twin policies of glasnost (greater openness)  and perestroika (political reform).
 As events unfolded, it was like watching a scientist start a nuclear chain  reaction that races out of control, eventually consuming him and all those  around him.
 Mr. Gorbachev realized his country was rotting from within, paralyzed by  repression and ideological rigidity, a backward economy and a deep cynicism  among Russians about their government. "We can't go on living like this," he  told his wife, Raisa, hours before he was named Soviet leader, he recalled in  his 1995 memoirs.
 But he clearly had no inkling of where his initiatives were headed when,  shortly after taking office, he broke new ground for a Kremlin leader by  mingling with citizens in Leningrad and giving unscripted interviews.
 In those early days of glasnost, it was hard to tell whether the changes were  purely superficial or the start of something more profound.
 One day in late 1985, Allen  Ginsberg, the American beat poet, unexpectedly turned up at the Moscow  bureau of The Times, bearing a package from Yevgeny Yevtushenko, the Soviet  poet. It was the text of a speech that Mr. Yevtushenko had given to the Writer's  Union.
 Serge Schmemann, my colleague, described it a few days later in a front-page  story: "The session was a closed one, but even so the poet's strong words  against distortion of history, against censorship, self-flattery, silence and  privilege in the world of letters were strikingly bold." 
 As glasnost gathered force in the years that followed, it ripped away the  layers of deceit that were the foundation of the Soviet state. Each step  undermined the authority of the party and the government.
 The explosion of a nuclear reactor at Chernobyl in April 1986 shattered the  Kremlin's credibility — and gave a powerful impetus to glasnost. The Kremlin,  like the Burmese leaders after the cyclone, seemed paralyzed by the accident.  The first government announcement — an innocuous 44 words — came more than a day  after the reactor meltdown, and hours after Sweden detected alarming levels of  radiation in its air, 800 miles north of Chernobyl. 
 The glacial flow of information imperiled thousands of people living in the  accident area. Mr. Gorbachev, embarrassed by the debacle, redoubled his efforts  to make the government and party more transparent. 
 The truth about Stalin's brutality, and even Lenin's, was exposed as a bright  floodlight illuminated the hidden recesses of Soviet history. Newspapers and  journals wrote honestly for the first time about government corruption and  mismanagement. Artists, playwrights, filmmakers and writers looked unsparingly  at the abuses of the Soviet system. 
 "Children of the Arbat," a long-suppressed, unvarnished novel about life  under Stalin by Anatoly Rybakov, was the sensation of Moscow when it was  published in 1987. "Repentance," a bitingly satirical film about Stalinism, was  freed from the censors the same year. 
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