A garden, like the self, has ''so many layers and winding paths, real or imagined, that it can never be known, completely, even by the most intimate of friends,'' writes Anne Raver in ''My Invisible Garden,'' her contribution to this marvelous collection of gardening essays, many by literary luminaries. Edith Wharton ruminates on Italian groves and their ''general effect of enchantment.'' Henry David Thoreau rails against his yard's worst enemies (''worms, cool days, and most of all woodchucks''). Virginia Woolf speaks of ''the gardens full of lust and bees, mingling in the asparagus beds,'' and E.B. White recalls wife Katharine (a New Yorker editor) pulling weeds while wearing a pair of Ferragamos. Though many pieces in The Writer in the Garden are just two or three pages long, each is a fully realized, sometimes irreverent, meditation. A
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