Congratulations are due the writer of this next article, as he was the winner at
LoneStarCon of the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer (and Michael's next
story will be in the June 1998 issue of Analog). But Michael is also an
accomplished fan writer; he missed making the Hugo Ballot in that category by just
seven nominations. The topic of this, Michael's third article for us, is a
remembrance of Isaac Asimov, who more than five years after his death remains one of
the major influences on new writers like Michael, as well as the science fiction
genre as a whole.  I first met Isaac Asimov on Sunday,
November 4, 1979. That date is very important to me, and it is only by sheer luck
that I happen to know it so exactly. I was only nine years old at the time; it
wasn't like I was keeping track of the importance of daily events in my life. Very
little surrounding that date remains etched in my mind; and yet, I remember meeting
Asimov very well. I don't remember the whole incident as if it were yesterday, but
I do recall an image or two which I know were true.My father, Joel, was completely
responsible for this first meeting. He had noticed in the newspaper that Asimov
would be appearing at Eeyore's, a children's bookstore, and for some reason he
decided that it was important enough for him to drag my older brother Jonathan, my
younger brother Joshua, and myself from our home in Forest Hills, Queens to the
Manhattan store that afternoon to meet him. My father had not yet turned fifty
years old on that day, and Asimov was close to turning sixty.What I remember most about that
afternoon was feeling so small, standing next to this great, odd-looking man with
thick glasses and long sideburns, who was seated before me. I also remember that
Eeyore's had not stocked many Asimov books for this appearance, which made very
little sense, but my father found a copy of The Best of Isaac Asimov, a
collection of science fiction stories, and we bought it for Asimov to sign. Which
he did sign -- to my brother Jonathan, which today strikes me as delightfully ironic.
Asimov also dated his signature, which is why I know the precise date.# # # #
The second time I met Isaac Asimov
he was already beginning to influence me in ways I didn't realize, but soon after he
began to influence me in ways that I fully acknowledged. This will require a little
background explanation.On Monday, March 19, 1984, I began
to keep a diary. Amusingly, the first reason I did so was not to preserve my life
story on paper, but to teach myself how to write. I was in 9th grade at Hunter
College High School, and a group of friends and I decided that we wanted to write a
book. To make it official, we formed a school club called 'Bookwriters' which met
every week, during which meetings we would plan out characters, chapters, and decide
who would write what.For some reason during this year, I
picked up Dracula by Bram Stoker, and devoured it. I was impressed with the
way he wrote it as a series of letters and diaries; not realizing that this was a
standard epistolary technique used in many gothics, I saw it as an innovation used
by Stoker to make the fantastic elements of his novel seem more real. After all,
it's one thing to read a story, obviously written as fiction; but it's quite another
thing to read someone else's mail, telling a friend of these fantastic events which
would seem untrue were it not that the writer is asserting them so vehemently.So I decided to practice this form
of writing by beginning a journal, which I kept with increasing irregularity over
the next few months, especially over the summer. It looked like an experiment of
mine which would fade out as quickly as it begun, with no real impact on my life.And then, on Sunday, September 16,
1984, I met Asimov again, at the annual "New York is Book Country" street fair on
Fifth Avenue, the first one my father took me to, but not the last. I had been
reading and enjoying a lot of Asimov's work, both his fiction and nonfiction, and
wanted to meet him again now that I had come of age, as it were. My father and I
toured the fair for a while, and then he left me at the booth where Asimov was
appearing.There wasn't a line, really, just a
small group of people milling around, and yet I couldn't bring myself to approach
Asimov. I felt a lump in my throat of fear and trepidation. Would he even be
willing to talk to me, I wondered. I stared at Asimov's face; he looked impassive
and bored.As I stood there, trying to get up
my courage, a man tapped Asimov on the shoulder. Asimov looked at him, and his face
lit up and his voice became animated in greeting. They exchanged a few pleasant
words loudly, and then the man went on his way.Something suddenly occurred to me.
Earlier that afternoon, my father had said hello very casually to Jimmy Breslin at a
book promoting Breslin's new book. They both worked at the New York Daily
News, and knew each other from there, so it wasn't unthinkable for my father to
say hello to him and exchange a few words.The same thing had just happened in
front of me. Whoever this man was, he was a friend of Asimov's, and I realized that
this great writer was, after all, just another human being like any other, with
friends, and family, and a life of his own. Still feeling a little hesitant, I
approached him and introduced myself.He was very pleasant, very friendly.
I probably had something for him to autograph but I don't remember. What I do
recall was telling him how much I enjoyed his books, and asking him if he might need
an assistant in a few years when I would be a high school senior and need a senior
project. Although he never used assistants, he told me to write him a letter about
it, and he gave me his home address. When I finally got around to writing the
letter, he replied in a very kind manner that he was sorry but wouldn't have
anything for me to do.I also remember one other thing I
told him at the book fair, and this is what ties into the above discussion of my
diary. I mentioned how much I was enjoying his two volume autobiography, In
Memory Yet Green and In Joy Still Felt. I had been reading them all
summer, and I finished them in November. Now, perhaps Dracula had started my
journal, but it was Asimov's autobiography that kept it going. I read about how he
started a diary when he turned 18 years old, and because of his diary he was able to
write his autobiography in such detail. I decided that my diary might one day be
just as valuable a resource to me, and I resolved to keep it with more regularity.
Since late 1984, I have managed to keep my diary religiously. In fact, it is because
of this diary, inspired by Asimov, that I am able to relate my interactions with him
so accurately.# # # #
Over the next three years I would
interact with Asimov in a variety of ways. I look back at some of it now, astonished
at my gall and some of the things I did. Some of it was courage, but a lot of it was
idol-worship, and I am now in a better position to realize that perhaps Asimov did
not appreciate all of it. Throughout, however, he always remained friendly and
warm.My friend Charles Ardai played a
vital role in my interactions with Asimov. Charles was already a writer, doing
articles on computer games for some of the national magazines, and he managed to get
Asimov's phone number for an article on science fiction computer games. This gave
us the opportunity to call Asimov, should we wish, but it was a resource that we
realized had to be used as sparingly as possible.
Charles used the number to interview
Asimov for a few articles, and then to ask him for an introduction for an anthology
of short stories we had hoped to edit. I, on the other hand, called Asimov to find
out how to join the New York Gilbert & Sullivan Society, since he mentioned it
with fondness in his writings often but never gave contact information. Asimov put
me in touch with one of their officers, and starting in June of 1985 I became a
member, thus allowing me to have more frequent contact with Asimov.In fact, it was because of the
G&S Society that I got to know Asimov a little better; and he, in turn, got to
know me. Once I was doing a recitation of a Bab Ballad at the beginning of a meeting
and I lost my place, and he cheerfully called out the line. Another time, I told
him that I needed to locate an essay of his for a school paper I was writing, and he
thrilled me by suggesting I call him up so he could look up the essay in his own
files. Probably the pinnacle of my interaction with Asimov happened when he agreed
to write a short recommendation for my father's application to the
Journalist-in-Space program. As he signed the letter on January 13, 1986, for my
father's application to be the journalist to ride on the space shuttle, he exclaimed,
"Better him than me!" Of course, by the end of the month, the program had been put
on indefinite hold.I must admit, however, that as much
as I interacted with Asimov, my friend Charles interacted with him much more. As I
said above, Charles was already a writer, and in our senior year of high school
Charles got a job working at Davis Publications, the owners of Asimov's and
Analog magazines. Since Asimov tended to visit the offices once a week, he
got to know Charles much better, as a writer and a person. In fact, when Charles
began selling mysteries at the age of nineteen, Asimov would often refer to Charles
as a younger version of himself. When we would go to the annual book fair or to
autographings together and see Asimov, he would always remember Charles, but would
usually have to have his memory prodded to remember me.# # # #
In September 1987 I started Harvard
College in Cambridge, Massachusetts, which took me away from my home and family in
New York City for the first time in my life. On Sunday, October 11, wanting to make
a connection to my life in New York, I wrote a letter to Asimov, telling him about
my studies and other inconsequential matters. He was kind enough to write a reply,
dated October 16, which I received on Tuesday, October 20. In the letter, he
asserted that "I remember you well," and expressed his interest in my desire to
study Physics. Ironically, this letter was partly preserved by his brother Stan on
page 127 of Yours, Isaac Asimov, not because of anything Asimov wrote about
me, because of these words he wrote to me about my friend Charles, whom I probably
mentioned in an attempt, once again, to jog Asimov's memory about myself: "Charles
Ardai is a very bright young man, and I expect great things of him. I'm glad we're
not the same age, in fact. I'd hate to have been in competition with him. I would
surely have lost out."On that same page, there are letters
that Asimov wrote to Charles in which he expresses his hope that Charles's writing
will keep the memory of Asimov alive. Charles has written quite a bit of fiction,
mostly in the mystery field, and has even been nominated for the Shamus Award. But
it saddens me sometimes to think about how Asimov would never know of the writer I
would become, and how he inspired me to pursue this career. For all of his life,
Asimov would only know of me as another one of his many fans.# # # #
I last met Isaac Asimov on Thursday,
November 8, 1990, and once again my father played a pivotal role. My father had
died six days before, on Friday, November 2, 1990.Because of this, my family had
gathered in the house in Queens. At the time, Jonathan was in medical school and
Joshua and I were both in college; but we took that week off to spend at home,
sitting our own version of shiva and trying to make sense of this catastrophic
event.Jonathan and Joshua were not my only
brothers, however. My father had been married to someone else before my mother, and
so I had two older half-brothers, David and Daniel, who were also mourning our
father's loss that week, although not living with us.Daniel called me on Thursday morning,
to say that he saw from an advertisement in the Times that Asimov would be
signing copies of the new Nightfall novel collaboration with Robert
Silverberg at the B. Dalton's bookstore on 53rd Street and Fifth Avenue. Our
father's death was hanging over us heavily, and Daniel decided that we ought to go
out to the bookstore and get a bunch of copies of Nightfall autographed. For
one thing, we knew that Asimov himself might not be around much longer, but for
another thing, it would serve as a distraction.So I took the subway to Manhattan
and met Daniel at the bookstore. We waited in a line with five copies of
Nightfall that Daniel bought, so that Asimov could autograph one for each of
the five Burstein brothers.When we got to the table, I
exchanged only a few words with Asimov. He did remember me, and he was sorry to
hear of my father's death. But I noticed an exasperated look on his face before I
told him of my recent tragedy. He seemed rushed, and I felt that something deep was
bothering him. I have no idea what his thoughts were that day, but perhaps he felt
the acute waste of the time he was spending at a booksigning, time much better spent
in writing.Daniel and I got the books
autographed, and I took three copies home with me to Queens. In retrospect, I know
now that I never saw Asimov again, that that would be the last time we would ever
interact. But on that day itself, I remember looking back at Asimov as we left,
feeling melancholy. Somehow, I think I knew even on that day that we would never
meet again.# # # #
On the morning of Monday, April 6,
1992, I was getting dressed in my Brookline, Massachusetts apartment, listening, as
always, to WBZ news on the radio, when I heard something about Fantastic
Voyage. I suspected what had happened, but I waited to hear the stories cycle
through again before leaving for my graduate school classes that morning. And what
I had feared was true.Isaac Asimov had died in the early
hours of the morning, and as far as I was concerned, the world would never be the
same.Over the next few days, my friends
and family made sure that I received every published obituary and tribute they could
find. I was at Boston University, so I spent a few days haunting the Asimov archives
in Special Collections and re-reading his autobiography. At this point in my life,
I had started a serious effort at writing science fiction, and I joked with one of
the staff about wanting to read Asimov's letters in the hope that some of his
success might rub off on me. We laughed, but it was a laugh tinged with bitterness
and sadness.# # # #
On Wednesday, April 22, 1992, I cut
graduate school to be in New York City for Asimov's memorial service at the Society
for Ethical Culture near the apartment where he had lived his final years with his
wife Janet Jeppson. Charles Ardai had managed to find out the time and place in
advance, and so we went together.I sat in the middle row, studying
the faces of some of the greatest luminaries of science fiction, and trying to
recognize everyone. Oddly enough, I felt as if I already knew Asimov's family and
friends through his writing. The personal tone of his essays always made him feel
like an uncle to me, and from what I gathered, to the rest of science fiction fandom
as well.The memorial service honored Asimov
greatly. Many of his relatives and friends spoke of their appreciation of having
known him, and members of the New York Gilbert & Sullivan Society sang in his honor.
It was the first and only time in my life that I ever saw his daughter Robyn or
heard her speak, and when she mentioned how she never felt like she was 'Isaac
Asimov's daughter', but rather, simply, her father's daughter, there were tears in
my eyes.Janet was the last to speak, and in
my diary I noted her final comments about Isaac: "He was a joyous man. Please
remember him that way."I do, Dr. Jeppson. I do indeed. All illustrations by Julia Morgan-Scott |
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