Сборники Художественной, Технической, Справочной, Английской, Нормативной, Исторической, и др. литературы.

                          Isaac Asimov

                        THE PRIME OF LIFE

               It was, in truth, an eager youth
                        Who halted me one day.
               He gazed in bliss at me, and this
                        Is what he had to say:

               "Why, mazel tov, it's Asimov,
                        A blessing on your head!
               For many a year, I've lived in fear
                        That you were long since dead.

               Or if alive, one fifty-five
                        Cold years had passed you by,
               And left you weak, with poor physique,
                        Thin hair and rheumy eye.

               For sure enough, I've read your stuff
                        Since I was but a lad
               And couldn't spell or hardly tell
                        The good yarns from the bad.

               My father, too, was reading you
                        Before he met my Ma.
               For you he earned, once he had learned
                        About you from _his_ Pa.

               Since time began, you wondrous man,
                        My ansestors did love
               That s.f. dean and writing machine
                        The aged Asimov."

               I'd had my fill. I said: "Be still!
                        I've kept my old-time spark.
               My step is light, my eye is bright,
                        My hair is thick and dark."

               His smile, in brief, spelled disbelief,
                        So this is what I did;
               I scowled, you know, and with one blow,
                        I killed that rotten kid.


               Author's remark: "Mazel tov" is a Hebrew
               phrase  meaning "good fortune" and it is
               used  by Jews  as a  joyfyl  greeting on
               jubilant  occasions  - as a meeting with
               me should surely be.

                      I JUST MAKE THEM UP, SEE!

               Oh, Dr A.-
               Oh, Dr A.-
               There is something (don't go 'way)
               That I'd like to hear you say.
               Though I'd rather die
               Than try
               To pry,
               The fact, you'll find,
               Is that my mind
               Has evolved the jackpot question for today.

               I intend no cheap derision,
               So please answer with decision,
               And, discarding all your petty cautious fears,
               Tell the secret of your vision!
               How on earth
               Do you give birth
               To those crazy and impossible ideas?

               It is indigestion
               And a question
               Of the nightmare that results?
               Of your eyeballs whirling,
               Fingers curling
               And unfurling
               While your blood beats maddened chimes
               As it keeps impassioned times
               With your thick, uneven pulse?

               It is _that_, you think, or liquor
               That brings on the wildness quicker?
               For a teeny
               Dry martiny
               May be just your private genie;
               Or perhaps those Tom and Jerries
               You will find the very
               For inducing
               And unloosing
               That weird gimmick or that kicker;
               Or an awful
               Of unlawful
               Marijuana plus tequilla,
               That will give you just that feel o'
               Things a-clicking
               And unsticking
               As you start for celebration
               To the crazy syncopation
               Of a brain a-tocking-ticking.

               Surely _something_, Dr A.,
               Makes you you fey
               And quite _outre_.
               Since I read you with devotion,
               Won't you give me just a notion
               Of that shrewdy pepper-up potion
               Out of which emerge your plots?
               That wild secret bubbly mixture
               That has made you such a fixture
               In most favoured s.f. spots -

               Now, Dr A.,
               Don't go away -

               Oh, Dr A.-

               Oh, Dr A.-


                  THE FOUNDATION OF S.F. SUCCESS

                  (With apologies to W.S.Gilbert)

     If you ask me how to shine in the science-fiction line as a
              pro of luster bright,
     I say, practice up the lingo of the sciences, by jingo (never
              mind if not quite right).
     You may talk of Space and Galaxies and tesseractic fallacies
              in slick and mystic style,
     Though the fans won't understand it, they will all the same
              demand it with a softly hopeful smile.

         And all the fans will say,
         As you walk your spatial way,
         If that young man indulges in fights through all the Galaxy,
         Why, what a most imaginative type of man that type of man must be.

     So success is not a mystery, just brush up on your history, and
              borrow day by day.
     Take the Empire that was Roman and you'll find it is at
              home in all the starry Milky Way.
     With a drive that's hyperspatial, through the parsecs you will
              race, you'll find that plotting is a breeze,
     With a tiny bit of cribbin' from the works of Edward Gibbon
              and that Greek, Thycydides.

         And all the fans will say,
         As you walk your thoughtful way,
         If that young man involves himself in authentic history,
         Why, what a very learned kind of high IQ, his high IQ must be.

     Then eschew all thoughts of passion of a man-and-woman
              fashion from your hero's thoughtful mind.
     He must spend his time on politics, and thinking up his
              shady tricks, and outside that he's blind.
     It's enough he's had a mother, other females are a bother,
              though they're jeveled and glistery,
     They will just distract his dreaming and his nessesary
              scheming with that psychohistory.

         And all the fans will say
         As you walk your narrow way,
         If all his yarns restrict themselves to masculinity,
         Why, what a most particularly pure young man that pure
              young man must be.


                        THE AUTHOR'S ORDEAL

                  (With apologies to W.S.Gilbert)

     Plots, helter-skelter, teem within your brain;
         Plots, s.f. plots, devised with joy and gladness;
     Plots crowd your skull and stubbornly remain,
         Until you're driven into hopeless madness.

     When you're with your best girl and your mind's in a whirl
              and you don't hear a thing that she's saying;
     Or at Symphony Hall you are gone past recall and you can't
              tell a note that they're playing;
     Or you're driving a car and have not gone too far when you
              find that you're sped through a red light,
     And on top of that, lord! you have sideswiped a Ford, and
              have broken your one working headlight;
     Or your boss slaps your back (having made some smart crack)
              and you stare at him, stupidly blinking;
     Then you say something dumb so he's sure you're a crumb,
              and are possibly given to drinking.
     When events such as that have been knocking you flat, do not
              blame supernatural forces;
     If you write s.f. tales, you'll be knocked off your rails, just
              as sure as the stars in their courses.
     For your plot-making mind will stay deaf, dumb and blind to
              the dull facts of life that will hound you,
     While the wonders of space have you close in embrace and
              the glory of star beams surround you.

     You begin with a ship that is caught on a skip into hyperspace
              en route for Castor,
     And has found to its cost that it seems to be lost in a Galaxy
              like ours, but vaster.
     You're a little perplexed as to what may come next and you
              make up a series of creatures
     Who are villains and liars with such evil desires and with
              perfectly horrible features.
     Our brave heroes are faced with these hordes and are placed
              in a terribly crucial position,
     For the enemy's bound (once our Galaxy's found) that they'll
              beat mankind into submission.
     Now you must make it rough when developing stuff so's to
              keep the yarn pulsing with tension,
     So the Earthmen are four (only four and no more) while the
              numbers of foes are past mention.
     Our four heroes are caught and accordingly brought to the
              sneering, tyrannical leaders.
     "Where is Earth?" they demand, but the men mutely stand
              with a courage that pleases the readers.

     But, now, wait just a bit; let's see, this isn't it, since you
              haven't provided a maiden,
     Who is both good and pure (yet with sexy allure) and with
              not many clothes overladen.
     She is part of the crew, and so she's captured, too, and is
              ogled by foes who are lustful;
     There's desire in each eye and there's good reason why, for of
              beauty our girl has a bustful.
     Just the same you go fast till this section is passed so the
              reader won't raise any ruction,
     When recalling the foe are all reptiles and so have no interest
              in human seduction.
     Then they truss up the girl and they make the whips swirl
              just in order to break Earthmen's silence,
     And so that's when our men breaks their handcuffs and then
              we are treated to scenes full of violence.
     Every hero from Earth is a fighter from birth and his fists are
              a match for a dozen,
     And they just when this spot has been reached in your plot
              you come to with your mind all a buzzin'.

     You don't know where you are, or the site of your car, and
              your tie is askew and you haven't a clue of the time of
              the day or of what people say or the fact that they stare
              at your socks (not a pair) and decide it's a fad, or else
              that you're mad, which is just a surmise from the gleam
              in your eyes, till at last they conclude from your general
              mood, you'll be mad from right now till you're hoary.
     But the torture is done and it's now for the fun and the paper
              that's white and the words that are right, for you've
              worked up a new s.f. story.


Яндекс цитирования