Isaac AsimovTHE 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. 1966 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, Twirling, 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 Weeny Dry martiny May be just your private genie; Or perhaps those Tom and Jerries You will find the very Berries For inducing And unloosing That weird gimmick or that kicker; Or an awful Combination Of unlawful Stimulation, 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.- 1957 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. 1954 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. 1957 |