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.

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