by Isaac Asimov
Some of them are associated in my mind with the publisher S. Arthur (“Red”) Dembner, a tall, thin man with a craggy face and gray hair still with a hint of the red that gave him his nickname. He ran a small publishing house and, together with Jerome Agel, a book promoter, proposed that I do a “book of facts” that would contain a great many odd and little-known items, divided into numerous classifications. Many of them, they pointed out, could easily be drawn from my books.
I demurred. I didn’t really have the time to engage in the research that would be required.
That was of no consequence, they assured me. They would have a team digging up the facts. I would just have to supply some of my own and go over them all in order to throw out any that I thought were wrong or just dubious.
I considered the possibility. This would be the first book in which I would have a team of researchers doing much of the work. Generally, I did all the work myself, no matter how long and complex a book, and I was proud of it. Uneasily, then, I agreed, provided I was not to be described as the author of the book and that every last member of the research team would be named in the front matter. This was agreed to.
So I worked on it, supplied about 20 percent of all the items listed Dunlap and, as agreed, I was not listed as the author. However, the tide was Isaac Asimov’s Book of Facts, which implied more credit for me than I deserved. On the reverse of the tide page, all the people involved were listed, seventeen of them altogether. I came first as “Editor,” but my name was in no larger type than any of the other sixteen.
This satisfied me, and I did enough work on the book to allow me to feel quite comfortable about including it on the numbered list. Less comfortable was the point that, with several thousand items in it, some were bound to turn out to be dubious or even wrong, despite all my efforts to keep that from happening. And when a reader objected to any of them, die objection went to me. Almost invariably, the objections were to items that I had not supplied, and I had no way of knowing what the source was. I just sent them on to Red.
Then Red came up with another project on June 11, 1981. A Canadian, Ken Fisher, had come up with a quiz book, and Red asked me to look it over. I did so, and ventured die opinion that the quizzes seemed both interesting and competent, so the book might be worth publishing. Red then asked me to select about half of it, correct any mistakes, write an introduction, and allow the book to come out as Isaac Asimov Presents Superquiz. In return, I would get a small share of the royalties.
I said at once that this would be unfair to Ken Fisher. Red explained that Fisher would be listed as the author and said that Fisher was eager because the book would have a better sale with my name on it. (Again the superstition of the magic power of my name.)
It is hard for me to say no to nice people and Red certainly fell into the classification of nice people. The book was published by Dembner Books in 1982, with Fisher’s name placed prominently on the cover.
Over the next seven years, however, the book was followed by a second volume, a third, and a fourth. In each case, I worked on the book and wrote an introduction. I had to withstand those people who found errors that I had overlooked. The most beautiful case was a question as to the only nation that had the letter combination “ate” in its name. The answer was given as “Guatemala,” which is difficult to think of since the “ate” is pronounced with a broad rather than a flat “a.” However, it isn’t the only nation so distinguished. A reader wrote in to ask why “United States” didn’t qualify, and I had no good answer to that at all. They made a quiz game out of the Superquiz books in an effort to capitalize on the incredible, if predictably short-lived, success of Triv ial Pursuit. The Superquiz game did well enough, but it was certainly no Trivial Pursuit. They also derived a question-and-answer syndi cated column out of the book, which mentioned only my name and not Fisher’s. I complained and, as usual in such cases, my complaint was ignored.
In connection with the Superquiz game, I had a rather miserable experience, the story of which necessitates a detour. I don’t mind arranging to sign books in a bookstore if some halfway effort is made to alert the public I’ll be there. With proper promotion, I usually manage to sign a hundred books or more for excited readers. I was once kept busy signing for an hour and a half without a break, even though I had only contracted to do an hour. (It’s difficult to look at a long line of hopeful readers and say, “Well, the hour is up. The rest of you are out of luck,” so I just kept on going.)
When no promotional effort is made, it can be disastrous, but it’s part of the price writers pay. Besides, most writers are willing to travel across the country to promote their books, making an incredible number of one-day stops. I absolutely refuse to do this, aside from making a very occasional venture into the outlying suburbs and once going even as far as Philadelphia. For that reason, I try to make up for it by never refusing a signing in Manhattan and by always agreeing to telephone interviews—and by accepting, with resignation, any mis fires.
Some are particularly hard to take, however. On December 16, 1979, for instance, a stack of my books and I were at Bloomingdale’s —and the management seated me in the ladies’ clothes department, of all places. I sat there for an hour trying to ignore the hostile looks of the passing women, who obviously thought I was a Peeping Tom.
I did sign a few books, however, and one woman rushed up excitedly and congratulated me on my play on Broadway and hoped I would make a million dollars out of it. I told her politely that I hoped I would too, but I felt it would be needlessly embarrassing to her to tell her that I was not Isaac Bashevis Singer.
My worst such time, however, came on June 15, 1984, when I had agreed to sit at Macy’s for three hours with a pile of Superquiz games which I was offering to sign. In those interminable three hours, there were exactly eight sales. The worst of it was that one of the eight who picked up the box in order to purchase it flatly refused my signature.
There was a second embarrassment in connection with that game that was even more intense. The publishers of the game were anxious to get a little publicity and photo opportunities from the media, and had me attend a demonstration of how the game was played. I was to supply the necessary charisma (which they thought I had).
One elderly gentleman pushed forward his grandson as an incredible genius and demanded that I ask him any question in the Super-quiz. The child looked embarrassed, so I hung back, but Grandpa insisted.
I pulled out a couple of questions, chose the easiest, and asked it. The youngster, as I expected, drew a blank. I covered it up as best I could, and managed to find a still easier question. Another blank. So I pulled a card, but ignored its contents, making up, instead, a question that was impossible not to answer. The kid answered it and I made a big hullabaloo over that and sent them away.
If there are any grandfathers reading this book who have genius grandchildren, please give the kids a break and don’t embarrass them in public. It’s my experience that really bright kids manage to publicize themselves quite obnoxiously and don’t need relatives to help them along.
A somewhat similar case of overestimation came when I was invited to attend a bar mitzvah in 1979. A bar mitzvah is held on the thirteenth birthday of a Jewish boy to signify that he has become old enough to be expected to obey all the Jewish ritual laws on his own responsibility. (Neither I nor Stan have been bar mitzvahed, which is a victory for us over hypocrisy, for we would have had no intention of obeying the laws even if we had gone through the rite.)
The few bar mitzvahs I have attended (when I could think of no good excuse to avoid them) I have found utterly boring. However, they were invariably littered with oceans of food that were crammed full of salt, cholesterol, saturated fat, and other life-destroying components and that, in consequence, tasted heavenly. I could always eat.
In this case, however, the proud father was a friend and he told me that his son was extremely interested in Shakespeare, so could I bring in a copy of my Guide to Shakespeare for the
lad. Well, I wasn’t anxious to, for I had but few copies and they were irreplaceable since the book was already out of print, but a bar mitzvah present is, in any case, de rigueur, and a friend is a friend.
I brought with me a copy of the Guide, therefore, and presented it with a broad smile to the young bar mitzvah boy. He took it with an unmistakable air of astonishment and disappointment, and from the disheartened way in which he leafed gingerly through the book, I had the distinct impression that, far from being a Shakespeare buff, he had never heard of the bard of Avon. —The book was simply sacrificed to the baseless vanity of a Proud Pappa.
But back to the matter of my marginal books. —For Carolina Biological Supplies I prepared The History of Biology, published in 1988, and The History of Mathematics, published in 1989. They are long charts, meant for display in schools and libraries, listing a large number of accurate items in the history of those sciences and enlivened by clever cartoons.
I also edited a Dembner book entitled From Harding to Hiroshima by Barrington Boardman, subtitled An Anecdotal History of the United States from 1923-1945. I loved it. I went over it carefully, read and corrected the galleys and page proofs, and it came out as Isaac Asimov Presents: From Harding to Hiroshima. Boardman’s name was prominendy included on the cover as the author.
Then I was sent a collection of a vast number of quotations from scientists and other men on scientific subjects. I was asked to correct or throw out items as I saw fit, to make up little epigrams to head each of the eighty-six classifications into which the quotations were divided, and to write an introduction. I insisted that the editor with whom I was corresponding include his own name as co-editor, and the book came out in 1988, under the Weidenfeld & Nicholson imprint, with the title Isaac Asimov’s Book of Science and Nature Quotations edited by Isaac Asimov and Jason A. Shulman.
There are a few other items like that scattered among my hundreds of books. Why do I do them? For one thing, they represent work I find interesting, even fascinating. I also always find it difficult to say no to any writing project, especially when it is quite different from anything I do ordinarily.
I should perhaps put up a better fight against blazoning these things as “Isaac Asimov Presents,” but the publishers usually insist and, truth to tell, such things do give me a bit of satisfaction. After all, my name may indeed help sell the book to some small extent. It also helps bring my name to the attention of the public and some people may then go out and buy books with my name on it that I have indeed written all of. Everyone is helped and no one is hurt.
Nightfall, Inc.
As the 1970s proceeded, my income continued to go up and my business affairs to grow more complicated. Every once in a while my accountant would mutter that I would be better off if I incorporated myself, and each time he said it, I drew off in something very like terror.
Incorporation was another step upward, one more way of submitting to affluence.
Of course, I liked some of the consequences of being relatively affluent. After having spent the first half of my life always conscious of exactly how much money I had in my pocket and carefully weighing every purchase, it was extraordinarily pleasant to walk into any restaurant and order any meal without even looking at the price column. It was a delight to take a taxi anywhere I wanted to go; to make out checks for bills as they came in, without having to worry about the bank balance.
I appreciated all that but I didn’t want the side effects that come with affluence. I dreaded the thought that I would be expected to throw fancy parties, that it would be necessary for me to attend social functions in glittering array, that it would be taken for granted that I ought to have my apartment littered with the latest technological advances, that I ought to have a housekeeper, and a fancy office, and a posh automobile, and a boat, and a summer home, and whatever else fancy might suggest.
I didn’t want such things. I wanted to live quietly and simply, and every time I indulged in an outward manifestation of being well off, I feared that the world would not allow me my penchant for simplicity. My accountant, however, grew firmer in his advice, and Janet
joined him, and on October 22, 1979, I said, “All right. Go ahead and arrange it.” So, as of December 3, 1979, I became president and treasurer of a corporation, while Janet became vice president and secretary.
There was some question about naming the corporation. The accountant firmly vetoed my suggestion that it be simply “Isaac Asimov, Inc.” He did not want my name on it. He wanted it to sound much more like an ordinary business firm. “Why don’t you name it after something you’ve written?” he asked.
That brought it down quickly in my mind to two possibilities:
Foundation and Nightfall. My accountant chose the latter, perhaps because it sounded more romantic, so that I became “Nightfall, Inc.” I might say that no government agency has ever found anything nontrivial wrong with any of my tax statements, as is not surprising, since I make them out honestly. However, even if they investigate and give me an all clear they have still taken up my accountant’s time and he charges me for that, so I wish earnestly they would accept the fact that I am honest and leave me alone.
Once, many years ago, I was interviewed on television and asked, “Suppose you earned a billion dollars. What would you do with it?”
I know the type of answers they expected. Selfish people would buy huge palaces and live like emperors. Idealists would endow universities and support environmental causes. I, however, had a different idea.
I said, “I would walk into the IRS offices and say, T have just earned a billion dollars. Here it is, every penny. It’s for Uncle Sam. Now please don’t ever let me hear from you again for the rest of my life.”
The government would undoubtedly make a profit on that deal, for a lifetime of taxes from me comes to far less than a billion dollars; far, far less. However, the dream of not having to keep records, of not having to do any calculations, of not having to deal with accountants and lawyers, would be worth far, far more than money.
Hugh Downs
It always comes as a surprise to me when someone I consider a celebrity shows himself to be aware of my existence. I don’t have to describe Hugh Downs, because everyone knows him. He has appeared on prime-time television for more hours than anyone else in the United States.
He was on the cruise that took us down to Florida to watch the Apollo 17 launch in 1972, though on that occasion we did not have much in the way of contact. On June 9, 1978, however, I had breakfast with him at his request and we talked astronomy and cosmology.
Hugh is fascinated by science and, despite his TV work, which must take up a great deal of his time, he manages to keep abreast of the latest developments in science (especially cosmology) and he can keep his end up even in discussions with professionals.
Apparently, I passed muster with him. He had the notion of setting up an annual dinner to which about a dozen people interested in science would be invited for an evening of good food and conversa tion. The first of these was held on May 6, 1980, at the Metropolitan Club, and the dinner was nothing short of lavish. I have been invited to every succeeding dinner and have missed only one. The cost of the dinners must be high, and each year I offer to pay half the bill. Each year Hugh smiles and tells me it’s his pleasure and is well worth it.
Pleasure it certainly is, for the conversation is impressive and I am often the comic relief. I can hold my own in the discussions of the borderlands of science but I can also slip easily into the telling of jokes, for almost everything reminds me of a funny story.
The tale of these annual gatherings got out and I received a phonecall once from a reporter, the tenor of whose questions made it plain that she thought that Hugh was an intellectual social climber, that he paid for the banquets in order to be accepted by high-powered eggheads, who ate his food and snickered at his pretensions.
I put a stop to that very firmly. I told the reporter that Hugh, albeit an amateur, was highly intelligent, was
knowledgeable in science, and was liked and respected by everyone there. That probably killed the story and I’m glad of it.
At the gatherings, there are some who, like me, are regulars. Lloyd Motz, an astronomer at Columbia, has never missed a session. Others who sometimes appear and sometimes don’t are Walter Sullivan, Robert Jastrow, Jeremy Bernstein, Marvin Minsky, Ben Bova, Mark Chartrand, Gerard O’Neill, Gerald Feinberg, Robert Shapiro, and others. Heinz Pagels appeared at a number of the dinners, but about him I will speak later.
Generally, when I come home, I give Janet a precis of the discussion and of the clever things that different people said (not omitting myself, of course). I do the same after meetings of the Dutch Treat Club and the Trap Door Spiders. She enjoys that, but she sometimes feels resentful over the stag nature of the organizations.
One time, the matter of stagness turned out to be particularly embarrassing. In April 1980,1 received an invitation to attend a meeting of physicians who were engaged in research. Lewis Thomas, the great science writer on biology, was going to be the speaker. I accepted quickly and told Janet that, of course, I expected her to come with me because she was very fond of Thomas’s essays.
Janet looked at the letter of invitation and then impaled me with an icy glare. She said, “You would have noticed, Isaac, if you really read the letter, instead of absorbing every fifth word, that the organization you have been invited to is stag. You can go, but I can’t, even though I’m a physician and you’re not.”
I slunk away and shot off a second letter, explaining that I had incautiously asked my wife to come with me, and that now, in the interest of marital harmony, I was afraid I couldn’t come.
Back came a handwritten letter. My wife was invited too. So on April 7, 1980, there we were at a dinner—sixty men and Janet. And don’t think Janet didn’t love it. She knew some of the people and engaged in lively conversation. It was I, the nonphysician, who was the outsider.