I.Asimov: A Memoir

by Isaac Asimov

  “What are you doing?” I demanded.

  “I’m taking you back because I didn’t get paid.”

  “You can’t do that. I’ve got to go home.”

  “Sorry. My boss says I’ve got to be paid first.”

  “How much is it?”

  “One hundred fifty dollars.”

  “I’ll pay you. Take me home.”

  “If I take you home, what if you don’t pay me?”

  “I’ll pay you now,” I said in exasperation, pulled out the money, and handed it over. So he took me home.

  I eventually got the money back from the person who had arranged

  the talk, but it had been an annoying experience. To be fair, it was the only time when any limousine driver, in my experience, ever failed to do his professional duty in giving the interests of the passenger top billing, so to speak. Humanist Manifesto both times. And he interrupted his busy schedule to marry us because I had.

  My humanism doesn’t extend merely to the signing of statements,

  Humanists

  I’ve never been particularly careful about what label I placed on my beliefs. I believe in the scientific method and the rule of reason as a way of understanding the natural Universe. I don’t believe in the existence of entities that cannot be reached by such a method and such a rule and that are therefore “supernatural.” I certainly don’t believe in the mythologies of our society, in Heaven and Hell, in God and angels, in Satan and demons. I’ve thought of myself as an “atheist,” but that simply described what I didn’t believe in, not what I did.

  Gradually, though, I became aware that there was a movement called “humanism,” which used that name because, to put it most simply, Humanists believe that human beings produced the progressive advance of human society and also the ills that plague it. They believe that if the ills are to be alleviated, it is humanity that will have to do the job. They disbelieve in the influence of the supernatural on either the good or the bad of society, on either its ills or the alleviation of those ills.

  I received a copy of the “Humanist Manifesto” decades ago when I was still quite young. I read its statement of the principles of humanism, found that I agreed with them, and signed it. When, in the 1970s, an updated statement, “Humanist Manifesto II,” was sent me, I agreed with it and signed it as well. That made me an avowed Humanist, something in which Janet, entirely of her own accord (and as a result of principles she had developed before she ever met me), joins me.

  As a matter of fact, when we were getting married and were deciding under whose auspices we were to be married, we chose Edward Ericson of the Ethical Culture Society because he too had signed the of course. I have written essays by the dozen that support scientific reasoning and in which I denounce all kinds of pseudoscientific trash. In particular, I have argued vehemently against those religious Fundamentalists who back the Babylonian worldview of the first chapters of the Book of Genesis. These essays have appeared in a number of places, even in the June 14, 1981, issue of The New Tork Times Magazine.

  I also wrote an Op-Ed piece in the Times in which I disputed strenuously (and with justice, I think) the views of a prominent astronomer who published a book in which he maintained that the Big Bang theory was somehow anticipated by the biblical writers of Genesis and that astronomers were hesitant to accept the Big Bang because they didn’t want to support the conventional religious view.

  I expanded that Op-Ed piece into a book, In the Beginning, in which I went over every verse in the first eleven chapters of Genesis, in as evenhanded and unemotional a method as possible, and compared the literal interpretation of its language with the modern beliefs of science. It was published by Crown in 1981.

  Then, of course, there was my earlier two-volume Asimov’s Guide to the Bible—written from a strictly humanist point of view.

  All this resulted in the American Humanist Association selecting me as the “Humanist of the Year” in 1984, and I went to Washington to receive the honor and to speak to the group on April 20, 1984. It was a small group, of course, for we Humanists are few in number. At least, those of us who are willing to identify ourselves as Humanists are few. I suspect that huge numbers of people of Western tradition are Humanists as far as the way they shape their lives is concerned, but that childhood conditioning and social pressures force them to pay lip service to religion and do not allow them even to dream of admitting that it is only lip service.

  Previous “Humanists of the Year” included Margaret Sanger, Leo Szilard, Linus Pauling, Julian Huxley, Hermann J. Muller, Hudson Hoagland, Erich Fromm, Benjamin Spock, R. Buckminster Fuller,

  B. F. Skinner, Jonas E. Salk, Andrei Sakharov, Carl Sagan, and a number of others of equal note, so I was in select company.

  I gave a humorous talk on the occasion, dealing with the kinds of letters I received from religionists, letters that went to the extreme of praying for my soul, on one hand, to that of consigning me to Hell, on the other. The talk was a huge success; too huge, for it meant that I was eventually asked to become president of the American Humanist Association.

  I hesitated, explaining that I didn’t travel and that I would be totally unable to attend conventions held anywhere but in New York City, and that, moreover, my schedule was so heavy that I couldn’t engage in extended correspondence or involve myself in the political disputes that are inevitable in all organizations.

  I was assured that I would not be expected to travel or to do anything I didn’t want to do. What they wanted was my name, my writings (which I did anyway), and my signature attached to fund-raising letters.

  Even with that settled, I still had to wonder what would happen if I heightened my profile in the Humanist movement to such an extent. My magazine, IASFM, was still quite young and one or two people had already canceled their subscriptions “because Isaac Asimov is a Humanist.” Would I be killing the magazine altogether if I became president of the AHA?

  Then I thought that my editorials in the magazine were completely outspoken—so what worse could my presidency do? Besides, I didn’t want to make a decision that was influenced by cowardice. I therefore agreed and I have been president of the American Humanist Association ever since.

  The Association has kept its word. I am not expected to travel or to involve myself in organizational procedures. However, I have signed a number of fund-raising letters and I have also continued writing my humanistic essays. The Association is happy about this, because since I have become president, the membership of the Association has increased considerably, and they insist on giving me the credit for that.

  Senior Citizen

  I passed my sixtieth birthday safely, a milestone I had feared I might not reach after my 1977 heart attack. Then I approached my sixty-fifth birthday, another milestone I had feared I might not reach in the nervous month before my triple bypass.

  Now here it was. On January 2, 1985, I turned sixty-five, an age that is often considered the official dividing line beyond which a person is a “senior citizen,” a phrase I detest with all my heart.

  What I was, at sixty-five, was an old man.

  Sixty-five is, of course, the traditional age for retirement, but that is only true if someone is in a position to fire you and call it retirement. As a free-lance writer, I can be rejected but not fired. Publishers may refuse to put out my books, but they cannot prevent me from writing them.

  So I threw a “nonretirement party” for over a hundred people. Janet and I specified “no presents” and “no smoking.” A smoke-free party was the best present I could get and it went off magnificently, with all my publishers and friends smiling at me, and my brother, Stan, making a funny speech, and so on.

  And my writing career passed right through the sixty-fifth birthday as though there was nothing there.

  On February 7, 1985, however, the government caught up to me and I was called in to see some officials who wanted to look at my birth certificate and my tax returns. (I might have mailed them in, but my birth cert
ificate, a fragile piece of old paper from Russia, was not something I cared to trust to the mails—or to the government officials, for that matter.)

  I was told that I qualified for Medicare and I accepted that with a certain guilt since I buy ample medical insurance and can afford to pay for my medical care even if I didn’t have it. However, I had just gone through a nasty and expensive medical procedure and might have to go through more. I was unwilling to strip myself of a sizable portion of my estate for nothing more than my survival, when I was planning to leave my wife and children as secure as possible after my death. So when the officials told me I had to accept Medicare, I acquiesced.

  Social security was another thing. I flatly refused to accept that. I said, “I have not retired. I make a good deal of money and will continue to do so. The social security payments are not needed by me and they are needed by others, so keep my payments in the social security fund and pay it out to those others.”

  The person behind the desk said, “If that’s what you want, all right, but only till you’re seventy. After you turn seventy, you will have to take your social security payments.”

  I shrugged that off and forgot about it until January 1990, when a government check arrived that I couldn’t account for until I remembered the social security bit. I consulted my accountant, and he said, “You paid for it, Isaac. It’s your money.”

  So it was. And then I thought of the hundreds of thousands of dollars I pay each year in taxes and how much of it finds its way into the pockets of greedy politicians and businessmen—and I hardened my heart and accepted the payment, which, believe me, is not a large one.

  More About Doubleday

  After the Fantastic Voyage II imbroglio, conditions at Doubleday continued (to say the least) unsettled. It was clear that Nelson Doubleday, who owned the firm and also the New York Mets baseball team, was interested only in the latter. With the publishing firm losing money, he was looking for a purchaser.

  As I mentioned earlier, I lost editor after editor, as all moved on to greener pastures. Nevertheless, I had no thought of doing anything but cling to the firm. I was not of a mind to scuttle off a sinking ship, especially when I wasn’t ready to believe it was sinking. I felt Nelson would sell out to some other firm and things would continue well.

  Incidentally, each year Nelson would send me an invitation to the Mets’ opening game at Shea Stadium, and on April 14, 1986, I actually went to see the game. It was the first time I had seen a baseball game live since I took David to a Red Sox game a quarter century before. I found that the magic was gone. I no longer enjoyed the surroundings, the compulsive beer drinking, the raucousness, and the fact that I knew that, although I had arrived at Shea Stadium by taxi, I would be going home by subway. (Today, if I had to repeat the matter, I would use a limousine, of course, but it wouldn’t be worth it.)

  It didn’t help the occasion that the Mets lost that opening game and that Dwight Gooden, their star pitcher, whom I had come especially to watch, was knocked out of the box. The Mets then went on to win the next eleven games, which, of course, I didn’t watch. After the eleventh victory, I happened to meet Nelson Doubleday at the office elevators.

  “Mr. Doubleday,” I said, “I saw the Mets lose the opening game at Shea, but since then, when I haven’t been in the stands, they have won eleven straight.”

  “Good,” said Doubleday. “In that case, don’t go to any more games, Isaac.” “I don’t intend to,” I said, “but don’t you think I ought to be paid to stay away?”

  In a way, he did pay me, because when the Mets got into the World Series that year, he arranged to let me have four tickets at their face cost (they were being scalped for incredible sums). I, of course, didn’t go, but I gave them to Bob Zicklin, my lawyer, at face cost.

  In any case, the turmoil at Doubleday left me with a young woman named Jennifer Brehl as my editor. She was only twenty-four years old at the time. She had been working at Doubleday for only two years, had served as Kate Medina’s assistant, and inherited me.

  As I have explained before, I don’t in the least mind having young editors, and I especially didn’t mind Jennifer, for it was clear to me that she was enthusiastic, hardworking, completely reliable, and very intelligent. We quickly established a very close working arrangement with which we were both extremely happy. I was a big item for her, her claim to editorial fame, so to speak, so she worked very hard on my behalf and that was exactly what I wanted.

  Because I’m not temperamental and agreed readily and happily to anything that was in the least reasonable, Jennifer came to feel a daughterly affection for me, and her concern for my health and welfare seems to run as deeply, almost, as Robyn’s does. In fact, in October 1987, when the stock market crashed and lost 500 points, only two people phoned me to find out if I had been, by any chance, wiped out. (Actually, I hadn’t been. I remembered the 1929 stock market crash, and my broker, Robert Warnick—a wonderful fellow—had it quite clear in his mind that I would deal only with bonds; no stocks. I was not anxious to make a big killing at the risk of malting a big losing. The result was that the stock market crash didn’t cost me a penny.)

  Robyn was one of the two people who phoned, and I reassured her, but I realized that she had to be concerned about her inheritance, however much she might be far more concerned for my welfare. The second person who phoned was Jennifer, and she had no inheritance to worry about. She was concerned only for me and I was very touched. I reassured her too, of course.

  On March 5, 1989, Jennifer told me she had to give up her job at Doubleday in order that she might help her father in his business. The day-to-day work at Doubleday (in connection with me) was then performed by a still younger woman named Jill Roberts, who, like Jennifer, was enthusiastic, hardworking, completely reliable, and very intelligent.

  As an example—

  In late 1989, a special limited edition of my new novel, Nemesis, was prepared. I was supposed to sign every one of the 500 copies to be issued. Each was eventually enclosed in an individual package and these were enclosed, ten at a time, in large boxes. Every book was numbered and put into correspondingly numbered packages, and it was only when all was done and packaged that someone realized that they had never had me sign the books.

  I was called in early one morning, and each big box was opened, each small package was opened, each book was signed by me and put back into the small package, and eventually into the big box. I sat there all morning long, signing. It wasn’t too difficult, because Jill organized everything so efficiently that the books came streaming out in front of me. All I did was sign while Jill opened boxes, and closed packages, and did all the necessary work so smoothly that not one book ended up in the wrong place. It was a lovely example of efficiency.

  Meanwhile, though, I was setting a fine example myself, without knowing it. Generally, an author who is put through some sort of misery entirely through the fault of the publisher gives full vent to his temperament and makes life miserable for everyone in the place, especially if he’s an old and venerated author who knows he can get away with it.

  But that didn’t apply to me. For one thing, I’m not temperamental (at least, not beyond reason). And for another, all I was doing was signing my name, and Jill was doing the hard part, so there was no reason why I couldn’t pass the time pleasantly, cracking jokes and singing songs. From all over Doubleday, therefore (so I was told later), people came flocking to the room where I was working in order to peek in and view the anomalous sight of a happy writer.

  After it was over, Jill and a couple of others insisted on treating me to lunch, though I assured them it wasn’t necessary. It is amazing how the young women flock about me now tiiat I’m old and harmless. Where were they when I could have taken wicked advantage of their affection?

  Interviews

  No writer can escape being interviewed. The appetite for material with which to fill newspapers and magazines is insatiable, and as I grew better known, the number of interviews inc
reased. Even when I was still teaching at the medical school and had only been at the start of my unusual writing career, the Boston Herald interviewed me and I ended with an eight-column headline identifying me as a “BU professor.”

  It was at that time that I was busily fighting to keep my academic title and my foes in the administration at once swooped down upon the headline as an example of my trying to use my position for personal promotion.

  It was an easy thing to fight off. The headline was not my doing, and notiiing in the interview itself smacked of personal promotion. Besides that, I had granted the interview at the request of the president of the American Chemical Society, which wanted a little publicity push for a meeting of the Society that was about to take place in the city. I had the correspondence to prove this, and I was a little sanctimonious about my duty requiring me to help my professional society when requested to do so. The administration retreated in confusion.

  The best interview in print I ever had was the one that appeared in The New Tork Times Book Review on August 3, 1969, the day before my father’s death.

  I have also been interviewed many times on television. The two most successful interviews (in the sense that I enjoyed them most) were one by Edwin Newman in 1987 and another by Bill Moyers in 1988.

  In both those cases, the interview lasted an hour and the interviewer confined himself to asking questions and letting me talk. You would think that this is what an interviewer would be naturally expected to do, but if so, few of them realize it. The usual thing is to have the interviewer compete with you desperately in what seems to be a mad attempt to prove his own erudition. In such cases, since I have no need to prove my own erudition, I would much rather have stayed at home and let the interviewer conduct a monologue.

  I once had an interviewer who kept accompanying everything that I said with little sounds of agreement, or perhaps little sounds merely intended to indicate he heard me. I was largely unaware of this when I was recording the interview, but when later I watched the interview on television I was enraged. His constant “urns” and “uh-huhs” drowned me out and made a hash of my appearance.