From: djdaneh@pbhyc.PacBell.COM (Dan'l DanehyOakes)
Subject: Isaac Asimov:  1920-1992
Organization: Pacific * Bell
Date: Mon, 6 Apr 1992 19:57:21 GMT
Followup-To: rec.arts.sf.written
Keywords: Sob!


I didn't think this would hit me so hard.

I mean, after Robert and Clifford and Phil and poor sweet Ted and all the
others --, well, you think I'd be ready for this.  You'd think we'd all be
ready for it.  We knew he was ill.

But I was sitting in the conference room waiting for a staff meeting to
begin, and a fellow employee told me, and it hit me harder than I would
have believed.  I wasn't able to pay much attention to the first hour of
the meeting.  I just sat there and thought:  Outside this room Isaac
Asimov is dead.

Whe we lost Heinlein I was stunned for a week.  I felt as if I'd lost my
own father.  So did a lot of others.

This isn't as intense, quite.  More like a favorite uncle.  The one who
bounced you on his knee, and brought you bizarre gifts, and told you the
most outrageous lies; the one who was a con-conspirator in your attempts
to evade your parents' arbitrary rules; the one who could always make
you laugh.

The one you ignored when you got older, but you somehow knew he'd always
be there when you needed him.

Only.  Only.  Only, only, only he won't be.  He's not there any more, and
if the hole in my heart isn't as big as the ones Robert or Ted left, the
ones that haven't healed, it's still in a tender spot and it hurts like
hell.

				###

We all grumped about his last dozen books.  "He's repeating himself," we'd
say, "He's messing over his classic work for the sake of a few shoddy
sequels, he's lost it."  Or, when he did something that wasn't a sequel,
we'd say it lacked the originality, the drive, of the old stuff.

In short we acted like spoilt children whining because the presents our
parents bought us weren't good enough.

I'm beginning to appreciate Scott Card's "only review books I liked"
approach to his F&SF column a bit more than I used to.  I know that the
constant slams Isaac's last books got hurt him; and I know that I contributed,
a little, to that hurt, and it makes me feel like shit.

But "Hey," says a voice inside, "this book reviewing schtick is a tough
business.  No place for wimps."

And I know that's true.

And I know, also, that reviews, good and bad, provide a service to readers,
a sort of consumer guide.

And I know, third, that even negative reviews are of great value to a
writer learning her craft.

So, as my own personal memorial to Isaac, I make the following resolutions
about my book reviewing. . .

	1.  I shall no longer review the books of certain established
	writers, unless they do something so spectacular I have to
	praise it to the skies.  No names here, but you can start with 
	the "grand masters."  They have no real need of praise, nothing 
	to fear from bad reviews in terms of sales.  Their readers know
	what to expect; reviews really won't affect their sales anymore.

	2.  No more reviews of books I don't like because of the _kind_
	of book they are.  These, too, serve no purpose.  Let their
	proper readers decide.

Isaac was a kind man.  I believe he would have appreciated a memorial
intended to increase the kindness in the world by a tiny bit.

				###

The meeting took a health break.

I went into the men's room and cried silently.  (You can't be caught
crying in the office.  You have to be _under_control_.)

Sometime since this morning someone had scratched "eat it" into the
glass of the restroom mirror.

Isaac is dead, and most of the world really doesn't care.

Life goes on.

I hate Mondays. . .