Isaac Asimov: The Foundations of Science Fiction (Revised Edition) (38 page)
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Authors: James Gunn
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7 The Stuff Itself
In 1970 Asimov returned to New York alone. Talk of divorce had increased in frequency in recent years. "After 1969," Asimov reported in his autobiography, "which seemed to consist, in retrospect, of one long slide toward divorce, there had been an upturn, a kind of pleasant Indian summer, a glimmering twilight that had lasted six weeks. . . ." Then he (and his wife, apparently) accepted the fact that the marriage was beyond saving.
In his 1994 memoir Asimov attributed the divorce in part to the fact that his wife smoked and he detested smoking. "If I had felt then [when he married Gertrude] as I feel now, or as I felt a few years after I married her, nothing would possibly have persuaded me to marry a woman who smoked. . . . When I discovered that living with Gertrude meant [a house or apartment that was always filled with smoke and with the reek of dead ash tray contents] and that there was no escape, our relationship withered." But he also mentioned Gertrude's rheumatoid arthritis whose pain made her less than reasonable, and his own increasing absorption in his writing that swelled their bank account but, because of Asimov's interest only in "clean paper and a working typewriter," left his wife feeling she got no good out of it.
At first, Asimov was going to take an apartment in nearby Wellesley while the divorce went forward. Then he learned that his wife would allow only a separation. Divorce in Massachusetts without his wife's cooperation was virtually impossible for a man with Asimov's stern ethical imperatives, so he moved to New York where he could institute no-fault proceedings.
His future second wife, Dr. Janet Jeppson, whom he had met earlier on a few occasions, helped him to find an apartment and adjust to life as a single man after nearly thirty years of marriage. Once more he was back in the city where he had grown from a child of three to a young man of twenty-nine who was a successful but not well-paid science-
fiction author. Now he was fifty years old. His hundredth book had been celebrated in 1969 with
Opus 100
and numerous interviews, some on television. He was becoming known as the most prolific man of letters of his time, and his reputation as a child prodigy had been supplanted by the image, however exaggerated, of an authority on almost everything.
fiction author. Now he was fifty years old. His hundredth book had been celebrated in 1969 with
Opus 100
and numerous interviews, some on television. He was becoming known as the most prolific man of letters of his time, and his reputation as a child prodigy had been supplanted by the image, however exaggerated, of an authority on almost everything.
Asimov was much in demand as a public speaker, commanding substantial fees. He could find a publisher for almost anything he wished to write and for some books he did not. He was wealthy; in spite of the impending divorce settlement he would never have to worry about money again, even if he never wrote another word. But that, of course, was unthinkable. Writing was his life, even if it was no longer his livelihood. He accepted small advances so publishers would let him write what he wanted to write.
A couple of questions, however, disturbed him. He was not sure he could write in new surroundings: radical changes always brought this terrible possibility into his mind. Each time, however, the fears had been unnecessary, and this time was no different. One question remained to be answered: would he ever write serious science fiction again? In spite of his statement at the end of his collection,
The Bicentennial Man,
that he had never stopped writing science fiction, the intensity with which he had written his early stories, the amount of himself that he had poured into those hopeful works, had been missing for a number of years.
The Bicentennial Man,
that he had never stopped writing science fiction, the intensity with which he had written his early stories, the amount of himself that he had poured into those hopeful works, had been missing for a number of years.
If anything, Asimov's social life improved in New York. He soon was seeing his editors more regularly than ever and, in addition, his old science-fiction friends, Lester del Rey, Judy-Lynn Benjamin (who became Mrs. del Rey), Robert Silverberg, and others, including John Campbell, until his untimely death, on July 11, 1971 of a ruptured aorta, at the age of 61. And Asimov attended various local science-fiction conventions. At one of them on January 23, 1971, Robert Silverberg and Lester del Rey participated in a dialogue about ''the ins and outs of science fiction." At one point Silverberg illustrated the greater importance of the human aspects of a science-fiction story over the scientific detail by asking why anyone should be overly concerned with some trivial matter concerning, say, plutonium-186.
In the audience Asimov laughed because he knew there was no plutonium-186 and could not be. After the dialogue he told Silverberg this, and Silverberg shrugged it off. Asimov said, "But just to show you what a real science-fiction writer can do, I'll write a story about plutonium-186."
"Go ahead," Silverberg said. He was putting together the first issue of an anthology of original fiction to be entitled
New Dimensions.
"If you write one that meets my minimum standard of literacy, I'll publish it."
New Dimensions.
"If you write one that meets my minimum standard of literacy, I'll publish it."
This kind of banter was exchanged among Asimov, del Rey, Silverberg, Ellison (see Asimov's two introductions to Ellison's
Dangerous Visions
), and a few others. In his autobiography Asimov described an exchange of insults with an editor and added, "You can't fool around that way if you don't like a guy." He also described how he was always getting "wiped out" by his friends. Occasionally, however, these exchanges got under the skin. When Asimov described the above conversation with Silverberg in his 1980 autobiography, he inserted the phrase "who knew that very well" between ''Silverberg" and "shrugged it off," but in an early introduction to the 1972 novel Asimov told the story differently. Silverberg did not remember it that way, however, and Asimov, no doubt feeling that the introduction might damage their friendship, had it removed from the later versions of
The Gods Themselves.
Dangerous Visions
), and a few others. In his autobiography Asimov described an exchange of insults with an editor and added, "You can't fool around that way if you don't like a guy." He also described how he was always getting "wiped out" by his friends. Occasionally, however, these exchanges got under the skin. When Asimov described the above conversation with Silverberg in his 1980 autobiography, he inserted the phrase "who knew that very well" between ''Silverberg" and "shrugged it off," but in an early introduction to the 1972 novel Asimov told the story differently. Silverberg did not remember it that way, however, and Asimov, no doubt feeling that the introduction might damage their friendship, had it removed from the later versions of
The Gods Themselves.
The incident, nevertheless, may have provided the inspiration for what would turn out to be Asimov's only original science-fiction novel in the twenty-five years between
The Naked Sun
in 1957 and
Foundation's Edge
in 1982.
The Gods Themselves
might never have been started if Asimov had conceived it as a novel from the beginning.
The Naked Sun
in 1957 and
Foundation's Edge
in 1982.
The Gods Themselves
might never have been started if Asimov had conceived it as a novel from the beginning.
Asimov described his attitude toward science-fiction writing in the mid-1960s when Harlan Ellison asked him to write a story for
Dangerous Visions.
Asimov begged off, offering instead to write an introduction because, he said, he lacked the time for a story. (He ended up writing two introductions, one describing the changes in science fiction and why he did not write a story for the collection, the second recounting his first put-down meeting with Ellison.) His real reason was, he wrote in his autobiography, "I couldn't face trying to write a story that could pass muster in the 1960s, when such talent as I had suited only the 1950s. I felt that I couldn't measure up any longer and I didn't want to prove it."
Dangerous Visions.
Asimov begged off, offering instead to write an introduction because, he said, he lacked the time for a story. (He ended up writing two introductions, one describing the changes in science fiction and why he did not write a story for the collection, the second recounting his first put-down meeting with Ellison.) His real reason was, he wrote in his autobiography, "I couldn't face trying to write a story that could pass muster in the 1960s, when such talent as I had suited only the 1950s. I felt that I couldn't measure up any longer and I didn't want to prove it."
Evelyn del Rey helped to dispel some of this feeling when she asked him why he didn't write science fiction anymore. Asimov replied sadly, "Evelyn, you know as well as I do that the field has moved beyond me." And she replied, "Isaac, you're crazy. When you write, you are the field." He returned to writing short stories.
A novel, nevertheless, was something different; it may have been for the best that this one sneaked up on him. His story kept growing beyond the five thousand words that he had promised Silverberg until
it reached twenty thousand. That was a short novel. Thinking that Doubleday, which was to publish
New Dimensions,
might expand the volume to include the extra length of the story, Asimov took it to Larry Ashmead, Doubleday's current science-fiction editor. Ashmead telephoned to say that anthologization was out; he wanted the story expanded into a novel.
it reached twenty thousand. That was a short novel. Thinking that Doubleday, which was to publish
New Dimensions,
might expand the volume to include the extra length of the story, Asimov took it to Larry Ashmead, Doubleday's current science-fiction editor. Ashmead telephoned to say that anthologization was out; he wanted the story expanded into a novel.
Asimov did not want to expand it. On the spot, however, he offered to write two more sections of equal length: "The story involves an energy source that depends on communication between ourselves and another universe, and it ends downbeat. What I can do is retell the story from the standpoint of the other universe and still leave it down-beat. Then I can take it up a third time in still a third setting, and this time make it upbeat."
"Are you sure you can do this?" Ashmead asked.
"Absolutely positive," Asimov responded, although he had made up the idea on the spur of the moment. But as he added in his autobiography, "If I couldn't, I wasn't Isaac Asimov." On March 8, 1971, he dropped in at Doubleday and signed a contract to write the novel. He also set to work on a different story for Silverberg's anthology, a short story titled "Take a Match'' that appeared in
New Dimensions II
(1972).
New Dimensions II
(1972).
Asimov might have been reluctant at first to tackle a new science-fiction novel not only because of his feeling that he belonged to another, perhaps outmoded, generation of science-fiction writers he had divided science fiction into periods he called "adventure-dominant, science-dominant, sociology-dominant, and style-dominant," and it was not difficult to perceive that he thought style-dominance was a perversion of Campbell's vision but because he had not written an adult science-fiction novel for more than fifteen years (or any kind of science-fiction novel, including juveniles, for thirteen).
In addition, he had more writing projects than he could handle, and he was involved in a lengthy and disturbing divorce negotiation with his wife. He also found writing science fiction more difficult than anything else.
In the introduction to
Nebula Award Stories Eight,
which he edited for the Science Fiction Writers of America the year after the publication of
The Gods Themselves,
he compared science fiction to other kinds of writing and wrote, "A good science-fiction writer can, very probably, write anything else he wishes (and for more money), if he decides to take the trouble to do so. . . . It is uphill to science fiction; downhill to everything else."
Nebula Award Stories Eight,
which he edited for the Science Fiction Writers of America the year after the publication of
The Gods Themselves,
he compared science fiction to other kinds of writing and wrote, "A good science-fiction writer can, very probably, write anything else he wishes (and for more money), if he decides to take the trouble to do so. . . . It is uphill to science fiction; downhill to everything else."
He went on to offer himself as the world authority on this subject:
I began by writing science fiction, yes, and for over thirty years I've found that my training in science fiction made it possible for me to write anything. I have written mysteries, both novels and short stories, for instance. I have also written nonfiction books on every branch of science, both popularizations for the general public and textbooks at both the graduate level and the grade-school level. I have written history books, discussions of the Bible, Shakespeare, Byron, and Milton. I have written satires and jokebooks. I have written about 150 books as of now, and I tell you, that of all the different things I write, science fiction is by far the hardest thing to do.
The introduction was entitled "So Why Aren't We Rich?" It was a bit ironic, since Asimov was one of the few science-fiction writers who was rich probably he was a millionaire by that time. In his autobiography he totaled his income at the end of each year. It revealed increasing financial success that brought him from the uncertainty of the early days when he waited anxiously for a check from Campbell to a growing bank account and growing confidence that he could leave his salaried position at Boston University with scarcely a thought about financial insecurity. He stopped revealing his annual income with the year 1962: 1961 had amounted to $69,000; 1962 to $72,000. In 1970, his divorce trial revealed his annual income as $205,000.
By almost any measure (and certainly his own, since he did not have expensive habits), he was financially secure, even though some of his savings were invested in (then shaky) New York City bonds and a generous settlement with his wife was ahead. His income came mostly from books other than his science fiction. None of his books was a best-seller though his science fiction continued to remain in print and to sell steadily but the sheer volume of the nonfiction had brought him to his present financial status. Only about 30 of those first 150 books he wrote or edited were science fiction. Books such as
The Intelligent Man's Guide to Science,
his first major science-popularization success, brought him a single royalty check of $27,600.
The Intelligent Man's Guide to Science,
his first major science-popularization success, brought him a single royalty check of $27,600.
So it was that
The Gods Themselves
came to represent a return and a confirmation and a risk that Asimov found himself willing to take. It was an act of daring that deserved the rewards it earned. The novel sold well, was critically well received, and won both Nebula and Hugo Awards. Asimov had received the approval of his fellow fans and his fellow writers.
The Gods Themselves
came to represent a return and a confirmation and a risk that Asimov found himself willing to take. It was an act of daring that deserved the rewards it earned. The novel sold well, was critically well received, and won both Nebula and Hugo Awards. Asimov had received the approval of his fellow fans and his fellow writers.
The novel also has particular merits as a summing-up point. Asimov had told Silverberg that he would show "what a real science-fiction writer can do. . . ." He meant that he would write a science-fiction story
in which the science was at least as important as the characters, a story which could not happen without the scientific content. It would conform to the definition he had used in 1951 in an article for
The Writer
and had repeated in his frequently reprinted essay, "Social Science Fiction," in Reginald Bretnor's 1953 collection,
Modern Science Fiction
: "Science fiction is that branch of literature which is concerned with the impact of scientific advance upon human beings." In the
Modern Science Fiction
essay, he inserted the word "Social" before "science fiction.''
in which the science was at least as important as the characters, a story which could not happen without the scientific content. It would conform to the definition he had used in 1951 in an article for
The Writer
and had repeated in his frequently reprinted essay, "Social Science Fiction," in Reginald Bretnor's 1953 collection,
Modern Science Fiction
: "Science fiction is that branch of literature which is concerned with the impact of scientific advance upon human beings." In the
Modern Science Fiction
essay, he inserted the word "Social" before "science fiction.''
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