2018-02-23 18:58:03 +00:00
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created_at: '2016-01-19T05:22:10.000Z'
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title: 'Isaac Asimov: Man of 7,560,000 Words (1969)'
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url: https://www.nytimes.com/books/97/03/23/lifetimes/asi-v-profile.html
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author: jeremynixon
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points: 89
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story_text:
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comment_text:
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num_comments: 39
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story_id:
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story_title:
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story_url:
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parent_id:
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created_at_i: 1453180930
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_tags:
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- story
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- author_jeremynixon
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- story_10929015
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objectID: '10929015'
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2018-06-08 12:05:27 +00:00
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year: 1969
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2018-02-23 18:58:03 +00:00
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---
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2018-03-03 09:35:28 +00:00
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![C](/images/c.gif)limb to the second floor of a neat, middle-class
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house in West Newton, Mass., bear to the right, walk a few steps and you
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come to a door. On it are stickers, "Great Lover," "Silence Please,"
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"Genius at Work." Obviously in the house there are children, and, as
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usual, the pasted-up graffiti of children have something going for them.
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"Great Lover' we can skip as being nobody's business. As to the
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others\*well, this door leads to the office of Isaac Asimov.
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2018-02-23 18:19:40 +00:00
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2018-03-03 09:35:28 +00:00
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Silence he needs, for this definitely is a hard-working man and one of
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fierce concentration. Genius he may be, although he disputes it. In the
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matter-of-fact way in which he writes, he puts it thus: "Just say I am
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one of the most versatile writers in the world, and the greatest
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popularizer of many subjects." These range from the Bible down through
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history and the ramifications of science to Shakespeare, on which he's
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now working. The 100th bound result of his labors is scheduled for fall,
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and in Books in Print, where the the size is small indeed, the listing
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of various editions of his work runs a column and a half in length.
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2018-02-23 18:19:40 +00:00
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2018-03-03 09:35:28 +00:00
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Is he the most prolific writer in the world? Says Mr. Asimov, "No, there
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are others, most notably Georges Simenon. But he *writes* only novels."
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The inference is clear that M. Simenon, word demon that he may be, would
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be hard put to turn out such an item as "An Easy Introduction to the
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Slide Rule," which Mr. Asimov did. The Asimov books average 70,000
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words, he has written 108 of them (the last few are still at the
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printers) and all this comes to 7,560,000 words. "And the most pleasant
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thing about it is that everything I write gets printed."
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2018-02-23 18:19:40 +00:00
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2018-03-03 09:35:28 +00:00
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He is 49, reasonably slight of build, the type of man who thought he
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should put on a necktie while meeting a visitor, then said the hell with
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it on the ground it would be unnatural. The most distinguishing things
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about him are the heavy frames holding his glasses and the incredible
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neatness of his office. This last is as well, for he spends practically
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all his life there, knocking out 90 words a minute on an electric
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typewriter, with a back-up typewriter should the first one break down.
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He leaves his typewriter unwillingly and as seldom as possible\*going
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forth into the outer world only to give an occasional lecture or when
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his wife and two teen-age children insist he take them somewhere. The
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members of the family are crosses to be borne, if pleasant crosses. "I'm
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really happy only when I'm up here working," he says with a wry grin.
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He met his visitor at 8:30 in the morning—this unholy hour a concession
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to his working day\*and while he talked of himself and his work he
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seemed on occasion to furtively eye the idle typewriter. People from New
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York can be as great a nuisance as a family.
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His story technically begins in Russia, where he was born, but really in
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East New York\*which is Brooklyn\*where he grew up. His father operated
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candy stores, and indeed Isaac worked in or was otherwise connected with
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candy stores until he was 27, got married and withdrew. He entered
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Columbia at 15, received an A.B., kept going to an M.A., was in the
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armed forces, returned to Columbia for his Ph.D., and thus became
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entitled to cal himself "Dr. Asimov."
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More important to this particular story than the Ph.D is the fact that
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at age 11, he found himself with an urge to write. In a series of 5-cent
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copybooks, he wrote eight chapters of a novel called "The Greenville
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Chums at College," which, it is perhaps unnecessary to say, was modeled
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closely on the Rover Boys. When he was 16, his father dipped into the
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somewhat lean till of the candy store to buy him a secondhand
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typewriter, and young Isaac was, in effect, off to the races.
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This began with science fiction. At 18, he sent his first story to John
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W. Campbell, editor of Astounding Science Fiction. That came back, but
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the same editor on Oct. 21, 1938 -- this date is well-remembered --
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bought a story called "Marooned Off Vesta," which appeared five months
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later in Amazing Stories. Mr. Asimov remembers a detail, not hard under
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the circumstance\*he got $64 for the 6,400 word story.
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In 1950, his first book, a science-fiction novel called "Pebble in the
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Sky," was published by Doubleday, but a year before he had begun to take
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aim at fields beyond science fiction. By then, a professor of
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biochemistry at Boston University, he collaborated with two colleagues
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on a textbook which proved successful (three editions thus far) and this
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led him to science, minus the fiction. Finding he could explain
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science\*well, by logical steps, he also could explain the Bible,
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history, what have you.
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He still has one contact with Boston University. "Each year, I give the
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opening lecture for a course in biochemistry. No fee, of course, but a
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sort of introductory thing, which I try to keep light and amusing, and
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is attended by secretaries as well as students. I hope we all have a
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good time; I know that I do."
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The neatness of Mr. Asimov's day is as neat as his office. The usual one
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and the usual is seven each week -- opens at about 7 o'clock, when he
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gets up, has breakfast and goes to the post office, arriving at 8 sharp,
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when it opens. He is what is called a "morning caller," meaning that he
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collects his own mail rather than waits for delivery, and the simple
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truth here is that he does so in order to drop junk mail in the post
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office's wastebasket rather than his own. On a recent day the mail he
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brought home consisted of the following: A publisher's contract, a
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royalty check from new American Library, a Canadian publisher's formal
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agreement to terms, contracts for inclusion of an article in an
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anthology (he's also one of the most thoroughly anthologized writers
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around), a bill, five fan letters from people saying they liked what he
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had written, a request for a contribution, eight magazines.
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He is through with the mail between 9:30 and 10, and is ready for work.
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There are 1,000 volumes in his personal library, 126 volumes of bound
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Asimov writings. The bookcases are low because of the sloping ceilings
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of his attic habitat, and the books are arranged as fiction, nonfiction,
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history, science, etc. There are filing cabinets at various places about
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the room, the high-speed typewriter is beside a table he uses as a desk.
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Should he look from the window, he would see a willow tree in the yard,
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but he does not look. He doesn't cut the grass, either. That would take
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time away from writing.
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He types his 90 words a minute until about 5 o'clock, sometimes having a
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coffee break, and always trying not to overeat at lunch. Usually he goes
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back to the shop after dinner and sometimes remains there until 10
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o'clock, when he takes outgoing mail to a box in front of nearby Warren
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Junior High School.
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The comings and goings of high-school students would drive a lesser man
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frantic, but he doesn't hear them. Some nights he quits at 8 rather than
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10, and then tries to find funny programs on TV or reads mysteries,
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magazines or science fiction. He'll miss the Smothers Brothers.
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In the Asimov scheme of things, there is no secretary, no typist, no
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agent. He arranges his own indices, reads his own galleys, runs
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everything through the typewriter at least twice. In this modern age,
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everything changes fast and when he comes on changes, from reading
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scientific papers and the like, he makes marginal notes in the pages of
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his own works\*thus having a filing system that always is up-to-date.
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The notes become revisions for later editions, or source material for
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entirely new books.
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Mrs. Asimov, the former Gertrude Blugerman, born in Toronto but married
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in 1942 in New York, keeps her part of the house as neat as he does his.
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Womanlike, however, she wants a vacation now and then, and the one he
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remembers was a couple of years ago when he gave in and they went to a
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hotel at Annisquam on Cape Ann. The college student personnel was
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arranging a parody of Cole Porter's "Kiss Me Kate" for the enjoyment of
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the guests, and hearing that a writer had arrived, asked Mr. Asimov to
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help with the lyrics. He spent seven wonderful days at a typewriter,
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never going outdoors. He never saw the show, either, but his wife did,
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reporting one guest as saying to another that the music wasn't very
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good, but Oh, those lyrics\! It was the greatest accolade he has had.
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It takes a good many publishers, hardcover and paperback, to keep up
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with the Asimov output and its many subjects. Doubleday and Houghton,
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Mifflin publish about 60 per cent of his work, and as he puts it, "both
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represent a father image." In January, the first-named father image will
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celebrate the 20th anniversary of "Pebble in the Sky" by publishing "The
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Solar System and Back," a collection of essays written over the last 11
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years for the Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. This October, the
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other father image will publish "Opus 100," this 100th book being an
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anthology of material chosen by the author from his first 99. His
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favorite book? "The last one I've written."
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The world is the oyster for Asimov, and for the future there are vague
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plans for almost everything therein save two. No mysteries are on the
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schedule, and no books on computers. He has been asked to write his
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autobiography, but counters this with the remark, "What can I say?"
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There could be something in the future wind here, however, for he asked
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his father, Judah Asimov, now 74 and retired, to put down notes for
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*his* autobiography. When these come in, they are filed away and could
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end up as background for the Asimov younger days.
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The elder Asimov also writes on a typewriter. Having bought a couple
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when times were tough so that his son could become a writer, he finally
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bought one for himself. He wouldn't accept one as a gift. Rugged
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individualist.
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*Mr. Nichols is a member of the Book Review
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staff.*
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