Yesterday’s mail brought a copy of Tor’s hardcover reissue of Isaac Asimov’s The Currents of Space, a novel which was originally published in 1952, and which I likely first read in the late ’60s. I haven’t read it since. I have no idea whether it would hold up today, or how differently its story would be perceived by the adult me as opposed to my teen self.

But what I’m thinking most about isn’t any possible changed reaction to the novel, but rather my very different reaction the dedication.

Asimov dedicated the book—

To David, who took his time coming, but was worth waiting for

Isaac’s son David was born in 1951, the year before The Currents of Space was released. When I first read those words, I probably paid them little attention. What teenager would? But I can now imagine Isaac having written the words to that dedication while filled with a father’s pride, and with hope for the future they would have together, not knowing that their relationship would turn out to be a rocky one. (more…)

I received my schedule for Balticon 43 yesterday, which will be held May 22-25 at the Hunt Valley Inn in Baltimore.

All of my programming takes place on Saturday, May 23.

If you also plan on being there, here’s where you’ll be able to find me:

10:00 a.m.: Autographing (with Steve White)

12:00 p.m.: Submission Faux Pas (with Michael Kabongo, Joshua Palmatier, and Angela Render)

5:00 p.m.: Are Short Stories Still Worth Writing? (with Larry Hodges, Tom Doyle, and Robert R. Chase)

See you there!

According to a poll run by The Telegraph, Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird is the most inspirational book of all time.

Here’s the newspaper’s full list:

1. To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee
2. The Bible
3. A Child Called It, Dave Pelzer
4. Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus, John Gray
5. Diary of Anne Frank, Anne Frank
6. 1984, George Orwell
7. A Long Walk to Freedom, Nelson Mandela
8. The Beach, Alex Garland
9. The Time Travellers Wife, Audrey Niffenegger
10. The Catcher in the Rye, J D Salinger

1984 leapt out at me, causing a “Huh?” moment, because I never thought of it as inspirational. Powerful, influential, horribly depressing, sad, maybe, but never inspirational. Reading it, rather than inspiring me, made it want to just give up and slit my wrists. I can accept Diary of Anne Frank as inspiring in spite of its grim story, because she does, after all, feel that “In spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart.”

But 1984, which says that “If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face—forever,” and ends with one of the most chilling images I’ve ever read … inspirational?

Not to me. How about you?

In an interview with Annie Proulx in the Spring 2009 issue of The Paris Review, the author of “Brokeback Mountain” and The Shipping News is asked to name her influences.

Here’s how she responds:

I can’t answer that question. I have been an omnivorous reader since early childhood and I suppose the work of all the writers I’ve read has flowed through my brain, and that some of it stuck. S.J. Perelman, Nordhoff and Hall, Kinnan Rawlings, Jack London, Faulkner, Hemingway, Dante, Dorothy Canfield Fisher, lots of science fiction, Vardis Fisher, Graham Greene, Jaroslav Hasek … why go on? Almost every book I’ve read has left its mark. And I think it silly to look for influences.

As much as I admire Proulx, I have to say this ticked me off.

Non-SF authors get named, but any SF writers she might have read get lumped together as “lots of science fiction”? Yeah, that sci-fi stuff is indistinguishable. Octavia Butler and Robert Heinlein? Can’t tell them apart!

I’d like to have learned the names of the specific writers. But no.

Sigh …

Am I overreacting yet again? I think not, but then, that’s what you’re all here to let me know.

In response to my entry about a famous comic-book image used by poet John Ashbery in one of his collages, rtbinc wrote to point me toward a New York Times article from September about Ashbery’s artwork, which includes other examples of him making use of comic art.

You can see the most obvious one below.

In this instance, the origin of the art is at least more directly acknowledged. Here’s what Holland Cotter wrote about this particular piece:

The insouciant Pop-ish sensibility in some pieces owes a debt to Mr. Brainard’s brilliant collage work, as in Mr. Ashbery’s “Diffusion of Knowledge,” with its pair of all-American comic-strip superheroes mounting a spirited defense of the Smithsonian Institution castle in Washington.

That’s Fighting American to the left and the Guardian to the right, both created by Joe Simon and Jack Kirby. Here’s what those characters look like in their natural habitats:

I’m afraid I can’t point out the exact panels or covers from which Ashbery took his images. Can you?

The Spring 2009 issue of The Paris Review includes a series of collages by famed poet John Ashbery. Evidently, he became fascinated by the collage concept during his years as a student at Harvard in the 1940s, and returned to the form in 2008. The magazine prints a dozen recent examples of these, 11 inside, and one on the issue’s cover.

Dan Chiasson, who wrote a brief introductory blurb to explain what we’re about to see, delves into the symbolism of these collages. He says:

“The background elements often depict possible pasts: people on go-carts, a scene in Rotterdam of men in bowlers, and the teetering, top-heavy trucks of the twenties. The foreground elements seem to express elation or relief at having escaped those pasts to make the art he has made and keeps making.”

Symbolism is all well and good, but if you look at the color component of the collage above, you’ll note that Ashbery didn’t just use any foreground element. That man with his hands over his ears was taken from one of the most famous pieces of comic-book art ever published.

Do you recognize him? I may be the only regular reader of The Paris Review who could identify him immediately, but I’m sure that in this venue, I’m not the only one.

You’d think the source would be worth mentioning in any interpretation of the meaning of this collage. I chalk this up to another case of those concerned with supposed “high culture” failing to be aware of supposed “low culture.” Because the origin of that image matters, whether or not The Paris Review or Ashbery scholars acknowledge it.

I could say more about why that particular man is so important, but I don’t want to spoil it for those of you for whom that image doesn’t cause an immediate “I know that face!”

So—a show of hands please. Who out there can recognize that famous face? Many of you, I hope, or else I’ll be severely disappointed.

A simple yes or no will do to start, so you don’t spoil it too quickly for the puzzled.

When the May issue of Esquire arrived in the mail today, I found George Clooney staring up at me. I’m not yet sure what project he’s plugging, as I’ve only just begun skimming through it. Maybe he’s only there to tell us “How to Be a Man,” which is the theme for the issue.

Here he is.

As I paged through the issue, however, I noticed that not only did it feel stiffer than usual in my hands, but there were two perforated lines running horizontally across the middle of the cover, one above and one below Clooney’s nose. Small type at the far right of the narrow strip in the middle suggested that I “lift and separate.” So I did, and here’s what I found. (more…)

I dreamt that I was in a cookie-cutter mall bookstore of the Borders or Barnes and Noble variety—long, narrow, and badly lit. I was reading a (non-existent in real life) beautifully designed three-volume collection of Michael Chabon’s essays and short stories. I’d pick up a book, settle in a comfy chair, skim through it, note a particularly fascinating sentence here and there, and then return it to the shelf in exchange for the next volume to enjoy in that comfy chair.

When I returned with the third volume, who should be sitting in the comfy chair next to mine but Jonathan Lethem. For some reason, we got into a discussion about whether or not he really existed. Not sure how we got on that topic, but in the dream, the discussion of his possible status as imaginary seemed entirely rational. We were discussing this situation both as if it was happening to us, but also as if we were just characters in someone else’s story.

Perhaps, I suggested, when the workers in the bookstore looked at me, all they saw was a guy talking to himself, gesticulating toward a empty chair. Talking about myself as if I was but a fictional character, I continued by saying that when they looked at me, they probably thought of me as harmless. Jonathan corrected me, as if taking about a story we would write, saying that, no, they’d instead see the character as a user.

With this, Jonathan stood up and said he was hungry. As I considered where we might head off to have dinner, I woke, and was, of course, hungry in reality.

One of the reasons I love living where I do is that Spring seems to come with more omens than it does in cities. (Who knows? Maybe it’s just that when I used to live in them, I wasn’t playing as close attention.) In any case, today I saw another sign.

I always look forward to the moss starting to green up, and the bulbs blooming, each in turn. I’ve already seen the first toad. New bamboo shoots won’t start coming up for several weeks, and the first turtles likely won’t appear until May or June. But today, while clearing wood from the swale, I noticed this little guy leaping around:

And about a half an hour later, distant enough so that we knew it wasn’t just the same creature, Irene spotted this guy: (more…)

As those of you who’ve been reading my meanderings already know, my father passed away in January. Dad was an accomplished artist, and many of his paintings hang in our house. This week we added one more.

A couple of weeks ago, I’d happened to mention to my mother that my wife and I loved a particular painting of his, and she surprised us by packaging it up and shipping it north from Florida. She told me that she did this partially because it was my birthday, and partially because she felt that since Irene and I liked it so much we should have it to enjoy.

Here’s the fanciful fish I’ve admired for years:

When I unpacked the painting and prepared to hang it, I saw that there was a second, secret painting hidden on the back. Dad usually stretched his own canvas rather than purchase it prestretched, and if he didn’t like a particular piece, he’s remove it from its frame and use the reverse side.

Here’s the image I discovered on the back:

Not a painting I’d choose to look at every day—it seems a bit too melancholy for my taste—but it’s certainly beautiful in its own way. Sadly, I’ll never get the chance to find out what caused him to abandon it.

We hung it at the top of the stairs, where we’ll see it every day. After doing so, I took a step back, admiring it. I wanted to tell Dad how beautiful I thought it was and how happy it made me to see it hanging there, and in that moment it hit me once more how there’s no longer a way for me to tell him those things. I got choked up remembering yet again that our conversation has now turned into a monologue.

I miss him.