Reading log, no. 3

This month I read only one book. But it was a fat book. But it wasn't as fat as the Bible. But it may as well have been the Bible -- my bible -- for how much I've been quoting from it and paraphrasing it these last few weeks. I call it proselytizing.

In 1977, I wrote my autobiography. Since I was dealing with my favorite subject, I wrote at length and I ended with 640,000 words. Since Doubleday is always overwhelmingly kind to me, they published it all--but in two volumes. The first was In Memory Still Green (1979), the second In Joy Still Felt (1980). Together, they described the first fifty-seven years of my life in considerable detail.

Isaac Asimov
I. Asimov

I. Asimov was an impulse read. The Phoenix Public Library System didn't have a working holds system this month, and so we patrons had to walk among the stacks, the rows and rows of book-stuffed shelves, to obtain our books. I happened to be on the top floor of the Central Branch purposelessly looking for literary criticism on Margaret Atwood when I saw Asimov's name in enormous letters on a thick spine. It was his third autobiography. It takes a guy like Isaac Asimov to write no fewer than three autobiographies.

Asimov's name had then already been swimming in my head. He came up in my meandering research of Malthusianism. Here at Just Enough Craig I had posted a link to his short story titled The Last Question, which I suspect none of you read. (Shame on you!) I had become increasingly intrigued by and impressed with his philosophical views, especially regarding theism. Coworker Shafik directed me to his Wikiquote page, which is chock-full of delicious, humorous eloquence.

Those people who think they know everything are a great annoyance to those of us who do.

And, in the back of my head, I've been wanting to reread his Azazel stories since reading half a dozen or so of them several years ago.

Now, after reading I. Asimov, I'm wanting to read many, many more of his stories.

* * *

Isaac Asimov was a writer of staggering prolificity. He published more than 470 books, which amounted to about one book per month for the forty years starting in the 1950s and ending at the time of his death in 1992. In addition to being his own book-of-the-month club, he wrote numerous short stories, essays, and articles.

In his time there was no good way to write for the world audience except by being published, and the publisher acted as a filter between the writer and the reader by possessing the power to reject an author's work or demand modifications. Writers therefore had to exercise judgment as to whether an idea for a book was a good one and also as to how the book should be written, for otherwise the writer could waste time and resources on a fruitless effort destined for rejection.

Asimov claimed to revise only about five percent of a typical work between the composition of the first draft and the work's final published form. Once he was established as an author sometime during the 1950s, he rarely wrote anything that wasn't published.

Money has, for a long time, ceased being an issue with me. I have enough. There are other things I want more and the chief of these is the gift of being able to write what I want to write in the way I want to write it, and do it with the comfortable certainty that it would be published. This Doubleday made possible for me quite early on.

(from I. Asimov)

Asimov enjoyed having almost no filter between him and his audience. Other authors have enjoyed, once established, a similar situation of having everything they write published, but such authors are typically pigeonholed into a particular genre or style or field of expertise. Asimov's uniqueness was that he enjoyed the status without such limitations. He wrote about anything and everything that interested him, and no matter how unprofitable the work may seem, eventually his words ended up in the bookstore or a periodical. His books are scattered throughout the library. According to Wikipedia, he has at least one work in every major category of the Dewey Decimal System except the 100s (philosophy and psychology).

He told stories; he entertained; he expressed viewpoints; and he taught. His readership was loyal, although I can't imagine anyone reading everything he wrote. In this way, Isaac Asimov was the world's first blogger and, to this day, the most successful.

* * *

Here are a few of my favorite quotes from I. Asimov:

On death:

But it is my opinion that we all achieve Nirvana at once, at the moment of the death that ends a single life. Since I have had a good life, I'll accept death as cheerfully as I can when it comes, although I would be glad to have that death painless. I would also be glad to have my survivors--relatives, friends, and readers--refrain from wasting their time and poisoning their lives in useless mourning and unhappiness. They should be happy instead, in my behalf, that my life has been so good.

Was Asimov a simplicitist? On money:

I appreciated all that but I didn't want the side effects that come with affluence. I dreaded the thought that I would be expected to throw fancy parties, that it would be necessary for me to attend social functions in glittering array, that it would be taken for granted that I ought to have my apartment littered with the latest technological advances, that I ought to have a housekeeper, and a fancy office, and a posh automobile, and a boat, and a summer home, and whatever else fancy might suggest.

I didn't want such things. I wanted to live quietly and simply, and every time I indulged in an outward manifestation of being well off, I feared that the world would not allow me my penchant for simplicity.

On religion, humanism and Malthusianism:

I also take a kind of perverse pleasure in the thought that the most important and influential book ever written is the product of Jewish thought. (No, I don't think it was written down at God's dictation any more than the Iliad was.) I call it "perverse" because it is an instance of national pride which I don't want to feel and which I fight against constantly. I refuse to consider myself to be anything more sharply defined than "human being," and I feel that aside from over-population the most intractable problem we face in trying to avoid the destruction of civilization and humanity is the diabolical habit of people dividing themselves into tiny groups, with each group extolling itself and denouncing its neighbors.

A limerick:

There is something about satyriasis
That arouses psychiatrists' biases.
But we're both of us pleased
We're in this way diseased,
As the damsel who's waiting to try us is.

More on death:

There may be some morbid satisfaction to being a last survivor, but is it so much better than death to be the last leaf on the tree, to find yourself alone in a strange and hostile world where no one remembers you as a boy, and where no one can share with you the memory of that long-gone world that glowed all about you when you were young?

* * *

The last Asimov novel I read was Forward the Foundation, which I read sometime in high school, long before I quit science fiction. I remember enjoying the book a good deal but discovering about halfway through that each chapter was titled after a character who, in that chapter, would die or otherwise exit the story. That instilled within me both a sense of sadness and dread as I realized I was saying goodbye to each character in turn.

If you'll pardon my drama, I read I. Asimov with a similar sense of dread. Knowing that Asimov wrote the book shortly before his death while suffering major health problems (and indeed, the book was published after his death), I knew it was going to be a book without a happy ending. And indeed it is. Isaac Asimov was a spectacular human being and his full and productive life was much too short.

Gertrude once said, bitterly, as I was closing in on my hundredth book, "What good is all this anyway? When you are dying, you will realize all you missed in life, all the good things you could have afforded with the money you make and that you ignored in your mad pursuit of more and more books. What will a hundred books do for you?"

And I said, "When I am dying, lean close over me to get my dying words. They are going to be: 'Too bad! Only a hundred!'"

Having reached 451 books as of now doesn't help the situation. If I were to be dying now, I would be murmuring, "Too bad! Only four hundred fifty-one." (Those would be my next-to-last words. The last ones will be: "I love you, Janet.")

Back

February 23, 2006 fell on a Thursday. I don't remember that, though, and can state it as fact only after doing the calculation. But I remember many other things about the day. I remember that I took the day off from work and awoke early that morning in my parents' house feeling anxious and determined. I remember Mom took the day off from work too, and Dad, being retired, had nothing better to do. The three of us got into Mom's car and backed out of the garage in the dark at a time early enough to beat even the ever punctual Katy Freeway traffic. I remember eagerly waiting in the car in the parking lot of our destination because the front door to the building was not yet unlocked. I remember, once inside, filling out last minute paperwork. I don't remember changing my clothes, but I do remember sitting in a chair in a gown and shaking exceptionally as the nurse stuck me with a needle and moments later drifting off to sleep. I remember next waking to a sensation of a penetrating cold that felt like death and shivering violently till it passed. And sometime in the moments in between these last two memories, I was given a normally functioning adult body.

I don't trust myself to blog directly about my herniated L5-S1. It's a problem that caused me exceptional pain and grief from ages seventeen till twenty-six. It's a problem that, as a root cause, still exists but that I almost have been able to ignore for three years. Almost. It's a problem that can induce an incredible pain unlike any other I've known, and yet it pales in seriousness to health problems suffered by millions of people right now. So I don't trust myself to write about it because I can't possibly describe in detail the experience without coming across as exaggerative and superfluous and, worst of all, self-pitying. So I'm not going to write about it.

The pleasures of the body are every bit real and should be embraced and treasured. Because the pains of the body are likewise real, and you don't always get to choose which set you experience.

Wallet

Yesterday my wallet broke:

Lucky for me, I had bought a bag of wallets a while back:

So I selected a new one matching my mood for size and style. There, all good:

Operation: Shutdown

Today I am taking a sick day. I made the call to my boss promptly at eight o'clock this morning to notify her of my decision. Those calls are always a bit awkward. I say on the phone in a healthy-sounding voice, "I'm not feeling well today and am staying home," and while I hear myself saying those words I'm wondering if I shouldn't at least sound sick to make it clear I'm not just taking the day off.

But I kind of am just taking a day off. I could go to work, but I won't. I won't because I don't underestimate even trivial illnesses such as the common cold. When I am sick I begin Operation: Shutdown. I stay home, and I rest. And if I can't rest then I do something relaxing like reading or writing. And if I write some emails worth sending or a blog entry worth posting, like this very one you're reading, then I'll trudge to the library with my laptop to use the Internet. I figure a little walking and an hour or so sitting in a chair at a table isn't too bad. Only, today there aren't any chairs or tables because it's Presidents' Day, and I'm outside sitting in the shade on the concrete by the front door.

(For those of you who don't know, as a time-saving measure I don't have Internet access at home: simplicitism in practice.)

The reason I go into Operation: Shutdown for even the most mild of infections, such as this one, is that I am very susceptible to catching bronchitis. Bronchitis is neither painful nor threatening, but it greatly reduces my bicycling and other physical pursuits for two to four weeks, and that's no fun at all with my lifestyle.

I've had bronchitis about two dozen times in my life. There was a stretch of time starting in early high school and lasting till my mid-twenties in which I got it nearly every time I caught a cold, which was about twice a year. I would be sick with a cold for a few days; then I would recover; and then, horribly, my bronchi would fill up with thick mucus and it would become impossible to breathe heavily. The problem clears up on its own in about a month, and antibiotics take care of the problem in half the time, but even so it's no fun being sidelined for two weeks. I also don't like going to the doctor when I know what the problem is and just need that small slip of paper to unlock the pharmacy.

So Operation: Shutdown is all about keeping my immune system in its happiest state and the infection as far from my respiratory system as possible. And it's also about making awkward phone calls to my boss at eight o'clock in the morning.

Will

Since I'm too lazy to do it nice and legal, I've decided I'll take advantage of Just Enough Craig's readership to make it known to the people who know me and are inclined to care, or, more accurately, are likely to be involved, just what my wishes are for what happens when I die.

Firstly, nobody panic or take to exceptional glee. I'm not dying, insofar as I know. It's just that an itchy throat gets a man to thinking about his mortality and what happens, when he dies, to the world and the people he knows and the bicycles he owns. So today here at Just Enough Craig we're talking about death. My death.

My wish, for when I die, is for those still alive and who care or are involved to mark the occasion by whatever means they wish. I'll be dead, and I'm a firm believer that the world belongs to the living and the people who haven't yet been born and not to the people who have already lived their lives. When I'm gone, I'll be gone, and that's that. Do what you wish.

Now, it may happen that your wish will be to mark the occasion in a way of which I would approve if I were alive. In such a case, I do have a few tips on how to do it right, Craigarian-style.

It's important to know that I strongly oppose ceremonial burial on the grounds that it doesn't scale. Take it to its logical conclusion sometime in the distant future and Earth is made into one giant cemetery. That won't do. But I'm not much of a fan of cremation either because it's such an ordeal. I doubt many crematoria are carbon-free, and so it seems like such a waste. Ideally I'll have donated my body to science, but doing so requires filling out paperwork, and there's my laziness to consider again, so there's a good chance you'll be stuck with my rotting corpse and will have to figure out what to do with it. I say drop the smelly thing into a hole somewhere. Not a grave; just a regular, unmarked hole in the ground. Preferably the location will be pastoral and scenic, but this is only a preference and not that important. Dig the hole with shovel and sweat and drop me in sans word or regret. We're all nothing but stardust anyway, and so you guys may as well not make such a big fuss about the whole thing.

Shoveling is hard and time-consuming work, and so I imagine the digging will be something of a team effort. I would most approve if you made it into something of a competition to see who could move the most dirt the fastest, but this is a minor point and is totally up to you. What you will probably feel inclined to do, competitive or not, is to make the event into something of a formal thing. You should know, in this case, that I detest funerals. Gathering together friends and family upon the occurrence of a death is fine, and I have no problem with that. What I don't like is the dark and sombre attitude associated with funerals: the wailing and crying, the wellspring of sudden religiosity, the revered reflection of the departed's life no matter how inconsequential or spiteful it was. Even in my most immodest moments I can't help but suspect some people would be thinking upon hearing of my death: "Well, I for one thought he was kind of hard to deal with at times." There's no sense in hiding feelings. I certainly won't hold such thoughts against you because, remember, I'll be dead.

So you may as well make the get together a joyous and festive one. Call it a one-fewer-person-on-the-planet party. Celebrate that there's a little more of everything to go around; put on some uppity music; and divide my spoils between the lot of you. To the strongest.

Female Fashions

Sometimes I think that a fashion trend is that which is so ugly it must be discarded and redefined every few years. In truth, at any given time there are many popular fashions that I like and many that I don't. These days I happen to like a lot of the ones I observe, and today I wish to share my thoughts on a few that I especially like.

bare arms and shoulders

The allure of a woman's body lies in its soft, gentle curves: the swell from the lower back to the hips, the slope from the clavicle to the breast, the supple fullness of the thigh, and so on. What too often is left out of the list, though, is the roundedness of the shoulders.

A woman will expose a little more leg or a little more cleavage, and there's a general idea that this is a big deal, as if sex appeal can be reduced to one or two body parts. It can't. It's a package deal, and the arms and shoulders add to it by accentuating the femininity of her whole figure below.

These days women are often exposing arms and shoulders in their entirety, from wrists all the way up to the shoulder strap of some clingy top, and doing so without much afterthought. And for this I consider us beholders all the luckier.

clingy tops

And this brings me to clingy tops. If I consider a woman's appeal to be greater than the sum of individual body parts then it makes sense that I prefer fashions that hide less of her figure. Nothing hides a figure like loose or busy fabric, and so one of my favorite casual looks for women is the solid-color clingy top. Of course it shows off the breasts, but what's more important is that it shows off everything else: the shoulders, as mentioned above; the narrowing of the waist; and the unique swell of her abdomen.

Clingy clothes in general have been in vogue for a while now, and I am not at all tiring of the trend. For once you will hear me exclaim with complete honesty: let's maintain the status quo!

long, straight hair

What do I hope to see when the beautiful bare-shoulder, clingy-top-wearing object of my gaze turns away? I hope to see, gently cascading down her upper back, locks of lovely straight hair.

Women these days are expending so much effort dyeing their hair blond -- at least here in the Valley -- that it has stifled their otherwise indomitable willingness to fuss around with their mane by styling it this way or that. For this I am pleased. I'm not terribly excited about fake blondes, although I will admit they turn my head like they do most guys', but if a woman insists on spending time on her hair, mucking it up, then dyeing is the most innocuous of things she can do.

a limerick

Oh, woe is me 'cause my throat scratchy
Which inspires this limerick catchy
Thursday night -- up with Jill
Cold ride home -- now I'm ill
And suff'ring my immune system patchy

Rivers of concrete

People going to, people going fro, zipping through the city at inhuman speeds isolated within chambers made of steel and plastic and glass. Maybe as our distances become smaller our worlds become bigger?

Ooh! Ooh! I bought a shiny new camera! Look! Look!