Was
reminded of this yesterday:
A number
of years ago I was delivering a folder of background reportage to the
apartment home of a Newsweek editor. It was a fairly tony West Side, just-off-the-park building,
probably a dozen stories tall. I entered the elevator and as the
doors began to close I saw a man approach. We both reached for the
doors and the man entered, and gave me a curt nod of thanks.
So
there's only one man I've ever seen that wore white sideburns in that
particular fashion--and carried it off. He looked smaller than I'd imagined. If you live
or work in Manhattan, you inevitably have at least one star sighting.
And I was standing in an elevator all alone with Isaac Asimov.
It took
me eight floors but I finally managed to ask (somewhat timidly,
knowing his reputation), “Excuse me. Are you Isaac Asimov?”
He
turned to me. “I am.”
“I
just finished reading your Black Widower series," I said. "And I've read many of
your other works." Then not having any idea where to go
after this, I said, “You're a genius.”
The
smallest of smiles. As the elevator doors opened, he said “Yes. I
am.” And then he walked out.
It could
not have been a more perfect moment.
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