Dead Authors Dinner Party

 

The other night I awoke thinking about which dead authors I would like to talk to.

The first one would be Isaac Asimov. Having my bum pinched by him would be a small price to pay for talking to the man who aroused my interest in science. Besides it's apparent that he was a damaged person whose neuroses impacted him, if I could go back and offer him therapy, who knows how it may have changed him.

After that it would Robert A. Heinlein, the first science fiction author whose books I bought as a lonely child, to pass the time during a wet summer holiday in Ilfracombe, where my family went every year (BTW: William Shatner's comment about Ilfracombe makes me laugh). He was a survivor of tuberculosis and a life long stammerer.

Arthur C. Clarke, who I saw once and met at a one day convention in London, back when it was possible to meet authors at really tiny events. It would be nice to sit down and talk to the man who has probably inspired my writing the most. The pillars in my Gate Walker series are a homage to the Monoliths of 2001. Another author who struggled with prejudice.

After that, A. E. van Vogt would be the next author I would've liked to have met and talked to. Much derided by Damon Knight, which destroyed van Vogt's reputation, his story The Black Destroyer, which I read in The Voyage of the Space Beagle, stands as a testament to how wrong Damon was.

Then Cordwainer Smith, pseudonym of Paul Linebarger. Gosh, I imagine a great discourse ranging from his Godfather Sun Yat-sen to his work in American intelligence, psychological warfare, and perhaps even talking about his experiences with psychotherapy.

Also Robert E. Howard, along with Novalyne Price. I would admit that the temptation to do couple therapy with them, and help Howard with his depression would be a thing. Imagine if they'd married, and he had lived.

Finally, H. P. Lovecraft and Sonia Greene, again this would be one of those situations where I would be tempted to do couple counseling, and help the very damaged Lovecraft with his crippling neuroses to live a happier life.

Sweet dreams are made of this.

PS: A takeaway from this is that all the authors I admire were products of their time and damaged in some way or another.