Feb 13, 13
Read in January, 1992
Towards the end of his life, Asimov became obsessive about publishing as much as possible: he'd brag about having published his age in years and his weight in pounds and stuff like that. He ended up with several hundred books to his credit, but, unsurprisingly, the standard suffered.
This collection, an impulse buy at an airport bookstall, was one of the last ones I read. It's a bunch of extremely dull little mysteries; the most noteworthy point is that Asimov, apparently as interested in the proceedings as the reader is, forgets what he's doing to the extent of repeating the same very poor plot twist within a hundred pages. To add insult to injury, he even includes a note saying that he'd been told about it, but couldn't be bothered to remove or change the later chapter.
I hope he achieved his target, whatever it was. But I didn't see why I needed to carry on helping him.