I. Asimov

by Isaac Asimov

“You can’t trust Gentiles,” she said. I let some time elapse and then asked suddenly, “What are you doing to help the blacks in their fight for civil rights?” “Listen,” she said, “I have my own troubles.” And I said, “So did the Gentiles.”

Later, riddled with guilt, I confessed to my father and told him I had played poker for money. “How did you do?” asked my father calmly. “I lost fifteen cents,” I said. “Thank God,” he said. “Think if you had won fifteen cents.” He was well aware of the addictive qualities of the vice.

Money has, for a long time, ceased being an issue with me. I have enough.

there was enormous relief in the 1960s when it became possible to use vulgarisms in writing, and even, to an extent, on television. The prissy were horrified, but they live in some never-never land and I am in no mood to worry about them.

“Listen, Isaac,” he said, “if you find out how I did it, let me know. I want to do it again.”