I was always in love with books, and my earliest serious passion was science fiction. I read hundreds of books in the genre. I pored over the magazines. I could not get enough.
My parents told me I should spend more time with kids my own age. Too much time alone with books was not good for me, but then I would get berated for having friends. I was basically told to stop whatever I happened to be doing and ordered to do the opposite thing.
Other kids thought I was weird. I was called space cadet, airhead, dreamer. I think it still happens.
I did have friends, and I have some nice recollections of doing things with neighbors and school friends. Today I look back and my fondest memories are of my times with books.
My wife, Clara, is a librarian, and she told me about a large lot of vintage science fiction books left for donation. Of course I was excited and I couldn't wait to see what was there.
We feverishly drove to the library and upon arrival found three carts filled with classic SF (NEVER 'sci-fi') books.
When I say classic, I mean titles by Harlan Ellison. Robert Bloch. Isaac Asimov. Philip Jose Farmer. Alfred Bester. Philip K. Dick. Arthur C. Clarke. Theodore Sturgeon. Dozens more.
My first thought was sadness. It had to be the collection of an old fan. When this many books are donated in one pop, it generally means someone has died. Or they had to give up their possessions in order to succumb to assisted living. I wished I had met the person who owned this impressive collection. No names were scrawled in the pages, so I was even more impressed by his good taste.
So many incredible books. I was literally looking upon the future of my past. I knew every cover. The ones I hadn't read were familiar to me from all the time I spent at libraries and bookstores looking for science fiction books.
SF publishing was a huge industry, with hundreds of titles released each year. Most of which were read by smart, imaginative, socially-awkward boys. Like me.
Now, hours later, my heart still feels the pang. These amazing books were my church. They were my love. They were the reason I didn't go crazy from the endless criticism at home and the alienation I felt in school. These magical treasure boxes were made for those of us who avoided sports. We were unwelcome at the popular parties. We were the weird ones, the odd boys who were ridiculed, bullied, or at best pitied.
It bothered me, but not a whole lot. I had better worlds to visit than any crappy birthday party with a bunch of illiterate cretins. I had not the slightest desire to join any team or club. Maybe if there had been a local science fiction league, but I never knew of any.
So many books. So many memories. Great anthologies from the best of magazines like Galaxy, Fantasy and Science Fiction, Astounding. Novels, collections, even some nonfiction dedicated to the genre.
I was born in 1961 and I'm currently sixty-one years old. A lot of the books from this collection came from the sixties and into the seventies. Some are in great shape, but many have deteriorated. Crumbling glue, brittle pages, and broken bindings. I can relate. I usually feel crumbled, brittle, and broken.
The future felt like forever when I was a boy. My mind was in the stars and I was overcome with awe by words from brilliant visionaries. It seemed like I was an alien in a mundane world.
We pulled out the ones I really want, and Clara is going to make an offer for them. We may even make an offer for the whole kit and kaboodle. There are books I want for my own collection, and I hope to sell some at conventions. Selling SF to a horror crowd isn't easy. Many have prejudices about the genre. Thanks, no doubt, to lackluster movies and TV shows that have always given science fiction a bad name. Even the best shows and films pale in comparison to the classics of the field.
As for the ones in really bad shape, we are considering some sort of art project with the covers. A collage piece, perhaps. It seems like such a shame to see them destroyed.
I mostly gave up on SF in the early eighties, but these books, these dreams, these flights of imagination, they still make my heart soar.
Once upon a time there was a boy. A boy consumed with imagination and enraptured by the idea of space. A boy whose life centered around the wonders of science fiction. The real thing, not that canned TV bullstuff. A boy a lot like me. I don't know his face or his name, but I am intimately familiar with his soul. I will try to preserve the heritage of great science fiction he spent hundreds of dollars on. I will keep and read some, and I hope to pass along some of the books to worthy parties. I will do my best to keep his love and vision alive.
I hope, when the time comes, someone will do the same for mine.
Written by Mark Sieber
My parents told me I should spend more time with kids my own age. Too much time alone with books was not good for me, but then I would get berated for having friends. I was basically told to stop whatever I happened to be doing and ordered to do the opposite thing.
Other kids thought I was weird. I was called space cadet, airhead, dreamer. I think it still happens.
I did have friends, and I have some nice recollections of doing things with neighbors and school friends. Today I look back and my fondest memories are of my times with books.
My wife, Clara, is a librarian, and she told me about a large lot of vintage science fiction books left for donation. Of course I was excited and I couldn't wait to see what was there.We feverishly drove to the library and upon arrival found three carts filled with classic SF (NEVER 'sci-fi') books.
When I say classic, I mean titles by Harlan Ellison. Robert Bloch. Isaac Asimov. Philip Jose Farmer. Alfred Bester. Philip K. Dick. Arthur C. Clarke. Theodore Sturgeon. Dozens more.
My first thought was sadness. It had to be the collection of an old fan. When this many books are donated in one pop, it generally means someone has died. Or they had to give up their possessions in order to succumb to assisted living. I wished I had met the person who owned this impressive collection. No names were scrawled in the pages, so I was even more impressed by his good taste.
So many incredible books. I was literally looking upon the future of my past. I knew every cover. The ones I hadn't read were familiar to me from all the time I spent at libraries and bookstores looking for science fiction books.
SF publishing was a huge industry, with hundreds of titles released each year. Most of which were read by smart, imaginative, socially-awkward boys. Like me.
Now, hours later, my heart still feels the pang. These amazing books were my church. They were my love. They were the reason I didn't go crazy from the endless criticism at home and the alienation I felt in school. These magical treasure boxes were made for those of us who avoided sports. We were unwelcome at the popular parties. We were the weird ones, the odd boys who were ridiculed, bullied, or at best pitied.
It bothered me, but not a whole lot. I had better worlds to visit than any crappy birthday party with a bunch of illiterate cretins. I had not the slightest desire to join any team or club. Maybe if there had been a local science fiction league, but I never knew of any.
So many books. So many memories. Great anthologies from the best of magazines like Galaxy, Fantasy and Science Fiction, Astounding. Novels, collections, even some nonfiction dedicated to the genre.
I was born in 1961 and I'm currently sixty-one years old. A lot of the books from this collection came from the sixties and into the seventies. Some are in great shape, but many have deteriorated. Crumbling glue, brittle pages, and broken bindings. I can relate. I usually feel crumbled, brittle, and broken.
The future felt like forever when I was a boy. My mind was in the stars and I was overcome with awe by words from brilliant visionaries. It seemed like I was an alien in a mundane world.
We pulled out the ones I really want, and Clara is going to make an offer for them. We may even make an offer for the whole kit and kaboodle. There are books I want for my own collection, and I hope to sell some at conventions. Selling SF to a horror crowd isn't easy. Many have prejudices about the genre. Thanks, no doubt, to lackluster movies and TV shows that have always given science fiction a bad name. Even the best shows and films pale in comparison to the classics of the field.
As for the ones in really bad shape, we are considering some sort of art project with the covers. A collage piece, perhaps. It seems like such a shame to see them destroyed.I mostly gave up on SF in the early eighties, but these books, these dreams, these flights of imagination, they still make my heart soar.
Once upon a time there was a boy. A boy consumed with imagination and enraptured by the idea of space. A boy whose life centered around the wonders of science fiction. The real thing, not that canned TV bullstuff. A boy a lot like me. I don't know his face or his name, but I am intimately familiar with his soul. I will try to preserve the heritage of great science fiction he spent hundreds of dollars on. I will keep and read some, and I hope to pass along some of the books to worthy parties. I will do my best to keep his love and vision alive.
I hope, when the time comes, someone will do the same for mine.
Written by Mark Sieber
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