In a message dated 8/3/01 10:32:22 AM Pacific Daylight Time, posted by Greg
Bear to the RFF list...
<< Only now can I write about my feelings.
Poul was among the finest human beings I've had the privilege to know.
I don't have the kind of personality that will leave me half as beloved
when my own time comes. But Poul's example inspired me to try -- to do as
much good and as little harm as possible. To refuse the indignant lures of
anger and to enjoy when others have their own turn on stage. Only he did
all that easily, with native grace.
Whenever a question of honor arose, I'd ask what Poul would do.
I'm reminded of when Harlan Ellison sent a letter around to all his
peers... oh, fifteen or so years ago ... asking for detailed horror stories
about bad things done to authors by fans. It was for a collection of such
tales. I guess it made sense at the time. And indeed, there were some
doozies. Some that Harlan himself reported could be chiller-film fare in
their own right. Dozens of name-authors sent in hair-raising pieces. But
Poul Anderson, after being nagged a few times for a contribution,
sheepishly answered that... "well... an eager fan once asked permission to
pitch his tent on my front lawn for a few days and use my bathroom, and I
didn't have the heart to say no."
That's it. I mean, who on Earth would ever want to be mean to Poul
Anderson (or Karen, for that matter!) It just doesn't parse. Oh, I
imagine Poul MUST have had an enemy or two in life, but it's like finding
an unpleasant Minnesotan. I've never met either species and don't expect
to any time soon.
Let me also concur with David Gerrold that Poul was a great storyteller,
the most natural I ever knew. No one better understood the implications of
plot and character. Show him the first half of any tale and he could
describe where it had to go - the arc that was already implicit in what
came before - like a sculptor explaining what living figure stands hidden
in raw stone. And you knew he had it right.
May I tell an anecdote? Years ago I was asked to take part in one of those
multi-author "round-robins". All participants were renowned pros. Each of
them read all the chapters written so far, then added another. Simple.
Except it was awful! Chapters varied wildly in voice, tense, setting and
protagonist. Even the topic went a drunkard's walk. Not one of these
"pros" paid the slightest attention to foreshadowings laid earlier by their
peers. That is, until Poul's turn came along.
I could almost hear him sigh and roll up his sleeves as he got to work!
Instead of preening and trying to show off, the way all the others had, he
spent his entire chapter meticulously patching and reweaving elements from
every scene that came before. Not one foreshadowing or hint or clue
escaped his notice -- though the worst of them were dispatched with swift
and utterly logical mercy. By the end of his portion, Poul had explained
WHY tense and voice and topic and point of view all varied spasmodically in
those earlier scenes! It was gorgeous - a Frankenstein stitching that
walked and talked and actually made sense. Not one drop of his own ego was
there, only total dedication to making the story - _some kind of decent
story - actually work.
Alas, the very next author in the round-robin ignored all this and went
vleaaaah! I decided not to join the doomed mess. Still, I treasured what
I learned about the creative process, especially how a true artist puts the
art first, before even his own vanity. Vanity is nothing. The story is all
that matters.
Let me confess that I would sometimes squint and imagine Poul in animal
skins, making up yarns by a campfire during that long age when we truly
acquired our taste for vivid dramas, back when darkness loomed all around,
and all that we had to fight back with were courage and the high-technology
of flame.
And above all, words.
From Poul I learned the natural length for a truly moving story is what a
bard would have chanted by that neolithic fire. Today we call them
novelettes and novellas -- the perfect length to portray vibrant characters
participating in poignant, powerful adventures, uncluttered by the extra
baggage of a six-pound book. Poul was the master of such tales. Though he
wrote countless brilliant and thoughtful novels, most of his awards were
for dazzling/efficient novellas that would leave you speechless for hours
afterward. Poul's topics probed tomorrow with utter freshness, but he knew
how to stir the heart with rhythms drawn directly from those brave
campfires of long ago.
Poul was also kind to his young peers. He and Karen would read stuff sent
to him by total strangers, and offer insightful, informed, well-meant
suggestions. This, too, set an example for those of us who might otherwise
have been too caught up in ego to remember what counts, like our obligation
to pay forward.
He loved his country... but even more, he loved the kind of civilization of
which America is merely the first example in a chain stretching far ahead
of us. One that turns away from hierarchies of inherited privilege and
looks instead to traits like skill and opportunity and cooperation and
hope. And relentless self-criticism. Make no mistake, he could type a
tragedy to tear your heart out. Still, as with the best sages of SF, he
wrote most passionately and intrepidly about change, poking away at a
myriad ways that change might threaten us or rescue us... or simply make us
weird. As a Californian, he didn't find the latter prospect daunting. It
sure as hell beat standing still.
And talk about weird... I still can't believe he's not there, ready and
willing to be called or emailed or asked a bit of advice... (though there's
still wonderful Karen...)
About 2 weeks ago, Poul had the pleasure of learning an asteroid's about to
be named for him by the International Astronomical Union. Those of us
working on it were unaware of Poul's decline till recently. Fortunately
the discoverer, Glo Helin, was gracious enough to rush the final
bureaucratic process through in time.
1990 Poulanderson is five miles across, in an orbit that can easily be
perturbed to become an Earth-crosser, and then.... Well, I'd much rather
have handed Poul a deed, then watched for another 100 years as he worked
with clever collaborators to develop his real estate in High Orbit.
I felt good knowing he was here.
Funny thing, I still feel good, knowing that he lived. And that humans
were capable of bringing forth such men.
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