Writing, to me, is simply thinking through my fingers.

- Isaac Asimov

Here’s something that not many people know about me – mostly because it sounds incredibly fucking weird. A few years ago, I fell head over heels in love with Isaac Asimov.

Now, I’m not the sort of person who tends toward celebrity crushes. Something in my mental makeup says to me, “Celebs are cool and all, but it’s mostly because they’re entertaining. That’s not a good basis for a relationship, luv.” So I might like seeing movies or TV shows with certain celebs in them, but if they die then I kinda pout a bit and think, “Aww.” I did get a little attached to Heath Ledger, for some reason. When he died, I actually cried. But Isaac? Wow, that’s a whole ‘nother ball park.

I discovered Asimov as a science writer when I started senior chemistry classes (in Australia, science is all general up till Year 11 – then it splits into the three main disciplines). My chemistry teacher recommended what was, even then, a slightly obsolete book by Asimov – I think it was A Short History of Chemistry. For the first time, I read a book that contained the information of a textbook, but was bloody interesting to read. You might think that that was the start of my love affair with him, but no – that was more a one-sided friendly acquaintance and regard. Over the years, I sought out more of his books – including the fiction ones (still some of my favourite science fiction).

Then I read his memoirs and autobiographies – and I fell in love. Why? Because in so many ways, I could identify with this man. His personality (flaws and all), his way of interacting with the world, even the type of intelligence that he had… I don’t often meet people who share all of these things with me. I read his memoirs first, then hunted down, bought, and read his autobiography (out of print these days). I read both huge volumes of his meandering autobiography alternating between laughter, sheer affection, and tears. Insane though it might sound, I felt a deep connection to this person whom I not only had never met… but could never meet (he died in 1992 – the year before I discovered his chemistry book). We were both highly arrogant people who did our damnedest to hide said arrogance with self-deprecatory humour. We both had a scientific and creative bent, with a tendency toward generalist rather than specialist knowledge. We had similar senses of humour, and a similar joy in being the centre of attention (but only when we wanted it, dammit) and in teaching others. He looked at the world and drew conclusions about life in similar ways to me – although the conclusions drawn were often different. I felt a deep, kindred spirit-type connection to this man.

To be totally honest, I left the last chapter of his autobiography unread for months, if not years – I had the irrational feeling that if I read that chapter, it would be like letting him die all over again. When I finally got up the courage to read it, I bawled whole-heartedly throughout. What’s more, I cry every time I re-read it, too. He’s the ultimate in unavailable men, huh? I often wonder what might have happened if life had been different, if we’d met and socialised. Would I still have fallen head over heels? Would he, so similar to me in personality, have royally pissed me off? (I often suspect that I’d find myself a very uncomfortable and irritating roommate) I don’t think it would have changed very much, though. I think I’d still feel the same – deeply appreciative of the opportunity to have interacted, even one-way, with a kindred spirit.

So there you go – that’s my I’m-insane-but-relatively-harmless confession of utter weirdness. Have you ever felt that sort of connection with a person whom you’ve never actually met face-to-face?