Philip Jose Farmer passed away this morning, aged 91.
I first met him at a convention in El Paso in the early Seventies. I was around 20, and had written the first part of a novel. Fortunately I was not quite so gauche as to bring the manuscript with me and ask Mr. Farmer to read it.
In any case, I decided I was going to hang out with the guest of honor, and the guest of honor had plenty of time on his hands and didn’t seem to mind. We talked about writers, about books, about careers. I probably talked too much about myself.
He bought me lunch.
He was one of number of writers in our field, along with Jack Williamson and John Maddox Robberts, who did me the very kind courtesy of treating this wannabe as a colleague.
So Mr. Farmer, I thank you. In your kindness, you helped me envision the person I later became.
I absolutely can NOT picture you as a 20 year old fan and wannabe following the guest of honor around.
I must admit that my 20-year-old self seems very distant now.
Though not in the I-want-to-hang-with-writers sense.
I only met him in passing a couple of times.
He was one of the greats, though. Reading the Tiers books or TO YOUR SCATTERED BODIES GO or THE LORD OF THE TREES always made be mentally say: “This is THE STUFF! I must be able to write Stuff myself!”
May he wake somewhere without a river, but many friends.
Comments on this entry are closed.