Stanislaw Lem is dead. He was 84, and he was magnificent.
It’s not easy being Editor-in-chief, you know. It’s hard to run a business, and it’s hard to keep everything in place. I do my best, but sometimes I get caught so utterly off-guard that things slip away from me—and before I know it, the Interns are running around playing grabass and there’s a fire in the staff washroom’s toilet and I don’t even feel like yelling at them.
Such is the power of losing a hero. I sit here, listening to the bluesy obit number we’ve put together for this issue, and I thumb through a well-worn copy of The Cyberiad which was my father’s before he gave it to me.
If you have not read any of Stanislaw Lem’s works, do so. The Cybriad is wonderful, The Star Diaries likewise; really, all of his work is excellent, though in some cases (for example, the twice-filmed Solaris), the English translation—Lem wrote in Polish—is less-than-stellar. Ask your local independent bookseller; they will almost certainly have a suggestion.
Funny how just talking about something can make you feel better. In fact, I think I am quite ready to yell at some Interns now.
