It is difficult to type this because salt tears are rolling down my rosy cheeks and are interfering with my vision. You see, I will have to plead in this letter—plead on hands and knees.
Please! My name is not Isaac Asenion! Any one who says it is is a dirty liar. When I first saw that name appended to a letter, I was puzzled. Can this be mine? said I. Yes, answered I, it must, for its literary composition proves that it can only have been written either by yourself or by an illiterate Australian bushman—and illiterate Australian bushmen don't read (one of the reasons why they remain illiterate Australian bushmen). Besides, added I, Asenion knocks love interest and any letter knocking love interest is yours a priori.
The next item on the agenda was whether or not to visit the editor and attempt assault and battery or to confine myself to a time-bomb sent via parcel post. After long consideration, I decided against both. Why, said I, there is not a sciencefiction fan in the country who would not take one look at that letter, breathe in the odor therefrom emanating and exclaim in impassioned tones, "This is an Asimov letter." It is a cinch, said I, that poor Mr. Editor will get seventeen thousand threatening letters by return mail concerning this gross misspelling.
But, alas, things did not work out so. My best friends now call me Asenion (a combination of sounds I detest). The reader's column in the current is saturated with reference to this Asenion. I have no doubt I shall soon get mail addressed to Asenion. Nothing I will ever be able to say will convince anyone I am not Asenion. Damn it, I won't stand for it.
Know, then, that I, Isaac Asimov, am proud of my name. I like it. I like its sound. I like the way it looks in print.
I abhor this Asenion. I cast it into the outer darkness. I will punch the next guy who calls me Asenion right in the kisser.
Blessings on Charles Hidley for recognizing me through the disguise. Even with a "z" my name looks better than Asenion. Blessings from a grateful heart also upon my favorite letter writer, D. B. Thompson (of whose sanity I have grave doubts, for he likes my stories—but why should I complain of such a charming and lovable affliction) for likewise recognizing it—with a "z."
And now, having concluded I shall—for the first time—ask, nay, beg, the editor to print this letter. I realize that it has little or nothing to do with and will just waste valuable space—but perhaps he can print a tiny excerpt, say, for instance, just the following short sentence.
"My name is Asimov, and not Asenion, curse you all!" Insistently yours,