Van Vogt was the wellspring of wonder.

Were we in 1946 or even 1956, van Vogt would have already been able to hold the award aloft. Had SFWA existed then and had the greatest living sf authors been Polled as to who was the most fecund, the most intriguing, the mast innovative the most influential of their number, Isaac and Arthur and Cyril and Hank Kuttner and Ron Hubbard would all have pointed to the same man, and Bob Heinlein would’ve given him a thumbs-up. Van Vogt was the pinnacle, the source of power and ideas; the writer to beat. Because he embodied in his astonishing novels and assorted stories what we always say is of prime importance to us in this genre-the much vaunted Sense of Wonder.

Van Vogt was the wellspring of wonder.

Youthful memory is filled with gaps and insolent of history, but for those that were there and those who care, it was Vogt’s books that were among the very first published in the mainstream from the despised realm of science fiction. When the first specialty houses formed, they went after The Weapon Shops of Isher and Slan and Masters of Time. But when Simon & Schuster got into the game, most prestigious of the mainstream houses taking a chance on sf, it was van Vogt they sought, and The World of Null-A and Voyage of the Space Beagle were the high water marks.

That’s how important he was.

A second reason why I respect Mr. Ellison, is that, at that same Nebula Awards banquet where I met him for exactly one second, I also heard him express that type of self-deprecation that is the sign and the foreshadowing of a man who contemplates repentance ofsome sort. Maybe I misunderstood a casual comment, or maybe I took seriously something he meant as a joke, but I can only say how it seemed to me: it seemed to he was a man concerned with character, with doing the right thing, and he was worried that too much of his life had gone wrong.

I am not known for my insight into human character, so perhaps I misread the situation. Perhaps the unrepentant old sinner will go toppling into the sulfuric smogs of hell with a blistering swearword in his lips, a bottle in one hand, and flipping us all the bird with the other. Or perhaps his conscience is finally catching up with him: because I think he is honest and straightforward enough to act without hesitation on his conscience, once it actually quickened in him, and poked a beak out of its softening shell.

So I like him. He is a rude ass, but I like him. So sue me.