The Wild Man

“Something iron in all that stocky figure of Asimov. Wild will in his Tatars or Mongol eyes—cut upward. Wild, unsociable. As if some circle outlined itself around him: what is within the circle is his; beyond it there’s nothing at all, and even the grass won’t grow. And yet, from the outside he looks quiet—calm and gentle—he walks through the village, giving a thoughtful bow. Or he fusses around at his apiary, right there behind the garden. Gurilev would come by in the evening, too—another old bee-keeper—and they’d chat about swarms, about “brood runs,” about the queen—eastern birds—with their fiery tails—about warm summer nights after which the bee girls take so well: a week of those warm days—and a full hive of honey…”