World Enough and Time

If, on an uncommonly cold Minnesota winter night, you should meet a man wearing only shoes and stockings and sporting a large brass spittoon pulled down over his head to conceal his face, and if you should recognize that person - from the configuration of moles and scars and a small tattoo - as your own sweet self, you may require some time even to phrase the question, "How can this be?" We cannot expect you even to suspect the truth: that there are more dimensions of space/time than you may believe, and that - to effect this rendezvous - you will have had to travel side-ways through time.

About the Author :
I was born by the light of a kerosene lamp in a small logging community in northern Minnesota, just fifty miles up a dirt road from the nearest public library. During the school year, I had access to a number of books judged suitable for students, and a drug store in the next town carried paperback novels -- usually twenty five cents a copy. So I had access to Drums Along the Mohawk and The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, even The Grapes of Wrath. And I had a subscription to Boys' Life (to which, at the age of twelve, I submitted my first story, handwritten in a spiral notebook). But I didn't discover Dostoevsky, Henry James, Lafcadio Hearne and Aldous Huxley until I ventured out into the wider world. After many missteps and misadventures: * my first attempt at higher learning was aborted after one semester at the University of Illinois; * I held the exalted rank of pfc in the army for nearly two weeks before I got busted back down to private; and * I spent the summer and fall of 1960 as a hobo-in-training, I settled in the Twin Cities. At the age of 38, I finally received a bachelor's degree from the University of Minnesota, which didn't seem to entitle me to that higher-paying job I expected. So I sought solace in a number of menial and demeaning jobs, and eventually I secured a civil service position in which I grew fat and lazy. Over the years, I beat the living hell out of several secondhand typewriters, none of which seemed capable of completing an error-free page. But it wasn't until I bought my first computer, in 1988, that I was able to concentrate on writing rather than mastering the typewriter. For a time, I produced a humorous newsletter for an organization called the Society of Dirty Old Men, which we hoped would make us all filthy rich selling tee-shirts and souvenirs to college students. Following the demise of that brave new venture, I turned to writing short stories, novellas and novels and I have managed to accumulate a truly impressive collection of rejection slips. In fact, I believe I have spent more on postage than I will ever receive in payment. . My short stories have appeared in several magazines and literary reviews, but I am still waiting for a response from Boys' Life.