In Joy Still Felt
Asimov chronicles his life balancing academia, prolific writing, and personal growth, exploring the joy of nowledge, imagination, and the enduring power of creation.
Isaac Asimov’s In Joy Still Felt is not a story in the usual sense, though it unfolds with the rhythm and movement of one. It is the second volume of his autobiography, covering the years from 1954 to 1978, a period when he moved from being a promising writer with a handful of popular books to an unmistakable figure in American letters, recognized in both science fiction and popular science. The book is shaped less like a novel with a single plot and more like a collection of linked episodes — each one capturing a moment of his professional and personal life, a miniature story in itself.
To summarize and review this book is therefore to tell the story of a life being lived through work, through books, and through ideas.
The opening of this volume places Asimov in a position of uncertainty. He has left the high tide of the “golden age” of science fiction, when his robot stories and Foundation tales made his reputation, and has entered the world of academic teaching. He is, at this moment, a biochemistry instructor at Boston University School of Medicine. He is not yet a full professor, and his colleagues do not entirely approve of his writing. To them, science fiction is frivolous, and popular science is not “real scholarship.” This creates tension. But Asimov, who never thrives on other people’s expectations, discovers that his strength lies in clarity and speed of thought. If he can explain something to himself, he can explain it to anyone. And so he doubles down on writing, even as he continues to teach.
This sets the stage for one of the book’s central themes: the balance between science and storytelling. Asimov does not see them as separate. Science, for him, is the great story of the universe, and storytelling is the art of making it clear to the human mind. Through this period, he begins to lean more on nonfiction, producing science books for the general reader. Each one adds to his reputation, until he finds himself the most recognizable popularizer of science of his generation.
The book moves forward chronologically, but it is never only about dates. At every stage, Asimov pauses to tell a miniature story. One story is about a quarrel with an editor who changes his words without permission. Another is about the long process of writing a textbook that fails commercially but strengthens his resolve. Another is about a friendship with a fellow writer, who pushes him to write more and better. These stories are not just background; they are the texture of his life.
Asimov does not hide his personal changes. His marriage, strained by his devotion to writing, eventually breaks. He moves out of one home and into another. He enters into a new relationship, later marrying Janet Jeppson, who becomes a partner in both life and thought. These are told not as melodrama but as events in a logical chain: this happened, and because of that, something else followed. He does not sentimentalize, but he does not evade. To him, life is a system with many inputs, and the output is the sum of his choices.
In the midst of this, he records his steady flood of books. By the end of the time covered, he has produced more than two hundred volumes — science fiction, science fact, history, literature, guides, anthologies. He takes particular pride in the sheer variety. A reader might pick up a book about Shakespeare from him one year, and a book about chemistry the next, and a book of science fiction stories after that. This variety is deliberate: Asimov wants to prove that knowledge is not a collection of isolated islands but a continent where all the parts connect.
One of the most powerful strands in the book is his growing recognition. At first, he is dismissed as a pulp writer turned popularizer. But gradually, institutions begin to acknowledge him. His books are used in classrooms. Scientific societies invite him to speak. He becomes a fixture on talk shows, known for his wit and his cheerful defense of rational thought. At last, even the university that once regarded him with suspicion grants him proper standing. In this, the book shows a progression from struggle to vindication. It is the story of a man who trusted his own strengths long enough for the world to catch up.
Alongside this professional recognition, Asimov offers reflections on what writing means. He explains how he works — long hours, steady output, no waiting for inspiration. He insists that clarity is a moral duty, that to write obscurely is a kind of betrayal. He celebrates the joy of discovery: the moment when a subject that seems complex suddenly yields to explanation, like a lock turning with the right key. It is this joy, still felt after decades, that gives the book its title.
As with the first volume of his autobiography (In Memory Yet Green), the book is filled with small portraits of other writers. He describes encounters with Arthur C. Clarke, Robert Heinlein, Frederik Pohl, and many others. These are not gossip but reflections on a community of minds who, together, shaped the direction of modern science fiction. He records disagreements without bitterness, preferring to see them as the natural result of strong personalities engaged with big ideas. In this, too, there is a lesson: to Asimov, the world of writing is not competition but collaboration in a grand project of human imagination.
The review of this book must notice its style. It is not polished in the literary sense, nor dramatic in the novelistic sense. It is straightforward, sometimes repetitive, often meticulous. It lists books written, lectures given, journeys made. Some readers may find this overwhelming, even dry. But for those who are interested in the making of a writer, this detail is gold. We see not the myth but the daily labor, the constant effort that makes the myth possible.
Asimov’s achievement here is not only to tell his story but to embody his philosophy: that knowledge should be shared plainly, that the ordinary is as worthy of record as the extraordinary, and that the steady pursuit of clarity leads to joy. The book, like the man, is unpretentious yet monumental.
If In Memory Yet Green was the story of beginnings, In Joy Still Felt is the story of becoming. It shows the forging of identity, the steady growth of influence, and the personal costs that accompany both. It ends not with finality but with a sense of consolidation — Asimov has become what he is, and the next stage will show what he does with that established power.