Jack Williamson was born 100 years ago today, and we should all pause for at least a moment to remember the humble science-fiction Grand Master who published in nine consecutive decades.

My own feelings about Jack were laid out in an editorial titled "Celebrating Science Fiction's Living National Treasure," which I wrote about him for the March 5, 2001 issue of Science Fiction Weekly. I don't think that I could improve upon those thoughts now. One paragraph reads:

In a more just culture, Jack Williamson would be treated as the Japanese treat their elders who are masters of a given art—painters, calligraphers, writers. He would be officially named as a "living national treasure." Jack certainly qualifies as that, which is, I think, a more comfortable thing to be after all than Mount Rushmore. Jack Williamson deserves that honor not just because he has taught me how to create compelling science fiction, but also because Jack has taught me—with his honesty, his endless wonder and curiosity at the universe, his rare ability to continue to grow and change with each passing year where others would have petrified, and his graciousness for the generations of SF writers and editors who have followed him—how best to live a life.

The above picture was taken in 2003, on the occasion of the 75th anniversary of the publication of Jack's first short story, "The Metal Man," in the December 1928 Amazing Stories. I'm holding a copy of that magazine, which I'd just had him autograph. It now hangs framed in my office, where it inspires me each day.

I last saw Jack in 2006, shortly before his 98th birthday, and though his body was weakening, his amazing mind was as alive as ever. It almost seemed as if he could go on forever, but, of course, he could not. I wish he could be with us still, continuing to point the way.

Today I miss him a little more than usual. So please join me in missing him, too.