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This is the story of a man obsessed by science fiction. He's read it voraciously since childhood, and collects books and magazines. He calls himself the flesh-and-blood personification of the Science Fiction Hall of Fame.
His friends think he's a nut, of course, to go for that aliens-spaceships-blasters sort of stuff. One can easily read this as a criticism of the kind of juvenile SF Silverberg himself had written in the 50s.
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