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Memory is a funny thing.

You can go along for days, months, even years without thinking about a certain person, and then some little happening will trigger a flood of memories that cascades over your emotions.

Janet Jeppson Asimov’s new book, “Notes for a Memoir” (Prometheus Books, 207 pp., $25) reawakened a lifetime of memories about Isaac Asimov, author, humanist, and friend.

Janet’s book is subtitled: “on Isaac Asimov, Life, and Writing.” She delivers what she promises. Through 17 mostly autobiographical chapters and seven delightfully droll short stories, Janet reveals a lot about her life, her marriage to Isaac, and the joys and trials of the writer’s life.

I feel I can call her Janet, for she has been as wonderful a friend as her late husband was. Friend? Isaac was almost like an older brother to me. He was unfailingly kind, and generous with his time and vast store of knowledge.

The start of my own writing career owes a lot to Isaac. It was the late 1950s. Both Isaac and I lived in the Boston area at the time. We had barely met, although we quickly established a camaraderie based on similar outlooks and interests in writing and science.

Isaac was already a super-star of science fiction, and was fast establishing his reputation as a polymath who could write clearly and interestingly on just about any subject under the sun. I was a mere beginner, having sold a few short stories to science fiction magazines and my first novel.

One fine day Isaac phoned to tell me that I would be getting a call from a magazine editor who would ask me to write a series of fact articles about life on other worlds.

"They asked me to do it," Isaac said cheerfully, "but I'm too busy with other projects. I told them you knew more about it than I did, and they should ask you."

I nearly fainted. Isaac was a Ph.D. chemist and taught biochemistry at Boston University. I was an amateur astronomer.

Before I could object, he explained, "Look, I'll tell you everything I know about extraterrestrial life, and you must know a thing or two that I don't, so you'll know more about the subject than I do!"

He was as good as his word, and that series on extraterrestrial life established my name with the science fiction readers.

On at least one occasion, though, Isaac's exuberance worked against him.

It was several years later, at a science fiction convention in Boston. A gang of us were packed into one of the hotel suites late at night (or was it early in the morning?), talking, drinking, debating various weighty subjects, and singing. Anne McCaffrey, who has a trained operatic soprano voice, was stretched out on the bed alongside Isaac, who had a really good — though untrained — tenor. Both were fully clothed, of course, and both were singing operatic duets at the top of their powerful voices.

Comes a knock on the door. Another hotel guest, in his pajamas, complained about the noise. I apologized and explained that the hotel shouldn't have put him in a room near the suites the convention was using.

"A science fiction convention?" The guy's bleary eyes widened happily. "You mean like the stuff Isaac Asimov writes?"

Yes, I said. Pointing to Isaac and Annie, still belting out Verdi, "That's Isaac Asimov right there."

"Him? He's the so-and-so making all the noise!"

And the guy turned around and stomped back to his own room. Isaac lost a fan that night, I'm sure.

Janet's book brought back those memories and so many more.

"Notes for a Memoir" is a very personal book. Janet reveals how her life and Isaac's were deeply entwined, even before they met. They wrote letters to each other, and Janet worries that in this modern age of e-mail and cell phones, letter-writing has just abut disappeared, leaving no written record of the past.

She also shows how she dealt with the grief of Isaac's death. He was a victim of AIDS, which he contracted from a blood transfusion in the 1970s when he had heart bypass surgery. Hospitals screen blood donations much more carefully now, we're told.

Aside from his several hundred books and voluminous amounts of articles and short fiction, Isaac was famous because he would not fly. The man who wrote stories about mighty empires spanning the galaxy would not willingly step aboard an airplane.

"I fly to the stars in my imagination," said Isaac. "That's enough for me."

If it weren't for Janet, he would never have set foot on a ship, either. But Janet Jeppson Asimov is descended from Viking stock, and she loved to sail the ocean wide.

My adventurous wife and I happened to be on the ship with them when Janet convinced Isaac to try an ocean voyage. Our first morning out of New York, I bumped into Isaac pacing along the deck, looking worried.

"Ben," he said, "there's nothing beneath us but two miles of water!"

"Oh, Isaac," I replied, "the ship's hull must be at least a couple of inches thick."

This did not — repeat, did not — console him.

If you want a lovingly created portrait of this wonderful, unique man, if you want to learn what the life of a writer is like (the lives of a pair of writers, actually), if you want an insight into the development of a woman who became a top-flight psychiatrist and author, read Janet Jeppson Asimov's "Notes for a Memoir on Isaac Asimov, Life, and Writing."

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Naples resident Ben Bova is the author of more than 110 books, including "Titan," his latest novel. Dr. Bova's Web site address is www.benbova.com.