For the record, I should state at the outset that Isaac Asimov provided me with one of the most memorable reading experiences of my youth with "The Caves of Steel," a unique amalgam of the science fiction and detective genres.
However, after that first sublime experience, my further reading of him left me increasingly cold. I began to see his writing as awkward, mechanical and unimaginative, with thin characterization (even by science fiction standards) and pedestrian plotting. He was seemingly never able to shake the literary conventions of the pulp magazines he loved as an adolescent. That may have been at least partly because he apparently never read anything else but science fiction and thus had no acquaintance with higher literary standards.
So, how to explain his popularity? One possible reason is that he was good with ideas, which are cherished by science fiction fans. Another, and more likely explanation, is that he was the consummate self-promoter. He had a talent for selling himself to fans and editors alike by the consistent application of boundless energy in the service of his own ego. This tendency is clearly reflected throughout "In Memory Yet Green," which reveals an eager-to-please but calculating individual who made himself a primary figure in the science fiction world by sheer force of personality. This is not necessarily a bad thing, as many ultimately deserving reputations are made that way, but the quality of the work Asimov left behind pales in comparison to the audacity employed in its promotion. And, as is true in many such cases, the individual himself is revealed as shallow, immature and self-absorbed. Asimov unwittingly does so in page after page of this autobiography, whether he is describing his extremely penurious spending habits (which he saw as normal), his reprehensible behavior toward women (which he describes with typical lack of insight as "suave"), his obsession with money (he insists on providing a down-to-the-penny accounting of every check he ever received, an enervating exercise for the reader), as well as numerous trivial details of his life which could be of interest only to himself.
It is, in sum, the most narcissistic autobiography I have ever read. One can only explain its publication by reference to Asimov's finely-honed talent for self-promotion. Few others could have gotten away with it.
To be fair, though, there are some good things here, such as his (too-brief) descriptions of some of the other famous figures in science fiction history and his insider's view of publishing in those days. But, on the whole, spending several hours reading this book is like spending a year diligently panning for gold in the nearest creek bed: an exhausting exercise unlikely to reveal anything of lasting value.