RIP John Updike

Sad and sorry news today: John Updike has died at 76. I loved John Updike. He was one of those writers whose work was appealing because it was, on many levels, true. Even though it was older stuff, and his most famous works- the four novel "Rabbit" series- were written in the 60's, 70's and 80's, he still held a freshness that was very appealing. He was unabashedly candid, too, when it came to sex. You always felt like you were getting away with something reading one of his novels, albeit something classy and literary while sexy, too.

For years I tried to figure out how to include Updike in my AP English classes, to no avail. It was his rampant use of sexuality that just did me in. I couldn't get by it, which is ironic. It was this prudishness that his work sought to fight. He probably would have smirked at it and just went on doing what he did best- writing it all down. Another master down...

Perfection Wasted

And another regrettable thing about death
is the ceasing of your own brand of magic,
which took a whole life to develop and market --
the quips, the witticisms, the slant
adjusted to a few, those loved ones nearest
the lip of the stage, their soft faces blanched
in the footlight glow, their laughter close to tears,
their tears confused with their diamond earrings,
their warm pooled breath in and out with your heartbeat,
their response and your performance twinned.
The jokes over the phone. The memories
packed in the rapid-access file. The whole act.
Who will do it again? That's it: no one;
imitators and descendants aren't the same.

John Updike