My goodbye to a literary hero

John Updike died today. It was actually quite a shock when I popped on the to NYTimes web site while at work and saw the photo of Updike, along with the obit. I even yelled out, "Wow, John Updike is dead," although I didn't receive much in the way of response from my colleagues. I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised: for many, Updike is probably more of a literary dinosaur than a true, lasting legend. But he means so much more to me.

I first read Updike back in the mid-1980s. I had stumbled upon a copy of Rabbit is Rich at home in the book case - amazing to think I found it it there since I didn't grow up in a literary household. It must have been a book my dad bought at the airport before a business trip. My guess is that he probably read about a quarter of it and then put it aside. Or maybe he was just seeking out some of the dirty bits... (although I wouldn't consider Updike a great prose stylist when it came to sex scenes; in fact, his sensuality seems to rely too much on gynecological descriptions). But still, there was the book. And for some reason, I took it out of the shelf and decided to give it a read.

Some historical context might be necessary here. I was about 15 or 16, and I had recently discovered a new Sunday afternoon pastime: travelling to the main branch of my city's library system to read old and current issues of The New Yorker magazine. (Yes, I was that kind of teenager. In my defense, I was at the the library to borrow cassettes of music.) It was exciting: I had my license and my mother's car at my disposal. It was a touch of freedom, of (very minor) rebellion. I was always something of a loner, and this was the ideal loner activity. (It was better than taking drugs, after all.) So I was already showing a predilection for reading serious, interesting prose and journalism. (It was around this time that I ended up getting a New Yorker subscription as a b-day gift. So even though I wasn't born into to parents interested in reading, at least they tried to nurture it in me.)

Rabbit is Rich was probably the first serious piece of literature that I read on my own, without prompting from an English class or teacher. (There was one other: Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment.) Of course there are those that will take issue with calling Updike serious literature - Mailer, for one, was a notorious Updike hater - but, to me, there's no question. Updike is one of the pre-eminent men of letters of the last 50 years. The guy's output is astounding: novels, short stories, poetry, non-fiction (including the excellent piece on Ted Willams' last game). His book reviews are also wonderful - there are few more intelligent and perceptive readers. (Ah, sorry: were.)

Despite the fact I was really too young to fully "get" it - it was about middle-aged couples, after all, and had pretty much zero experience with women/girls - I found Rabbit is Rich a proverbial page turner. But there was something there I did get - basically, the drama (often unspoken) of middle-class suburban living. I was living that life, albeit as a teenager. It was in my blood, I suppose. I started to read other Updike works, primarily the short stories. In time, I read the novels, primarily the Rabbit series. (I read the first, Rabbit Run, at the perfect age: in my early 20s when I too wanted to flee my life.) In many ways, I consider Updike my first introduction to serious literature.

The man had his detractors, to be sure. I got into an argument many years ago with a friend's partner, who insisted Updike was the most overrated writer of his generation. (Never mind the fact this guy had never read Updike. I'm still angry at the guy.) And I've only read Updike in spotty patches over the years - the last novel of his I read was Terrorist - and, of course, I've been reading his short stories and reviews since I resubscribed to the New Yorker a couple of years ago. But even if I never read another word of his again (very doubtful), he holds a unique spot in my evolution as a reader.

So Mr. Updike, RIP. I look forward to a comprehensive review in next week's New Yorker, along with any outstanding stories in the pipeline.

Reading update: I'm not doing so well with War and Peace. In fact, I'm back with the second volume of Bolano's 2666.

Dawn of a new era

It would be impossible for me to craft a poignant post that would capture my feelings on the Obama presidency. (It would be a lot easier to write about how I feel about the outgoing administration. But I want to look forward, not behind - and, really, I can't quite capture the moment as well as a sign that was held up when Bush was getting on the helicopter that would take him out of the capital: "Heck of a job, Bushie." Pithy, and perfect in the denunciation of the worst presidency of my life.) This is a man I've been following for over 4 years, even before he gave the famous speech at the Democratic National Convention. I remember seeing him interviewed pre-speech, and thinking, Wow, this man is impressive. And after watching the speech, I remember telling my then-partner M., "That man is going to be the first black president in the United States in our lifetime." Of course even I couldn't predict it would be so soon!

Everything he's done since the election has done nothing to diminish my hope. And yes, let's not be afraid to use that word, hope. Let's not expect miracles, but there's nothing wrong with having some hope in the future. There's such a wonderful sense of optimism right now - it's infectious. Let's ride it out for a while, see how it fits.

The one thing I took away from his speech was a two-word phrase: non-believer. He included the scores of us who are not affiliated with any religion, saying we are part of the mosaic. It was nice to be included, so thank you President Obama. I look forward to eight years of your presidency.

Hail to the chief.

Friday musings

Maybe it's because it's Friday, or because the city is in a mild state of paralysis from the west-end blackout (amazingly, despite the fact that pretty much every home and building around my apartment was without power, my electricity hummed through the night), or that we're still experiencing terribly cold days (serving as a reminder of why I'm not much of a fan of winter; I've become a cold-weather wimp), or that my immediate supervisor is away until mid-next week, but I can't quite get my work mojo going. My pilot light must be out.

... and now it's a few hours later, and I'm home from said work environment. I actually managed to cobble together a few productive hours - and then celebrated the feat by having a glass and a half of red wine at 4:00 in the kitchen. (It was leftover from the staff xmas party; somebody had opened it, so naturally I felt compelled to indulge. I don't want the stuff to go bad, after all.) Ah, the weekend, and waiting on the lovely A. to come over.

So I finished reading All the Sad Young Literary Men last night. Not bad, but I had higher expectations. Not sure why, of course, since it's the author's first attempt at a novel, and the book screamed of self absorption. It was engaging, and it did bring me back to memories of my mid-20s. I have a ton of warm feelings around that period of my life, not to mention enough distance to realize it was important to my development. I think if things would have been overly stable and easy - I spent a chunk of it toiling away in near-poverty as a freelance writer - I might be a different person today. And since I generally like the person I am, it must have been important. (Ah yes, dime-store psychology again. One of my specialities.)

I guess the only big news on the reading front is that I'm going to tackle a beast next: War and Peace. Yes, that War and Peace, the one by Tolstoy, the one that's supposedly a classic. The one that, from the looks of it (I checked it out yesterday from the university library where I work) is going to put my back and shoulder out if I carry around it my bag. My friend M. was the one that convinced me to give it a shot. Over beers the other night, we got to talking about Obama and leadership (he seems far-less enamoured of the president-elect than me) . He says there are some "essays" in W & P pertaining to leadership that might be relevant to our time. (Ah, I get it, that's what makes something a classic: it's timelessness.) Anyway I'm somewhat daunted by the endeavour - I think the longest book I've ever read is Norman Mailer's The Executioner's Song, and the Tolstoy seems to have about 300 more pages - but also figure that winter is a good a time as any to read the tome. Wish me luck... I also have a couple of short story collections also on the go, to help break up any potential monotony.

Reading: War and Peace (most likely for the next year...), the Penguin Book of Canadian Short Stories
Listening to: in a 1970s mood of late, so some Jackson Browne, Fleetwood Mac, etc.
Watching: the doc Man on Wire

Guilty Pleasures

Two songs that have played on my iPod today while at work: Culture Club's "Time" and "Rise Up" by the Parachute Club.

Shh, don't tell anyone.

The forgotten post

Although I no longer consider myself a professional writer, I'm almost always writing in my head. That tends to be my internal dialogue: bits and pieces of words, sentences, fragments that I eventually hope to jot down. That's but one of the reasons why I wanted to revive this blog: I was hoping to get some of those words into some coherent form. The last few days, for example, I've been carrying around a post in my head about money. It's meant to be an expository piece about my feelings about the filthy lucre. It's partly inspired by a couple of lines from the first page of the novel I'm currently reading, All the Sad Young Literary Men:

"To be poor in New York was humiliating, a little, but to be young - to be young was divine. If you'd had more money than they had that year, you'd simply have grown old faster."

Basically this reminds me of my early days living in the city, post-undergrad: I was 22, had little money, didn't necessarily aspire to have big money, and struggled. Happily, however. I have wonderful memories of that time in my life, despite the struggles. Or maybe because of them?

Yet, I'm still struggling to find the requisite time and energy to craft interesting posts. (I'm also struggling somewhat with motivation: my readership is pretty much anemic. I have to keep reminding myself that I'm doing this blog for myself, and that any outside eyes is icing.) I should make more of an effort to write in the mornings when I first awake (I'm one of those annoying morning people), although since the holidays I've been going to bed later than usual, and thus struggling to drag my head off the pillow when the radio turns on in the early hours of the day.

So the post about money will be coming soon. I have such an evolving relationship with money, so stay tuned!

On the plus side, it's been a good weekend. Two wonderful meals with the lovely A. (chicken in the slow cooker on Friday - I'm going to buy my own slow cooker, mostly to make a stew - and tasty fish last night), a couple of films (Atonement, which is a good adaptation of one of a great novel, and Rachel Getting Married last night at the Revue), some face time with the family (my brother came over with my dad this morning to pick up the computer I'm giving to my niece, so we went to the bluegrass brunch at the Dakota Tavern), a good run in the park this afternoon, put some furniture and electronics on craig's list (I'm continually purging, in the hopes that I'll be a minimalist) and now relaxing this evening. Not sure yet what this coming week will bring.

Listening to: Godspeed, You Black Emperor (I'm still disappointed I didn't get to see them play at the Bloor St. Cinema a few years back)
Reading: All the Sad Young Literary Men
Watching: See films above.

In "a bit of a mood"

I've struggled with my mood these past couple of days. Maybe this is retribution for writing about my general optimistic attitude about life. ("You think you're a happy person, do you? Well let me prove to you otherwise!") Or for raising the issue of politics (where, most of the time, I'm probably talking out of my ass). I've been feeling sad and bitter, and fighting off what I would call a low-grade depression. Probably - and hopefully - just a case of the blues.

Where is this mood coming from? It's partly the job. Maybe two weeks wasn't enough recovery time from a stressful December. More to the point, I'm somewhat bored and frustrated with the gig. Of course there are parts of it I absolutely love, but lately they seem to be outweighed by the less-savoury bits. Like feeling like the low person on the totem. Having no power or authority, that my day-to-day duties are dictated by someone other than me. You get the gist. This is something I'll have to work through.

I'm also feeling a mite annoyed that I have all these little chores to do over the next few days (get my new iPod fixed - yes, it took less than two months to break down - remove a hard drive from my old computer, reformat it for my niece, buy milk) that, for some reason, are getting me down.

I'm also feeling nauseous, which doesn't help.

So rather than bore and frustrate you silly with these annoyances of mine, I'll end this here.




Reading: Keith Gessen's All the Sad Young Literary Men. (Gessen is the founding editor of the interesting literary journal n+1.)
Watching: nothing, really.
Listening to: NPR's Fresh Air on my nano.

A political thought

I don't normally like to use this space to discuss politics. Not because I don't like the topic - I'm something of a political junkie, in fact - but because I hate to rant on a subject that is usually best enjoyed around a table, in the company of friends, preferably with a cup of coffee/pint of beer/shot of whiskey (pick your poison) close at hand. Also, it's nice to be challenged immediately if my opinion is ignorant or stupid - political discussions by their very nature are ripe for intelligent and healthy disagreement. Yet, a comment on a friend's facebook site has really stirred me to write a few words about the current situation in the Middle East between Israel and Hamas. (No need for me to recap the news to my readers. My guess is that you're all pretty up-to-date on world affairs - all three of you that visit this site, of course.)

I wouldn't necessarily call S. a friend but rather a good acquaintance. She's a classic facebook friend in that regard: someone I see only a couple of times a year (at most), never speak to on the phone, only occasionally exchange e-mail with, but who, except for her periodic updates on facebook, I've largely lost touch with. Although we used to work together, today we basically we travel in very different circles.

Her facebook update yesterday really got under my skin. Essentially it was a call-out to the Israeli soldiers in Gaza. "Stay safe," she wrote, "but go get 'em. We've gotta take care of our own first.'" My first reaction - after showing it to the lovely A. to use as an example of why I rarely if ever discuss Middle Eastern politics with friends, particularly as it relates to Israel (it's just too contentious) - was quiet acceptance. As long as I've known S., she's been a fervent, passionate and militant believer in the Jewish state. In fact, when I first started working with her about a decade ago, I took note of a bumper sticker affixed in her office cubicle: "My Israel includes the Golan." I'm never surprised when she takes a strong anti-Israel view of the world.

I too am a strong believer in Israel. I find it sad that there continues to be opposition to Israel's right to exist as a state, and that peace and stability in that region is so elusive. I can also understand its need to defend itself, particularly against an organization that seems intent on provoking Israel. All that said, this is not the place to argue what I feel is Israel's disproportionate response to the rockets fired into the southern part of its country. (As stated earlier, the Israeli issue is too massive for this feeble blog to properly debate.) Rather, it's the whole idea of S. using the phrase "our own" that really rubs me wrong.

I remember reading a wonderful Talk of the Town obituary in the New Yorker magazine many years of a long-time UN diplomat. He was American, and he said he often was queried by his fellow citizens why he was spending so much of his time trying to help those in other regions in the world rather than helping his fellow Americans. His response (and naturally I'm paraphrasing) was "I'm a member of the human race before I'm a citizen of any country." That simple phrase has stayed with me - in fact, it's something I've appropriated for myself many times!

In S.'s eyes, does being Jewish - or being a member of any race, religion, sect, sex, whatever - take precedence over the shared commonalities we all have as fellow human beings? Is it possible to be so cold and dispassionate about the loss of 500 Palestinian lives? Can there be no remorse? It strikes me that if seemingly reasonable and rationale people like S. have such an unhealthy view of "the other side," what chance do those in the belly of the region have of ever finding compromise?

I don't feel I've done a great job of explaining my point of view. Chalk it up to Sunday evening and having to go back to work tomorrow after a wonderful two-week break.

History lessons

I spent a big chunk of yesterday afternoon on my older PC desktop, moving files to a separate hard drive. I bought a MacBook earlier in the week, so I no longer need the Dell machine (which is becoming increasingly slower with each day - in fact, I think I heard it wheezing the other morning). I'm clearing it out so I can pass it on to my 16 year-old niece, who doesn't have her own computer. It's nice to be able to keep the thing in the family.

Anyway it's been an interesting exercise, to gander at some of the stuff on that machine. Tons of music, of course, and photos and videos. Most interesting, however, are the various snippets of writing that I've saved over the years: a few lines of poetry here and there, for example, or an idea for a prose piece that never came to fruition (my speciality, it seems), as well as various drafts of blog posts (some of which I never published for fear of embarrassing myself). I also stumbled upon a couple of "about me" things for those online dating sites (an exercise I've chronicled at length in other blogs, so no need to retrace that path!), along with drafts of e-mails to women who I was flirting with via the dating sites.

And how do I feel about revisiting that past? Surprisingly, it wasn't as depressing as I thought it might be. In fact, even though much of that whole period was marked by big change and emotionally wrought events - going to grad school (more than 10 years after my undergrad degree), a career change, the dissolution of a long-term relationship, venturing back into the dating world - I have fond memories of those topsy-turvy years. (It's also good to have some chronicle of those years.) It's similar to what I was telling the lovely A. the other day: whenever I harken back on my history, I only ever seem to remember the "good" and largely forget the depressing bits. I wonder if that says anything about my general outlook on life, which I've discovered veers toward optimism.

Ask me tomorrow, of course, and you're liable to get a different response.

Listening to: various NPR podcasts
Watching: Pride & Prejudice (the 1995 BBC version) on New Year's eve (watched the whole thing, so we were up until 3:00; so low-key evening, but still late), Brief Encounter and Days in Heaven are in the queue
Reading: Bolano's 2666 (about a third of the way through!)