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.