Updike

Browsing the library shelves the other day I stopped at the John Updike novels. By my count he wrote 27 novels. I've never read any of them.

(I think that when writers reach a certain number of novels they begin to repeat themselves. Two obvious examples of why this is a foolish thought are Mark Twain and Jack London.)

So I thought maybe it was time to take a look at Updike. Two of his Rabbit novels won Pulitzers. I pulled Rabbit at Rest from the shelf and read the inside front flap. It didn't instill confidence in me. It was like reading Cliff Notes.

(When I read the inside cover of The Maltese Falcon it doesn't talk about the moral void Sam Spade lives in. It talks about a group of ne're-do-wells and a priceless statue from the Knights of Rhodes. I like an exciting story. I think I can find the human condition within by myself.)

I took a look inside. There were things like, “He looked over and watched her tuck back a stubborn fluttering wisp of half-gray hair from her sun-toughened little brown nut of a face.” I can't handle that many adjectives. It's like they're being shot out of a machine gun.

I put Rabbit back to rest. I'll try him again someday. Things change.

George W. Parker