It seems unbelievable, but since John Updike's name first appeared on bookshelves in 1958 with a poetry collection there have been only five years where he has not published a book of some sort. The man seemed unstoppable, which is why his death yesterday at 76 of lung cancer came as a shock to me. Just a few months ago he was reviewing Toni Morrison's new book for the New Yorker, one of hundreds of articles he wrote for that magazine where he got his start in the 1950s. And of course through his fiction, both his short stories and his novels, he was known as the chronicler of small-town American life par excellence. Jay Parini describes what he will miss most about the author:
What I prized most about Updike, though, was his marvellous ear for a
sentence. In the stories especially, he caught the shimmer of light on
the grass, for example, with uncanny skill. He could describe a
twitching face, a wrinkled elderly hand, a fond gesture of affection,
with shocking ease. I doubt I shall ever forget the painful stories
about a family coming apart in Problems (1979); 'Separating' is one
story I've read again and again through the years, with increasing
admiration.
I currently have an order out for Rabbit Angstrom and The Complete Henry Bech and am also very much looking forward to the Everyman's edition of The Maples Stories that will be published in August. I love that Updike had these recurring characters that he kept coming back to again and again. I'm sad that there will be no more new stories.