Comments on: Why I’m Not Mourning John Updike

By: Anna V

Anna V — Mon, 09 Feb 2009 20:06:58 +0000

Thanks a million for this, Charlotte. It was indeed a freakish experience to see how much space NYTimes gave to him; made me feel once again that feminist consciousness-raising has made nothing happen…anyway, I’ll be sharing this with my students (we’re doing our fiction unit now). All the best to you, and thanks for your wisdom. Anna

By: Kristi

Kristi — Mon, 02 Feb 2009 20:45:04 +0000

Oh, drat, I see I didn’t quite say what I wanted to say, but now it’s time to get the little girl from preschool. Maybe I’ll come up with something better later. Practice, practice. Sigh.

By: Kristi

Kristi — Mon, 02 Feb 2009 20:43:45 +0000

I’m an odd duck in terms of what I have and have not read. I’ve read very little of “the canon,” including the “modern canon” you mention. I’ve often wondered what I was missing by not reading Roth, Mailer, Updike, but I never could quite bring myself to care enough to actually read them. (I’m still interested in Tom Wolfe and expect to get to his work “someday.”) I have, however, read and greatly enjoyed Kundera, I suspect because he was not American. The first book I read by Kundera was “The Joke,” which involves an at-times despicable main character who does some things foolish and some things cruel. I liked that Kundera allowed me, as a reader, to see this foolish cruel character as foolish and cruel without Kundera’s own voice coming in saying, “look at this fool, look how despicable this jerk is.” I felt respected as a reader in a way I hadn’t when reading novels by Americans. I’m interested in revisiting “The Joke” now that you include Kundera in this list, though, because I have no doubt that what you mention — the phallocentric narcissism — is integral to the story, and I wonder how differently it would strike me now, fifteen years later.

By: Julia

Julia — Mon, 02 Feb 2009 18:20:57 +0000

Amen.

I picked up The Widows Of Eastwick at the library a few weeks ago, wondering if it was possible that Updike had written about three old broads in a way that somehow redeemed himself. I hoped to see an old, famous writer do something hard — like show evidence of growth. But, no. It was a retread of every other nauseating depiction of women . . . and the world. I returned it unfinished.