His pen rarely
at rest, John Updike has been publishing fiction, essays,
and poetry since the mid-fifties, when he was a staff writer
at the New Yorker, contributing material for the
“Talk of the Town” sections. “Of all modern
American writers,” writes Adam Gopnik in Humanities
magazine, “Updike comes closest to meeting Virginia
Woolf’s demand that a writer’s only job is to
get himself, or herself, expressed without impediments."
Self-Consciousness: Memoirs, published in 1989,
paints the landscape of his boyhood in Shillington, on the
outskirts of Reading, southwest of the formerly solid mill
town and extending into Pennsylvania Dutch farm country.
But Updike’s interests pulled him north and east—first,
toward the Reading Museum, within walking distance of his
hometown (the fictional Olinger, which is the setting for
many early short stories), and then, with a full scholarship
in hand, to Harvard University, where, as an English major,
he did a thesis on seventeenth-century English poet Robert
Herrick, and graduated summa cum laude in 1954.
He has had a sustained and sustaining interest in art,
beginning in childhood when he had his first drawing lessons
and, as a devotee of comic strips, wrote a perspicacious
fan letter to the creator of “Little Orphan Annie,”
Harold Gray. Much later, at the Harvard Lampoon,
of which he was president in his senior year, he was still
at it. In one of his Lampoon cartoons, two apparent
seekers of universal awareness sit cross-legged and side
by side, both clad in loose, open garb most appropriate
for meditation, and one says to the other, “Don’t
look now, but I think my navel is contemplating me.”
During that senior year, Lampoon staff recall, he
wrote about two-thirds of every issue. At Harvard he took
art classes with Hyman Bloom, a painter who was associated
with a style known as Boston Expressionism. Then a Knox
Fellowship gave Updike the wherewithal to study for a year
at the Ruskin School of Drawing & Fine Art in Oxford, England.
Painting had taught him, he once said, “how difficult
it is to see things exactly as they are, and that the painting
is ‘there’ as a book is not.”
In Just Looking, 1989, and Still Looking,
2005, Updike gathered the impressions he’s been making
over a lifetime of observing painting and sculpture. In
an essay in the former he captures in limpid prose Vermeer’s
achievement in paint in View of Delft: “an
instant of flux forever held.” And in the latter,
in a chapter on Jackson Pollock, Updike glimpses, and so
we do, too, the essence of what Pollock’s drip-painting
could accomplish—“an image, in dots and lines
and little curdled clouds of dull color, of the cosmos.”
His interest in art has also shown in his fiction. One of
his later novels, Seek My Face, 2002, follows the
lines of the life of an aging painter who often lived in
the shadows of her more famous husband, also a painter.
In The Witches of Eastwick, 1984, the novel’s
hero, the devil, in the form of one Darryl Van Horne, is
an ecstatic collector of Pop art. “I suppose,”
Updike has said, “since I was an aspiring cartoonist
once, I could ‘relate’ . . . to the
Pop art imagery. Witches takes place in a post-Pop
art time, so in a sense dust has gathered on the movement,
which was fairly short-lived.” Harold Bloom has called
The Witches of Eastwick one of Updike’s most
remarkable books, as all of his “themes and images
coalesce in a rich, resonant swirl.” Of Witches
Updike himself remarked that “the touch of magical
realism gave it a kind of spriteliness for me.”
About his fiction in general he has said, “My only
duty was to describe reality as it had come to me—to
give the mundane its beautiful due.” When considering
the entire scope of his work, readers of American fiction
are most often put in mind of Harry Angstrom, the character
from the Rabbit saga with whom Updike seemed for many years
to be on closest, if often contentious, terms. American
novelist Joyce Carol Oates has written that Updike is “a
master, like Flaubert, of mesmerizing us with his narrative
voice even as he might repel us with the vanities of human
desire his scalpel exposes.” British novelist Martin
Amis has seen the hand of a master in Rabbit at Rest,
1990, marveling, “This novel is enduringly eloquent
about weariness, age and disgust, in a prose that is always
fresh, nubile, and unwitherable.”
Avid readers and admirers also point to many other works
in his eclectic oeuvre as masterpieces, including The
Centaur, 1963, set, as are the Rabbit novels, in Pennsylvania
and winner of France’s prize for best foreign book;
Couples, 1968, set in the fictional Tarbox, modeled
after Ipswich, Massachusetts, where Updike and his first
wife and family moved from Manhattan in 1957; and Roger’s
Version, 1986, which magisterially sets a middle-aged
divinity professor and a computer whiz kid bent on proving
the existence of God on a metaphysical collision course.
He is known to many first as an author of short stories,
with dozens having graced the pages of the New Yorker
before being published in collections. Many other readers
know his shorter fiction either through the O. Henry
Prize Stories or anthologies of American literature,
where they would have entered into the at times sad, at
times triumphant thoughts of, say, a certain check-out clerk
at the local grocery store; “A & P” serving
as a model of dramatic irony for at least two generations
of English literature teachers.
Updike is, of course, also an accomplished literary critic,
whose reviews and essays are as much distinguished by their
breadth of understanding as by their charitable disposition.
Examples of his critical acumen frequently appear in The
New York Review of Books, and he received his second
National Book Critics Circle Award in 1983 for Hugging
the Shore, including such gems as the micro-essay “A
Mild ‘Complaint,’” which skewers the misuses
and ‘misusers’ of ‘scare quotes.’
He has also applied his habile wit to poetry, composing
early on a collection called The Carpentered Hen
in 1954. Three more tomes of verse followed. Collected
Poems, 1953-1993, comprises what he calls his “beloved
waifs.”
After having met Katharine White, fiction editor at the
New Yorker during his year of study at the Ruskin
School, he began submitting stories regularly to the magazine
and then settled in an apartment in Manhattan for his two-year
stint there.
Migrating from Gotham to Ipswich, he thrived amid salubrious
sea breezes and continued to publish at the rate he set
for himself early in his career, about a book a year. It
was during this time, roughly 1957 to 1970 that he published
The Poorhouse Fair, Rabbit Run, Pigeon
Feathers, The Centaur, and Bech: A Book,
introducing readers to his irreverent alter ego, Henry Bech.
If minute attention to craftsmanship has always been a
hallmark of Updike’s work, so have inventiveness and
creative unpredictability. After moving to Beverly Farms,
Massachusetts, with his second wife, Martha, in 1982, he
brought forth work that differed widely in subject matter
and setting: In the Beauty of the Lilies, 1996, a
multigenerational, twentieth century-spanning family saga
summing up increasingly secular, movie-mad America; Toward
the End of Time, 1997, set in a near-future, post-nuclear
war New England with menacing undercurrents; Gertrude
and Claudius, 2000, concerned with the earlier life
of Hamlet’s mother, Claudius, and Old Hamlet; and
Terrorist, 2006, featuring the radicalized Islamist
teenage son of an absent Arab father and an Irish-American
mother.
In the half century he has been writing he has garnered
many literary prizes, awards, and honors, including the
Pulitzer Prize, the National Book Award, and the National
Book Critics Circle Award, twice each; the Pen Faulkner
Award for Fiction, the Rea Award for the Short Story; and
a Guggenheim Fellowship. He is among a select few to have
received both the National Humanities Medal and the National
Medal of Arts. Albright College in Reading (the fictional
Brewer readers first encountered in Rabbit Run) bestowed
upon him an honorary Litt.D. degree in 1982.
Along with his finely tuned regard for painting, which
has often provided the visual element for his fiction, there
has been a deep and abiding appreciation of the reading
life in general and a love of the book in particular. He
has alluded to an imagined reader of his, ideal or otherwise,
as being a teenage boy who happens upon one of his books
on the dusty shelves of some library one afternoon looking
for literary adventure. In a speech two years ago at the
American Booksellers Association convention, he encouraged
beleaguered booksellers to “defend [their] lonely
forts. . . . For some of us, books are intrinsic
to our human identity.”
In fall 2007 Updike came out with a collection of essays,
Due Considerations. A new novel, The Widows of
Eastwick, is due out in fall 2008. After so many words,
is America’s leading man of letters even marginally
at rest? No, he is still looking and still writing.
—Steve
Moyer
Photo © Rick
Friedman / Corbis |