The luxury of time and peace – to be able to read, as i have just done, a shortish novel in only several sittings! Well, truth be told, some of the reading sessions were done lying. Perhaps a few of them were on the, ahem, throne. But the idea is transmitted: reading novels is best when nothing impedes on the dream’s ability to take root.

The novel I read was “A Month of Sundays.” There was a surprising amount of the game of golf in it. There is much golf in Updike in general. That is also to observe that there is much Updike in Updike. He does not stray far from the scaffolding of his personal concerns when spinning his web.

But now I’ve strayed back to the short story collection with which I began my Updike exploration. “Afterlife” contains a passel of tales, most smacking of that New Yorker style which places itself and its concerns at the center of the universe no matter how far it gets. The endings have a tendenciy to leave one blinking and disorientec. I’ve actually found myself rubbing my eyes and talking out loud to Updike – that wily son of a bitch; that baroque, polyglot, soi-disant, punning son of a preacher man. (Was he?) 

In “Aperto, Chiuso” (Open, Closed), he pulls a remarkable literary stunt. He seems to be writing a send up of Hemmingway, who in his time was a not so innocent abroad, sending up Twain. Here, he (Updike and woman of the week) are traipsing over Italy. He mentions Hemmingway, and then, in a flash, he’s gone full iceburg, with aso much of his tale of Annuncio submerged below the narrated surface that you have to Google it to get any facts straight. 

I find it liberating. Updike makes me want to get out my typwriter thingyt and jam.

Sent from seclusion…