John Updike, the kind of all-consuming literary polymath for whom the term Man of Letters seems to have been devised, has passed from this mortal sphere today, a victim of lung cancer at the age of 76.
Here is the usual passel of Obits:
The Boston Globe
The Washington Post
The Telegraph
The Miami Herald
6 comments so far:
I saw him two months ago, when he appeared at UCLA's Royce Hall to promote "The Widows of Eastwick." He talked of how lucky he'd always been about his health, although, as I now recall, he added, sotto voce, "until recently" and then quickly changed the subject. But he certainly seemed robust at the time. He must have fallen fast.
I can't think of another modern writer whose words affected me as deeply and whose books I've read more often than any other. A huge loss.
You've surely won the premier edition of the The John Updike Single Sentence Fiction Contest; that said, a giant has shuffled off this mortal coil, and mere lit'rary critics can only leave their puny adieus as pale whinings into the great void left by his passing. So long, pal, and write when you find work. We know you will.
Whiskey Tango Foxtrot? -over. Was it something I said?
Let it not be said that this blog fails to serve the wishes of its readers.
I loved that little piece you wrote! You, sir, are no ordinary lit'rary critic, and thus I demand its return!
Only writer that could redescribe anal intercourse as a journey to the numinous, unknown centre of the earth (Couples I think)
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