John Updike died yesterday at the age of 76. He was massively prolific writer, with 50 books and countless articles to his credit. Part of my grief is knowing that he was the kind of writer who could have kept going, well into his eighties and beyond. His body gave out—lung cancer—but his mind only grew sharper with time.
The first novel of his that I read was The Centaur. I was a college freshman at the time, and had always wanted to be a writer. For me, Updike was the very model of the author who could not only write, but write beautifully. To write like that, to turn out such lovely, lyrical sentences—that became my life’s ambition. (Note to self: in your next lifetime, please choose an easier goal.) Updike was fortunate to begin his career in the 1950s, when mainstream publishers still cherished good writing. Today, these publishers couldn’t care less about writing; all they’re interested in is presold commodities—books by or about celebrities. Talented fiction writers are no longer nurtured by these publishers, and as a result they’re harder to find. Franz Wright ended a recent poem in The New Yorker with these lines: “Life has taught me/to understand books.” I love Updike because he taught me to understand writing.
