In Memory of John Updike

For those of you who haven't heard, John Updike, celebrated Pulitzer-Prize winning novelist and short story writer, died today.  He was 76.  This is a tremendous loss for the literary community and all of us who care about wonderful storytelling and great writing.

I can think of no better tribute than to borrow from W.H. Auden's famous poem, "In Memory of W.B. Yeats" : 

He disappeared in the dead of winter:
The brooks were frozen, the airports almost deserted,
And snow disfigured the public statues;
The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day.
What instruments we have agree 
The day of his death was a dark cold day.

* * *

Now he is scattered among a hundred cities
And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections,
To find his happiness in another kind of wood
And be punished under a foreign code of conscience.
The words of a dead man 
Are modified in the guts of the living.

* * *

 Follow, poet, follow right
 To the bottom of the night,
 With your unconstraining voice
 Still persuade us to rejoice;

 With the farming of a verse
 Make a vineyard of the curse,
 Sing of human unsuccess
 In a rapture of distress;

 In the deserts of the heart
 Let the healing fountain start,
 In the prison of his days
 Teach the free man how to praise.


Rest in peace, John Updike.

Comments

[Matt]

I was never a huge fan of Updike's fiction but almost always liked his essays and criticism. I'm especially fond of his critical essay on Jackson Pollock on the occasion of a big show at the MOMA several years ago, in the NYRB. It's subscriber-only but can be found here:
http://www.nybooks.com/articles/article-preview?article_id=659

[coffee]

John Updike possessed a truly beautiful mind; he didn't just write well, he wrote wisely