John Updike died yesterday. I can’t claim to have read much of his work, which slightly disturbs me. I did read The Terrorist, which I loved. It was amazing to me how he, as a writer, could completely inhabit the mind of a young Muslim who gets recruited to be a suicide bomber. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that it was a sympathetic portrait. Perhaps empathetic? I really should better understand the difference between those two words. But still, I learned from that.
Also, I read at least part of Rabbit, Run, and paraphrased/appropriated the first line of the book for a magazine story I wrote about pickup basketball.
Today, NPR’s Fresh Air played three excerpts of previous John Updike interviews. I drove in my car then sat at the kitchen table and ate lunch then sat on my couch and listened to them. I admire (and, dare I write, empathized with the fact) that he took hold of a relatively simple life (a Protestant and, he said, “a bit of country boy”) and wrote from that, all the while jealous of the Beats and the urban Jews. Although he did observe that not everyone could be on the road all the time like Jack Kerouac “or nothing would get done.”
Terry Gross read a line from one of his essays that I liked. Something about (I have terrible memory for quotes) how whenever any of us look at our own reflection, it is with the hope that something has changed.