Ipswich humorist shares his Updike dream

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Updike had his Golf Dreams, and Bob Waite, who writes for The Local News in the North Shore area, had his own Updike dream to share with readers on July 13, 2023.

“In the dream, I discovered an unpublished John Updike manuscript titled Threesomes in his old office above the Choate Bridge Pub.

“My excitement was palpable. Could this be the long-awaited sequel to Couples, Updike’s 1968 novel chronicling the intertwining of 10 couples in a town called Tarbox? A town that bore a striking resemblance to Ipswich?

“Couples also bore a passing resemblance to another New England-set potboiler, Grace Metalious’ Peyton Place, which came out when Mia Farrow was as pre-teen and Woody Allen was still funny. Except Couples was better written and more explicit.”

Read the full article.

Updike’s phrase ‘post-pill paradise’ still resonates

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The average writer isn’t typically mentioned in an article about pharmaceuticals, but of course Updike isn’t typical. Neither was Couples, his 1968 novel that explored the social and sexual consequences of the birth control pill—a free-love era medical advancement that nonetheless required a doctor’s prescription.

Now a birth control pill is being marketed as an over-the-counter drug, and a Flagler Live article about it uses Updike’s novel as an illustration, along with this caption:

“Welcome, she said, to the post-pill paradise, a light-hearted blasphemy that immensely relieved him,” Piet Hanema, the central character in John Updike’s Couples narrates as he is about to begin his affair with Georgene early in the 1968 novel that made Updike, and the pill, household items. (The italics are in the original text.) Updike loved the post-pill paradise phrase so much, he used it twice more and referred to it in subsequent interviews. But the true paradise may only be beginning.”

That this quote and the cover of Couples is employed in an article that’s not about the socio-sexual ramifications, but rather “the move toward over-the-counter birth control as an important step toward accessible and equitable reproductive health care for all Americans,” illustrates how that well-turned phrase—”post-pill paradise”—still captures the imagination.

Read the whole article.

Washington Post reviewer considers Richard Ford’s Frank Bascombe alongside Updike’s Harry Angstrom

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The Washington Post has a paywall, but if you’re a subscriber you might want to read John Williams’ thoughtful extended review of Richard Ford’s newest book, Be Mine: “A Eulogy for everymen: Updike’s Rabbit and Ford’s Frank Bascombe.”

Calling the two fictional characters “quintessentially 20th-century protagonists,” Williams began by establishing a relationship between the two:

“Harry “Rabbit” Angstrom and Frank Bascombe have been mentioned together quite often for two men who don’t have all that much in common. John Updike introduced Angstrom in 1960 in Rabbit, Run, the first book in his vaunted series about a suburban salesman. Richard Ford, who was only 16 in 1960, has just published Be Mine, the fifth book featuring his garrulous, uncannily even-tempered narrator Bascombe, who first appeared in The Sportswriter.

“In 2014, Ford told the New Yorker that the relationship between his books and Updike’s was “complicated,” elaborating: “I have to say, with no reluctance, that if John hadn’t written the Rabbit books I might not have thought (as his contemporary) that three, then four, books about a real-estate salesman in New Jersey could be plausible.” He went on to highly praise Updike but also noted that he had read only one of the four Rabbit novels all the way through.

“Aside from the obvious fact that they are protagonists of multivolume series by popular and acclaimed writers, Rabbit and Frank have been linked throughout the years by what they’ve been taken to represent: Each has been called an ‘everyman’ too many times to count. It’s a word — and a projection — redolent of the 20th century. We’re too culturally atomized now to expect even broadly drawn individuals to reflect our collective life in any meaningful way, and of course those labeled ‘everyman’ have nearly always been White suburban males, whose relevance as cultural avatars (much less weathervanes) has been in steep decline. This all leaves aside the fact that Ford and Updike have both written eloquently to say that these characters are not meant to represent anything but themselves.”

Read the whole article.

1, 2, 3 books and you’re out at the old ball game

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Writing for the Vancouver Is Awesome website, Ryan Beil suggested “3 books about baseball to put on your summer reading list . . . and no, they aren’t Shoeless Joe or Moneyball.”

“Generally speaking, in the summer months when I’m not watching baseball, I enjoy lazing about and cracking a good book. And believe it or not, those books often feature baseball itself or baseball-adjacent ideas and themes. My obsession never takes a break,” Beil wrote.

He named “a couple of baseball books that I’ve enjoyed to add to your summer reading lists”:

The Only Rule Is It Has to Work: Our Wild Experiment Building a New Kind of Baseball Team, by Ben Lindbergh and Sam Miller (about running a minor league baseball team)

Winning Fixes Everything, by Evan Drellich (a book about the Astros cheating scandal that the journalist bought but has yet to read)

Hub Fans Bid Kid Adieu, by John Updike.

“This one isn’t even a book. It’s an essay. But it does come in book form. I know because I’ve acquired it. And this time, I’ve even read it! On Sept.28, 1960, Ted Williams played his last game of baseball at the legendary Fenway Park. John Updike, then 28, was watching that day and he penned this famous essay about the experience and Ted Williams rocky life in Baseball. It’s capital “R” Romantic about baseball, just a beautiful piece of writing. I think you could even read it online. Go ahead. Google it. I dare you.

Polish journal features article on the ordinary American in Updike’s short stories

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PNAP: Scientific Journal of Polonia University in Czestochowa, Poland published an academic article by Olena Bezhan on “The Image of ‘An Ordinary American’ in J. Updike’s Short Stories” in their most recent issue. Bezhan, an associate professor at Odesa National I.I. Mechnikov University in Ukraine, called Updike “a barometer of American sentiment” and focused on the short story “Pigeon Feathers.” Birds, Bezhan wrote, are “an essential element of various mythopoetic traditions” that are “widely represented in symbolism and emblematics. Birds as embodiments of deity play an important role in myths about the creation of the world: the cosmic spirit in the form of a bird or a bird as an assistant to the divine creator, a giant bird as a common image of the Creator.”

“The most famous ‘function’ of the bird is its personification of the human soul. The idea of the soul in the form of a bird is present in ancient cultures, such as Egypt, Greece, China and Siberia, South America, etc. Thus, the bird is a symbol of the soul, and in the Bible it is a dove that arrives with the news that Mary will give birth to the son of God. The fact that the boy has to shoot the pigeons and is forced to experience all these negative emotions, combined with the impressive hunting scene that the reader watches, can-and-should-be interpreted as David being required to part with his soul in order to move into the adult state, but as we see, he cannot get rid of his soul. However, it turns out that killing birds does not help the hero come to terms with the thought of death—the expected mental breakthrough did not occur. Realizing this, we can say that the mystery of death, as well as the desire to live, remain constant categories for the writer, in his opinion, this mystery accompanies a person all his life: ‘with a feminine, slipping sensation along his nerves that seemed to give the air hands, he was robed in this certainty: that the God who had lavished such craft upon these worthless birds would not destroy His whole Creation by refusing to let David live forever’.”

Read the full article in English.

Is Henry Bech an act of cultural appropriation?

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Writer Jennifer Anne Moses said she doesn’t think so.

In “Artists, like myself, appropriate culture—and that’s OK,” Moses defended a white poet who came under fire in The Nation for a point-of-view poem from the perspective of a black homeless person.

“I’m white and Jewish. Post-college, I wrote about people who look like me. Then I moved to Baton Rouge, Louisiana, where I volunteered in an AIDS hospice, largely among African-American, underprivileged, full-Gospel Christians. I sat with them, held their hands, and heard their stories. I did this for 10 years, and when I moved back east, I turned their real lives into fiction,” Moses wrote.

“Was I guilty of cultural appropriation? A few people who read the book said I was. But those in the hospice who read my book thanked me. To this day, I’m glad I did what I did, because if I hadn’t written about this one tiny corner of humanity, then nobody would have.

“True, I had little in common with the people who inspired the characters I conjured—other than, you know, we all bleed red.

“Who has the right to write it?

“If artists shied away from using the specifics of cultures other than their own, including oppressed and marginalized ones, the world would not have works such as Sophie’s Choice, Sounder, The Canterbury Tales, Uncle Tom’s Cabin, Othello, Tobacco Road, or Heart of Darkness. So what if George Eliot (Mary Anne Evans) was about as Jewish as George Washington? Had she not been the genius she was and dreamed up the conflicted Jew Daniel Deronda, he, and his book, would simply not exist.

“Yet many smart people are appalled by ‘cultural appropriation,’ comparing it to a kind of ‘stealing.’ If whites (or members of other privileged groups) borrow bits of a minority or oppressed group’s culture, they say, they’re depriving that group of a chance to tell its own stories.

“But is that really true? The fact that Stevie Ray Vaughan (who was white) sang the blues certainly didn’t mean that B.B. King (who was black) couldn’t sing them, too. John Updike (who was a gentile) wrote several books featuring Jewish characters, but that sure didn’t mean that Philip Roth (who was Jewish) couldn’t write about them too.”

Moses is the author of Visiting Hours, Tales from My Closet, Bagels and Grits: A Jew on the Bayou, The Art of Dumpster Diving, The Book of Joshua, and The Man Who Loved His Wife. Read her entire August 22, 2018 ed-op piece in The Daily American.

AI John Updike? The man would be horrified, wouldn’t he?

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Dark web. Deep AI. Sounds sinister, doesn’t it? And one could picture it becoming so in an Updike novel . . . or at least something that leads to unintended consequences. Now you can “chat” with John Updike via Deep AI (artificial intelligence). Fans of Updike know how much he loved words and the physicality of words on the page and books in the hand, and know how much he even resented interviewers and biographers for “mining” his life. Certainly he would find this unsettling, wouldn’t he? Some readers will embrace this; others will not even want to click on this Pandora’s Box. But here it is.

New book on Karl Barth and crisis-reorientation includes Updike chapter

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Crisis and Reorientation: Karl Barth’s Römerbrief in the Cultural and Intellectual Context of Post WWI Europe, edited by Christine Svinth-Værge Põder and Sigurd Baark, features a chapter by Bent Flemming Nielsen on “A Literary Reception of Karl Barth’s Römerbrief: On Barthianism in John Updike’s Roger’s Version.”

Like the editors, Nielsen teaches in the Section of Systematic Theology, Faculty of Theology, at the University of Copenhagen in Copenhagen, Denmark.

Abstract

American author John Hoyer Updike (1932–2009) once said, “Karl Barth was my hero among theologians.” Updike found Barth’s early writings from Der Römerbrief (1922) until Fides Quaerens Intellectum (1931) especially interesting. Moreover, Barthian motives also played a role in Updike’s novels. This becomes most obvious in Roger’s Version (1986), a novel about a theological professor, Roger Lambert. The novel addresses Barthian topics such as revelation and knowledge of God in modernity, narrated through vivid examples of human arrogance, guilt, and infidelity. In addition to presenting a body of Updike’s conscious stylistic writing, this chapter delves into Barthian theological perspectives in Roger’s Version and Updike’s personal convictions. The chapter emphasizes mainly the dialectic “wisdom of death” as a key to interpreting the book. (The orality of the presentation has been retained to some extent.)

How do you describe Wes Anderson’s characters? By invoking John Updike

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In “The Definitive Ranking of Every Single Wes Anderson Character,” superfans Mark Asch, Charles Bramesco and Jesse Hassenberger took on the gargantuan job of considering how “Anderson collects things and people” and trying to assess the “many traits that make a Wes Anderson character memorable or quintessential to the filmmaker’s project—intellectual curiosity, reckless rambunctiousness, melancholy that clings like a fog, lovable selfishness, epigrammatic wit, sartorial fastidiousness, facial symmetry—” and rank the characters.

“One recurring theme of these blurbs will prove to be family; another will prove to be the lure of the past for Anderson and his characters. Meanwhile, a recurring theme of all the horrible A.I. art generated from a ‘[X] directed by Wes Anderson’ prompt that you may have seen chumming your Twitter feed recently is visual symmetry. In ‘The Guardians,’ a 2001 short story by John Updike, the protagonist, raised by two parents and two grandparents, ‘felt the four adults as sides of a perfect square, with a diagonal from each corner to a central point. He was that point, protected on all sides, loved from every direction.’ We meet many of Anderson’s characters already in mourning, sensing love’s enveloping geometry thrown out of balance, and seeking a return to the symmetry of their once-intact families. Everything is in its right place in every one of Anderson’s shots, but these ghosts [The Dead: Chas’s wife in The Royal Tenenbaums, Auggie’s wife in Asteroid City, Max’s mom in Rushmore, the Whitman patriarch in The Darjeeling Limited; Esteban in The Life Aquatic, everyone, eventually] remind us that this, too, is a temporary state.”