In Memoriam
John Updike has died.
Besides a nice obituary, the New York Times ran a poem from his soon-to-be-published collection. The poem is about his own death, and is, as the writer could be, amusing and thoughtful:
REQUIEM
It came to me the other day:
Were I to die, no one would say,
“Oh, what a shame! So young, so full
Of promise - depths unplumbable!”
Instead, a shrug and tearless eyes
Will greet my overdue demise;
The wide response will be, I know,
“I thought he died a while ago.”
For life’s a shabby subterfuge,
And death is real, and dark, and huge.
The shock of it will register
Nowhere but where it will occur.
- JOHN UPDIKE
I remember reading Updike's story "A Sense of Shelter" early in college. It's a story of a young man, a high school kid, who feels safe in his school, more than anywhere else. I completely identified with it -- not high school, which felt rather more like Fear and Loathing in the Front Hall than anything positive, but college. Those of us who hung around after classes were over, puttering, all shared that.
"Great" contemporary literature for "young minds" in the 70s tended to consist of stories where people died or went insane. I remember it therefore not only for the beautiful writing, but for the idea that even for the oddest, there are places which nurture us.
I thank Updike for passing through.
Besides a nice obituary, the New York Times ran a poem from his soon-to-be-published collection. The poem is about his own death, and is, as the writer could be, amusing and thoughtful:
REQUIEM
It came to me the other day:
Were I to die, no one would say,
“Oh, what a shame! So young, so full
Of promise - depths unplumbable!”
Instead, a shrug and tearless eyes
Will greet my overdue demise;
The wide response will be, I know,
“I thought he died a while ago.”
For life’s a shabby subterfuge,
And death is real, and dark, and huge.
The shock of it will register
Nowhere but where it will occur.
- JOHN UPDIKE
I remember reading Updike's story "A Sense of Shelter" early in college. It's a story of a young man, a high school kid, who feels safe in his school, more than anywhere else. I completely identified with it -- not high school, which felt rather more like Fear and Loathing in the Front Hall than anything positive, but college. Those of us who hung around after classes were over, puttering, all shared that.
"Great" contemporary literature for "young minds" in the 70s tended to consist of stories where people died or went insane. I remember it therefore not only for the beautiful writing, but for the idea that even for the oddest, there are places which nurture us.
I thank Updike for passing through.