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Updike. Unequivocally my favorite writer, ever. In fact, I used him as a litmus test for marriage-worthiness: my husband is the only other person I know for whom Rabbit, Run is too their favorite novel. I was a literature major in college, but no longer read much in the way of fiction. I tried for too many years to find a writer as heart-stopping at the sentence level as Updike, but I am not sure that writer exists.
Lately I have been drifting around in antique stores in search of battered Nancy Ann dolls from the 1930's and 40's on which to practice micro-scale clothing construction (another of the countless hobbies I take up and discard, about which my husband wisely never comments) and I came across an Add-O-Matic for $18 bucks. It was of a more recent vintage than this one, and rather than levers had rows and rows of square plastic buttons, like my old Underwood 319 (picture from Olivander's Machines of Loving Grace: I think it goes without saying that he has the best typewriter collection of any of us). After reflexively grabbing it and heading for the register, second thoughts of recession-era temperance took hold, and I begrudgingly returned it to its shelf.
Rats.
The picture at left of me was taken just today, in a bookstore photo booth. When I saw it, I thought of this picture, and laughed.
Time Out.
1 hour ago
7 comments:
I like Updike, but I have trouble getting into him. I was sad to hear that he died. He was among a dwindling number of writers whom I consider to be quintessential American writers, those wordsmiths--eloquent in their simplicity--who emerged in the two decades between WWII and Vietnam. Yesterday, I was trying to think of contemporary authors who are really on the same level, and I couldn't think of any. Michael Chabon, maybe, but the quality of his work is erratic, not quite gelled yet. I'm curious to hear Monda's opinion on the subject.
Speaking of adding machines, I found a funky Sears adding machine for $3 at Savers last night. It's identical to this one. Though they claim it's from the '50s, it just has to be from the '70s. No other era turned out products that deliciously horrid.
Olivander, that orange color... I had flared Garanimal pants in that shade. Ugh. I tnink I just threw up a little in my mouth.
My dad "liberated" an old adder from his former job -- a neglected monster with the rows and rows of buttons and the big handle out the side. I always coveted that thing.
David Foster Wallace does that for me (except for the "eloquent in their simplicity thing) but I also can read a single sentence of Thurber and be amazed at its perfection.
Olivander's collection is definitely impressive, and beautifully documented. They're the kind of pics you normally would see as a two-page spread with a staple down the center.
To be direct, recession-era temperance sucks.
I will always have a soft spot in my heart for Updike. He was one of my big literary "crushes". It deeply saddened me to hear of his death. The last thing I read of his was (oddly) in Parade Magazine (it comes with our Sunday newspaper). I had an impulse to write a letter to him, but I guess I waited too long. Sigh.
What did Updike write for Parade? I may have read it... I compulsively read Parade.
Duffy, I said I am going to tackle Infinite Jest, and I meant it!
Everyone: start your engines on adding machine collections. Crud. Do I need to go back to that thrift store and get that damned thing after all?
***SELF PROMOTION ALERT***
I like what little I've read by him. I even submitted an expanded piece from my blog to an online (read: no remuneration) magazine--and got it accepted! http://www.curatormagazine.com/
I would nominate Paul Auster, Anthony Doerr, Mark Helprin, Cormac McCarthy, Richard Ford, Amy Hempel, Alice Munro, Haruki Murakami, Jonathan Carroll and a lot of others as worthies. No, they've not written as much or as broadly but give them time. No one will replace him, of course, but no one will replace Auster, Murakami or any of the others, either.
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