Death of a punchline
John Updike is dead. Fuck. Fuckity fuck.
You may think I'm a fan, judging by my reaction.
Not exactly.
I've read some Updike I've liked and some I've not liked.
But Updike was my go-to guy for complaints of a literary nature.
For instance, this evening when I had squandered two precious writing hours
submitting my short stories I thought,"I bet John Updike never does this. He just sends
a piece to The New Yorker, such as his grocery list, and they print it."
This, gentle reader, is called hyperbole.
John Updike was 76 years old. Not a spring chicken. But by god I thought I had
more time for more punchlines with him. I've tried other authors out.
"I bet Philip Roth never gets told to retitle his books!" It just doesn't feel right.
John Updike, you will be missed. For all the wrong reasons.
Comments
Mr. Roth, I agree, doesn't work as well. And you know, I started this comment thinking I could come up with suggestions, and I can't. David Foster Wallace would have been my first choice, but sadly I can't suggest him anymore.
Posted by: Stacie | January 30, 2009 10:09 AM
Stacie,
I had the same thought regarding David Foster Wallace! The substitutes for Updike are really lacking. Maybe Joyce Carol Oates?
Posted by: Stephanie | January 30, 2009 03:48 PM