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JOHN UPDIKE
Underwritten by Teutsch Partners, LLC
Biography In John Updike’s long and prolific life as a writer, he gifted and challenged readers with broadly ranging ideas about existential angst; the role of paradox in our lives; electromagnetic fields and quantum theory; domestic fierceness; the sexual proclivities, experimentations, and frustrations of young and old, female and male; witchcraft; social existence as sacrifice; the human soul, longing for goodness but driven by confused passions; what he terms “our heart’s stubborn amoral quest for something once called grace;” and the staggering beauty of nature and of art. In 1987, Updike said “…a mark of a great writer, as Walt Whitman observed, is that a nation absorbs him, or her, in its self-knowledge and self-image. The confident writer assumes that his own sensibility is a sufficient index of general conditions, and that the question ‘Who am I?,’ earnestly enough explored, inevitably illuminates the question ‘Who are we?’” Updike certainly focused his writing on who we Americans are. “The whole mass of middling, hidden, troubled America” as Updike termed it, is a focus of the four Rabbit novels, from the essential nature of the characters and the landscape they inhabit, to the formal structure of the writing: “The present tense was a happy discovery for me,” Updike remarked. “In the present tense, thought and act exist on one shimmering plane; the writer and reader move in a purged space, on the travelling edge of the future, without vantage for reflection or regret or a seeking of proportion.” As he presented the American character and its shifts and struggles over the years, he also was dedicated to showing ordinary life, its daily rhythms, rituals, and objects, as being worth writing about, “to giving the mundane its beautiful due.” “The world,” he said, “wants describing, the world wants to be observed and hymned and there’s a kind of hymning undercurrent that I feel in my work. With writing, or generally with art, we show the world our admiration and express our thanks that we are here. …it’s my intention to describe the world as the Psalmists did.” In his lyrical particularity, his fascination with the mundane so lovingly and exquisitely described by Updike, the shimmering presence of faith is present. Indeed, “Fiction,” he said, “is rooted in an act of faith: a presumption of an inherent significance in human activity, that makes daily life worth dramatizing and particularizing. There is even a shadowy cosmic presumption that the universe—the totality of what is, which includes our subjective impressions as well as objective data—composes a narrative and contains a poem, which our own stories and poems echo.” For Updike, fiction was meant “to give us the human soul with its shadows, its Rembrandtesque blacks and whites, its chiaroscuro; this sense of ourselves, as creatures caught in the light, whose decisions and recognitions have a majestic significance.” The visually rich language used to depict people, places, and things throughout John Updike’s stories, novels, and poems, extended seamlessly to his writing about visual art. As a boy, Updike loved comics and his main passion was drawing, a love that prompted him, after he graduated from Harvard, to attend the Ruskin School of Drawing and Fine Arts at Oxford. In the 1950s, artists found their way into Updike’s poetry, such as Ad Reinhardt, Frank, Stella, and Clyfford Still in: Gradations of Black: Third Floor, Whitney Museum.” He wrote numerous critical essays on American artists such as John Singleton Copley, Saul Bellow, Richard Serra, and Edward Hopper, and on European artists including Gustav Klimt, Max Beckmann, and Jan Vermeer. From “Museums and Women,” The New Yorker, November 18, 1967 She was the friend of a friend, and she and I, having had lunch with the mutual friend, bade him goodbye and, both being loose in New York for the afternoon, went to a museum together. It was a new one, recently completed after the plan of a recently dead American wizard. It was shaped like a truncated top and its floor was a continuous spiral around an overweening core of empty vertical space. From the leaning, shining walls immense rectangles of torn and spattered canvas projected on thin arms of bent pipe. Menacing magnifications of textural accidents, they needed to be viewed at a distance greater than the architecture afforded. The floor width was limited by a rather slender and low concrete guard wall that more invited than discouraged a plunge into the cathedral depths below. Too reverent to scoff and too dizzy to judge, my unexpected companion and I dutifully unwound our way down the exitless ramp, locked in a wizard’s spell. Suddenly, as she lurched backward from one especially explosive painting, her high heels were tricked by the slope, and she fell against me and squeezed my arm. Ferocious gumbos splashed on one side of us; the siren chasm called on the other. She righted herself but did not let go of my arm. Pointing my eyes ahead, inhaling the presence of perfume, feeling like a cliff climber whose companion has panicked on the sheerest part of the face, I accommodated my arm to her grip and, thus secured, we carefully descended the remainder of the museum. Not until our feet touched the safety of street level were we released. Our bodies separated and did not touch again. John Updike Excerpt Fiction: Poetry: Academy of American Achievement biography: http://www.achievement.org/autodoc/page/upd0bio-1 Salon interview: http://www.salon.com/08/features/updike.html New York Times reviews of and by John Updike: http://www.nytimes.com/books/97/04/06/lifetimes/updike.html Work for The New York Review of Books: http://www.nybooks.com/authors/158 http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/28/books/28updike.html http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/28/books/28appr.html
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