In Memoriam John Updike
De Amerikaanse schrijver John Updike is gisteren op 76-jarige leeftijd overleden. Updike, die bijna vijftig romans en evenzovele bundels met essays, gedichten en korte verhalen schreef, overleed aan longkanker in zijn woonplaats Beverly Farms, Massachusetts. Hij won vele grote Amerikaanse prijzen, waaronder twee Pulitzers, voor Rabbit Is Rich en Rabbit at Rest, en twee National Book Awards. Zie ook mijn blog van 18 maart 2008 en mijn blog van 18 maart 2007.
Uit: The Widows of Eastwick
“It was in bed she first felt his death coming. His erections began to wilt just as she might have come if he had held on; instead, in his body upon hers, there was a palpable loosening in the knit of his sinews. There had been a challenging nicety in the taut way Jim dressed himself—pointy vanilla-colored boots, butt-hugging jeans with rivet-bordered pockets, and crisp checked shirts double-buttoned at the cuff. Once a dandy of his type, he began to wear the same shirt two and even three days in a row. His jaw showed shadows of white whisker underneath, from careless shaving or troubled eyesight. When the ominous blood counts began to arrive from the hospital, and the shadows in the X-rays were visible to even her untrained eyes, he greeted the news with stoic lassitude; Alexandra had to fight to get him out of his crusty work clothes into something decent. They had joined the legion of elderly couples who fill hospital waiting rooms, as quiet with nervousness as parents and children before a recital. She felt the other couples idly pawing at them with their eyes, trying to guess which of the two was the sick one, the doomed one; she didn’t want it to be obvious. She wanted to present Jim as a mother presents a child going to school for the first time, as a credit to her. They had lived, these thirty-plus years since she had lived in Eastwick, by their own rules, up in Taos; there the free spirits of the Lawrences and Mabel Dodge Luhan still cast a sheltering cachet over the remnant tribe of artistic wannabes, a hard-drinking, New Age–superstitious, artsy-craftsy crowd who aimed their artifacts, in their shop-window displays, more and more plaintively at scrimping, low-brow tourists rather than the well-heeled local collectors of Southwestern art.
John Updike (18 maart 1932 – 27 januari 2009)