In what caps a tough few months for literary writers, we bid adieu too early to the man I always wished was my uncle (in addition to my real uncles, of course), John Updike. He was only 76. Lung cancer.
Here's a goodie he left behind:
At the age of 73, I seem most instinctively to believe in the human value of creative writing, whether in the form of verse or fiction, as a mode of truth-telling, self-expression and homage to the twin miracles of creation and consciousness. The special value of these indirect methods of communication -- as opposed to the value of factual reporting and analysis -- is one of precision. Oddly enough, the story or poem brings us closer to the actual texture and intricacy of experience.
Damn. He'll be missed...
