Encountering Yourself in Fiction

The Widows of Eastwick, 164 pages in, is a disappointment. Is this all, Updike? Three half-wrought widows returning to the scene of their crimes? The three widows, Alexandra, Sukie and Jane are all strong characters, but they come off as though Updike holds them back: There are opinions there, thoughts, things we never see.

I see from Amazon reviews that his prose is beloved. I disagree. There is so much needless description. Two characters go to Egypt: two pages of description of the weather, the sand, the pyramids and the camels. Served to me by a bland narrator. A bit of dialogue, and more description. In the same style. Description is fine if it is innovative, central to some point, in free indirect style or otherwise interesting. This is simple recounting of scenery. Updike, I do not need the streets of Eastwick mapped out in prose. A map will suffice if you think we need to know the minutia of sidewalks.

The entire thing is narrated by an unspecified third person, so unspecified he has no personality. Why not let Alexandra narrate? (The main character shares my name. It is quite eerie reading.) She is certainly opinionated enough to be interesting, but Updike's narrator is flavourless. He emulates an all-seeing film camera: the scenery painted in the back, the dialogue referred in painful detail. I don't want to be told that the trees are blooming: I want to read Alexandra's thoughts about how beautiful the trees are when they bloom. 'Sukie, look! The tree I left Joe in. Remember? I don't think they bloomed then, but they sure are beautiful. All pink and lovely.' Not two pages of stage direction.


Well, if nothing else, literature studies has forced me to articulate my tastes. I can now pinpoint why, exactly, Updike does not woo me. I'm not giving up on him, the Rabbit novels are reputedly powerful. Not that this is as awful as I'm making it out: it's an easily read, perfectly good book. It's just not what I expected from Updike. Unremarkable, but decent.

Encountering Yourself in Fiction

The Widows of Eastwick, 164 pages in, is a disappointment. Is this all, Updike? Three half-wrought widows returning to the scene of their crimes? The three widows, Alexandra, Sukie and Jane are all strong characters, but they come off as though Updike holds them back: There are opinions there, thoughts, things we never see.

I see from Amazon reviews that his prose is beloved. I disagree. There is so much needless description. Two characters go to Egypt: two pages of description of the weather, the sand, the pyramids and the camels. Served to me by a bland narrator. A bit of dialogue, and more description. In the same style. Description is fine if it is innovative, central to some point, in free indirect style or otherwise interesting. This is simple recounting of scenery. Updike, I do not need the streets of Eastwick mapped out in prose. A map will suffice if you think we need to know the minutia of sidewalks.

The entire thing is narrated by an unspecified third person, so unspecified he has no personality. Why not let Alexandra narrate? (The main character shares my name. It is quite eerie reading.) She is certainly opinionated enough to be interesting, but Updike's narrator is flavourless. He emulates an all-seeing film camera: the scenery painted in the back, the dialogue referred in painful detail. I don't want to be told that the trees are blooming: I want to read Alexandra's thoughts about how beautiful the trees are when they bloom. 'Sukie, look! The tree I left Joe in. Remember? I don't think they bloomed then, but they sure are beautiful. All pink and lovely.' Not two pages of stage direction.


Well, if nothing else, literature studies has forced me to articulate my tastes. I can now pinpoint why, exactly, Updike does not woo me. I'm not giving up on him, the Rabbit novels are reputedly powerful. Not that this is as awful as I'm making it out: it's an easily read, perfectly good book. It's just not what I expected from Updike. Unremarkable, but decent.

Just Keep Going

I think I'll separate my book and life updates, makes for less of a mess. So you get two entries in one day. Someone's got to be thrilled. Two exams down, two to go. I wrote a messy essay about time as a physical entity in Prufrock, and translated a non-coherent piece about the modern condition. You'd think psychiatrists had a decent grasp on writing, but no, they do not. And I did not particularly enjoy having to piece together meaning because the sentences made no sense.

The first swim of the year was had, at the cottage this weekend. Where we also drank too much, my brother got murdered at Scrabble by yours truly, who also nearly broke her back carrying reference materials, clothes and macbook to finish the translation exam.

To celebrate surviving half the exams, Anette and I went out to a quick dinner. We went to Hansken for their delicious onion soup and wine, but also got complimentary starters – foie gras. I don't particularly like it, Anette hated it. We never did figure out why precisely we got them, perhaps they were about to expire and they had to get rid of them? Then we proceeded to speed over to the cinema to see Polanski's Ghost Writer – mediocre thriller, occasionally clever, terribly cheap ending. And now I'm reading for the two final exams. Postcolonial literature and general literary theory Oh, joy.

Just Keep Going

I think I'll separate my book and life updates, makes for less of a mess. So you get two entries in one day. Someone's got to be thrilled. Two exams down, two to go. I wrote a messy essay about time as a physical entity in Prufrock, and translated a non-coherent piece about the modern condition. You'd think psychiatrists had a decent grasp on writing, but no, they do not. And I did not particularly enjoy having to piece together meaning because the sentences made no sense.

The first swim of the year was had, at the cottage this weekend. Where we also drank too much, my brother got murdered at Scrabble by yours truly, who also nearly broke her back carrying reference materials, clothes and macbook to finish the translation exam.

To celebrate surviving half the exams, Anette and I went out to a quick dinner. We went to Hansken for their delicious onion soup and wine, but also got complimentary starters – foie gras. I don't particularly like it, Anette hated it. We never did figure out why precisely we got them, perhaps they were about to expire and they had to get rid of them? Then we proceeded to speed over to the cinema to see Polanski's Ghost Writer – mediocre thriller, occasionally clever, terribly cheap ending. And now I'm reading for the two final exams. Postcolonial literature and general literary theory Oh, joy.