As the other reviewers write, this is a great literary companion, especially to Ulysses. Nabokov writes wonderfully. I can imagine that most people would read this book as they read Mansfield Park, Madame Bovary, Bleak House, etc and would flip back and forth. However, my paperback copy was very poorly bound and fell apart. So my advice is get the hardcover edition.

In his opening lecture, Nabokov says, " ... great novels are great fairy tales -- and the novels in this series are supreme fairy tales." The tales discussed are Austen's "Mansfield Park," Dickens' "Bleak House," Flaubert's "Madame Bovary," Stevenson's "The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde," Proust's "The Walk by Swann's Place," Kafka's "The Metamorphosis," and Joyce's "Ulysses." In addition, there are lectures "Good Readers and Good Writers," "The Art of Literature and Commonsense," and "L'Envoi" -- the first being his opening and the last being his closing comments on the course. These are lectures not polished by Nabokov for publication. There is a companion volume on Russian literature.

The examination of the works here is purely literary. The works are examined in minute detail. For example, in "The Metamorphosis," Nabokov goes to some length to determine what insect Gregor became. Not a cockroach, as some suggest, but rather a beetle. And he draws pictures. He wants us to understand the layout of the rooms in the Samsa flat. The devil -- that is, the art -- is in the details. Some might object that there is more to some of these works than is discerned by such a point of view. Granted, but nothing precludes looking elsewhere for (say) a more philosophical treatment of "The Metamorphosis," or God forbid, thinking about it on one's own.

In his closing comments, Nabokov says, "In this course I have tried to reveal the mechanism of those wonderful toys -- literary masterpieces. I have tried to make of you good readers who read books not for the infantile purpose of identifying oneself with the characters, and not for the adolescent purpose of learning to live, and not for the academic purpose of indulging in generalizations. I have tried to teach you to read books for the sake of their form, their visions, their art. I have tried to teach you to feel a shiver of artistic satisfaction, to share not the emotions of the people in the book but the emotions of its author -- the joys and difficulties of creation. We did not talk around books, about books; we went to the center of this or that masterpiece, to the live heart of the matter."

just a correction: Nabokov wrote two different books "lectures on literature" and "lectures on Russian literature." most reviewers here are talking about the wrong book.

This book seemed to have a lot of potential and I was excited to read it. However, Updike's incessant name dropping of varying 20th Century abstract expressionist painters (that had little relevance to the story except as background participants), his lofty prose and seemingly implanted facts about the cultural significance of the art of this movement became tedious and downright boring at times. I wasn't reading this book as a substitute for an Art History class I was reading this book to be told an engaging and insightful story. I feel like I got neither. The characters of Hope and Kathryn, to me, were blanks. Forward moving action in the story was nil, and Updike chose to use flashbacks in lieu of any kind of plot construction. The next time I feel like reading a book about art and its constituents I'll make sure to go to the reference section and NOT the fiction section.

The novel explores the contradiction implicit in artists, forced to live and act in the present, trying to create works that transcend time. This theme is returned to repeatedly. The protagonist is 'Hope,' a female painter who's first husband, Zack, pursues pure art in the passion of the present and achieves a place of permanence in the art world. Her second husband, more calculating and commercial, rolls up and down the hills of fame as his work becomes more or less relevant in the ensuing years. Her third husband, a businessman who personifies long-term planning, collects art but creates none himself; his contribution is fathering their children and nurturing her. Thus each husband makes a long-term contribution to the art world in proportion to their focus on the immediate: an irony not lost on the narrator--an artist herself.

Reflecting this dichotomy, the book's written to take place in one day yet covers subject matter from several decades. Mr. Updike writes in that conversational, New Yorker style, yet with much longer sentences than a magazine would allow. The book has no chapters, which sustains the experience of living through one, continuous day. The result is casual prose of thoughts weaving in and out of the present, dipping into past events of interest and re-examining them in today's light.

The writing sparkles with experience of finding meaning in the seeming inconsequences of daily life. Only Updike can make the description of a comfortable chair or plate-glass window breath-taking and thought-provoking. The characters are well fleshed-out, and the relationships and emotional landscape have the complex and irrational stamp of reality. The settings bring you into the art world--both urban and rural--so that you taste the energy and desperation of creative angst.

Although shocked by the unnecessarily vivid sex scenes in this novel, I strongly recommend it for those who enjoy reading literature that primarily reflects on life, relationships, our struggle with mortality and our desire to transcend it. I assume the author chose the name 'Hope' for the main character to underscore her pivotal importance is guiding these tender, unstable personalities towards greatness. Indeed she outlives all her lovers--at least mentally--and can report on which ones succeeded or failed at various turns.

She is a successful, late-career artist who's work has opened a new door for art and, as readers, we suspect that her success was assured. She's a born, true artist; and that's probably why these legendary artists needed her as a soulmate. Hope became their external compass, rewarded or thwarted them as needed, and moved on when they were spent.

If you ever wondered what it would have been like to be married to Jackson Pollack and Andy Warhol during the 50's and 60's, all the while trying to raise three children and having an artistic career of your own as a woman in a male dominated art world, well, this book will let you know.

Through multiple layers of dialogue and memories, John Updike unfolds this novel much like the creation of a painting. The masterful strokes of literal paint takes you on a journey through mid twentieth century art history - the beginnings of Modern Art.

The most surprising aspect to this journey is that it takes place in only one day, all within the dialogue between two people in the form of an interview. This is a deeply personal story, full of vibrant life. The dialogue between the main characters, Kathryn and Hope is rich and complex. What unfolds during the interview is the life of a 78-year-old artist looking back on her life, remembering her myriad relationships and how each relationship is a reference point to important moments in modern art history.

As Hope looks back on her life, layers of time unfold the search for real art, real expression and real love coming up against the hard reality of life. Birth, death, fame, money, friendship, infidelity, humility and sacrifice are topics explored in the story of a wife and her husbands, a mother and her daughter, an interviewer and her subject. This is a story glorifying the full circle of life, a life worth living in a book very worth reading.

Every writer looks around his workplace sometimes and wonders what other writers' desks look like. It's almost a prurient interest. Krementz, who is married to Kurt Vonnegut and is a leading photojournalist, has photographed more than 1,500 writers at work in the past thirty years. This splendid slender book brings together photos of fifty-three authors in their habitats, from Pablo Neruda and Archibald MacLeish to Stephen King and Edwidge Dandicat. Each photo is accompanied by each author's thoughts on desks, typewriters, and writing methods and times of day. This is the sort of book you'll pick up over and over again, examining the clutter on James Merrill's desk, or wondering if you should try writing in bed, like Walker Percy or Cathleen Schine. Highly recommended.

First let me say that I am attached to my copy of The Writer's Desk. It may not leave the house. Get your own!

That said, I have to profess some mystery as to the depth of my own feeling or why someone should purposely purchase this for themselves. It is a small scale coffee table book for English majors, a nice gift for the contemporary lit minded or a gem to pluck off a sale table for oneself. Krementz's black and white photographs speak of her talent though I'm not sure I learn that much from them. They are more like illustrations for text that is all but missing, except for brief author quotes, or like roped off rooms in a writer's house turned local museum. But that's the problem we have with any creative artist--we can collect and assemble the physical life molecule by molecule (anyone here read Flaubert's Parrot?) and we will never quite understand how those great sentences get shaped the way they do.

At least we can marvel at the conditions under which those sentences get down, how each writer exerts order and control in a corner of their lives, to get their work done.

When I think of all the social documentarians, I will first and foremost thank those who pay tribute to the creative souls, and Jill Krementz deserves our thanks. The Writer's Desk is exactly what it purports to be and much more. The reader is given not only a visual perception of these well- known authors, but an actual glimpse into the essence of quite private individuals. Those who take the time will receive a full value of scales in terms of photographs and word pictures. One cannot but feel an intimate connection with the writer's who are interviewed in this book. The private work-world once reserved exclusively for authors is now revealed. Krementz has first-hand knowledge of this by being wed to author Kurt Vonnegut. In addition, she has innate instincts which have connected her soul to those of the writers. The Writer's Desk is more than a collection intimate photographs. This book documents the visual eye which few have ever seen. It is one of those intangibles which the bibliophile simply must have in one's personal library. Introduction by John Updike.

As a big fan of the first two Bech collections, I carefully rationed my reading of this one, limiting myself to one story per day. All was well until I reached "Bech Noir" in which our hero takes murderous (yet flippant) revenge on his literary enemies. This was so ludicrously out of character that I kept waiting for the authorial signal that it was just the protagonist's fantasy. Unfortunately, it never came. I don't know whether Updike was being contemptuous or just plain stupid. But not only did his trashing of my suspension-of-disbelief ruin this book for me, it cast a retrospective pall over the previous ones.

Ironically, a new first-rate Bech story appeared in The New Yorker some time later. Presumably, it will be included in the omnibus Bech edition being published in 2001. I only pray that Updike, who is known for his post-publication tinkering, will come to his senses and leave "Bech Noir" out.

Bech at bay consists of five stories about the life of Henry Bech. He ages from mid-sixties to mid-seventies in the course of the book. The first story has Bech visiting Prague before the comunists have been thrown out. He visits Kafka's grave, hangs out with the ambassador, and talks with the local literary celebs who are still intimidated by the Bolshies. This story is aimless, and the weakest of the five entries. The second is Bech Presides.HB is talked into heading a NY literary organization. It's a brilliant study of cultural trends and hidden motives. It's brilliant, the best of the book. Third, Bech is sued in LA for libel. HB's conflicting feelings about himself and his accuser make this story appealing and engaging. Updike releases rage at unappreciative critics in Bech Noir.(JU, I'm praising the book, no need for vengeance with me.) It's wonderful fantasy at getting back at those who have harmed us. Tip! Use a sponge to seal your mail. Bech wins the Nobel prize in story number five. Bech doesn't know what to say, and uses a Giuliani-like technique at the podium. It's a good story, not great. Overall, stories 1 & 5 are very good. 2,3,4 are brilliant. Please read. Thank you.

"Bech at Bay" presents five comic stories about the novelist Henry Bech, starting out with a visit to Communist Czechoslovakia when he is 63 and ending in his acceptance of the Nobel Prize for Literature when he is 76 years old (with his infant daughter held struggling in his arms). Through these Bech stories, Updike takes a satirical look at the the Manhattan literary scene, pokes fun at the absurdities of the big city life and even takes a moment or two to ponder the Eternal Verities (but not too seriously). As his life enters its last phase, Bech finds himself in some interesting new situations: president of the The Forty, an intellectual society hopefully modelled on the French Academy but without its sense of self importance; as a caped avenger "ridding literary Gotham of villains" (read critics); as a septuagenarian father. Through all this absurdist comedy, the old Updike magic is constantly with us. Bravo!

Let's face it - most folks will come to this book to get their Rabbit fix, so let's deal with that story first. We readers spent a lot of time in the four Rabbit books being exasperated, if not saddened, by Nelson, Rabbit's unfortunate, screwed-up son. Well, here, finally, Nelson comes into his own. He has hit his stride. We readers become - dare I say it? - downright proud of him. And how is Rabbit remembered? You need only observe his children, in whom he lives on. (Check out the last word and re-read the question it answers. Hmmm...) Also, you don't need to read the first four Rabbit books to enjoy or understand this story; it's satisfying on its own - cinema verite in book form.

The other stories are not terribly memorable or compelling. Nevertheless they fit just like a comfortable old pair of shoes. One wonders if they might not be simply necessary, a chance for Updike to work through the late-arriving gremlins of his own memory. If you want to read only one or two of these stories, I'd recommend "Natural Color" very highly for its great insights and the title track, "Licks of Love in the Heart of the Cold War," as a better-than-average plot. Mr. Bech also makes an appearance ("His Oeuvre"), and the excerpts from his (Bech's) writings are as diverting to read as ever, as is the sad conclusion he makes at the end of the story.

Read the novella ("Rabbit Remembered") first; it's worth the price of the book all by itself. A very interesting fictional experiment -- a piece about the lingering influence of a man ten years dead on his family and acquaintances. I have read all the earlier Rabbit Angstrom novels (several times) and enjoyed this thoroughly; I'm not sure how much you will like it if you are not familiar with the earlier works.

As to the other stories...well, bad Updike is better than most other authors' best efforts. These are not his best and are disappointing after his most recent short story collection (The Afterlife and Other Stories).

If you're new to Updike don't start here -- but if you are already a fan there is much to enjoy. As usual the prose is flawless and delightful even though some of the characters are underdone and some of the stories structurally flawed -- a rarity in Updike's work.

This collection is a well-written short story anthology centering on the foibles of loving someone more than one love oneself. In addition to the dozen tales, the legendary John Updike includes a novella about the Rabbit family. That tale, ?Rabbit Remembered? is worth the ?steep? price of admission by itself.

The short stories are enjoyable, but Mr. Updike has plowed no new ground. Perhaps it is this reviewer at fault as a rabid Rabbit fan, but the fantastic novella clearly owns the book. Fans of the previous four books will want to read this posthumous story while new readers will scramble for the four novels that have made Mr. Updike a well deserved award winning author. Without giving away the plot, the deceased Rabbit?s illegitimate daughter meets the rest of the family in a humorous but, often melancholy way. This clearly enables the tying up of the previous stories into a fabulous complete package worth reading.

Harriet Klausner

The Blithedale Romance is a somewhat dark, depressing tale of idealism gone awry and of friendship and love torn asunder by private ambitions. The romance of these pages is not what many modern readers may expect to find here; there is no penultimate consummation of love among these characters, nor is there much happiness indeed to be discerned from the complexity of their relations one with another. Much has been made of Hawthorne's own temporary residence at the utopian-minded Brook Farm a decade previous to the publication of this work; it is true that some of the experiences derive from his own memories, but Hawthorne went to great pains to make clear that this is a romance first and foremost and bears no direct relation to the experiences of his own life. Those who would read this novel in an attempt to get at Hawthorne's true feelings about the utopian socialism he flirted with and watched from afar during his pivotal creative years may well miss out on the thought-provoking treatment of such wonderfully literary, fascinating characters as Hollingsworth the idealistic philanthropist, Zenobia the modern feminist reformer with a fatal flaw inimical to her self-realization, and the sweet and frail Priscilla.

The first-person narrator of this story is Miles Coverdale, a man difficult to come to terms with. He joins with the pioneers behind the utopian farming community of Blithedale and truly takes heart in the possibility of this new kind of communitarian life offering mankind a chance to live lives of purpose and fulfillment, yet at times he steps outside of events and seems to view the whole experience as a study in human character and a learning experience to which his heart-strings are only loosely bound. The drama that unfolds is told in his perspective only, and one can never know how much he failed to discern or the degree to which his own conjectures are correct. His eventual castigation of Hollingsworth cannot be doubted, however. This rather unfeeling man joins the community on the hidden pretext of acquiring the means for fulfilling his overriding utopian dream of creating an edifice for the reformation of criminals. This dream takes over his life, Coverdale observes, and his once-noble philanthropic passion morphs him into an overzealous, unfeeling man who brings ruin upon those who were once his friends. It is really Zenobia, though, upon which the novel feeds. She is a fascinating woman of means who makes the Blithedale dream a reality, a bold reformer seeking a new equality for women in the world who ultimately, at Hawthorne's bidding, suffers the ignominious fate of the fragile spirit she seemed to have overcome.

This is not a novel that will immediately enthrall you in its clutches. The first half of the novel is sometimes rather slow going, but I would urge you not to cast this book aside carelessly. The final chapters sparkle with drama and human passion, and you find yourself suddenly immersed in this strange community of tragic friends-turned-foes. You care deeply what happens to such once-noble spirits, and while you may not find joy in the tragic conclusion of the ill-fated social experiment of Blithedale, you will certainly find your soul stirred by the tragedy of unfolding events.

vintage is always a pleasure, presuming of course that we're talking about the real thing. there's a regal pace about hawthorne's prose that is undeniably hawthorne and no one else. there's that rigid, regimental quality uniquely hawthornian, a sense of iron discipline, utterly lacking in modern american prose. if vintage is what you seek, check out the blithedale romance: it'll set you straight.

This is not only a book with which any Hawthorne fan should be familiar, it is a necessity to anyone who is studying the Romantic Tradition. This text is an elegant commentary on the ideals that the Romantics held dear, such as the authenticity of a life close to the earth, the superiority of existence outside of common society rather than within it, and our innate ability, with enough well-directed effort, to transcend our own humanity. Like a breath of fresh air after Wordsworth, Thoreau, Keats, and both Shelleys, Hawthorne's cynicism and pessimism on these topics shine clearly through this work. Though admittedly he has failed in his announced effort to make the text cheerful and lighthearted, this is not such a complete failure as one may initially suppose, when this novel is contrasted with his others. Much of the humor that is in the book is centered around the narrator, Coverdale, whose nature forces him to fit in with his surroundings in a way which is a bit askew, precipitating enjoyable scenes which the reader can appreciate, if he or she has refrained from judging this main character. The treasure in this book, however, is not mainly in its humor, but rather (for me at least - each person presumably takes from it something different) in the elegance with which so many universal truths are exposed (often only partially, so that the reader can feel a sense of triumph when they wholly uncover them) to our conscious awareness. As you have no doubt already surmised, I highly recommend this novel.

John Updike gives us an especially well-researched novel following various generations of a particular family. The first chapter follows an 1880's pastor named Clarence at the point that he realizes that "there is no God." We see him struggle with the fact that he went from an exalted member of the community to a place of disgrace and poverty. Very intersting! When Clarence dies at the end of the first chapter (of four), the book follows the exploits of Teddy, the shy, akward, un-ambitious son. Teddy is not your typical protagonist, which makes the second chapter excellent reading. Chapter three follows "Alma" Teddy's daughter and a Hollywood movie star. About the middle of Alma's chapter the book becomes quite different. I found it was no longer an enjoyable read. In the final chapter, we follow the exploits of Alma's (and some rock star's) son, Clark (active in the 1970's-1990's). Clark's chapter is so cliche it's almost laughable. I'll try not to give away parts of the plot, but Clark ends up joining a Waco-type cult (continuing with the religion theme). As I've mentioned, Alma's and Clark's sections are not even worth reading in the opinion of this reviewer, but the first two chapters are excellent. What started out as a great book, deteriorated into someting pathetic. Or did Updike intend this as a commentary on modern society? It is well researched as several events (such as the strike in Clarence's chapter) did take place, but the end seems very sloppy. You have to judge if this is deliberately so as a social commentary.

This book is a complete thread in the life of the American family. While I myself do not come from such a family, so much of the experience came alive for me as I read this book that I feel as if I know some of these characters ,as well as the times they lived in.

John Updike is capable of taking an event, and describing every corner of that event. He takes the situation and runs the lines out in fresh and exciting directions.

This kind of story may not be for you. If you're into plot after plot, then try something else. If you like, and think you're ready for following the bloodline of a family taken in volumes of introspective threads, then try this book.

Endlessly rich, reaching depths of pathos beyond that of even the Rabbit novels. This book gorgeously traces the strands of four generations of a family, and Updike's handling of the passing of time and the shifting of generations is delicate and beautiful.

One of the high points is the Essie section which is brilliantly written; it starts from the perspective of a seven-year old, with the narrative written in the manner of a seven year old. As Essie gets older the narration as well matures, yet there are still the echoes of the childlike narrative, particularly when religion comes up. Of course this is reminiscent of the Portrait of the Artist... but unlike that book, this is a delight to read. Also I dont think the final part was cliche: lots of the characters in the last part were necessarily cliche, but that' because they were religious maniacs. Updike's style (the important thing) however is never cliche, and the subject matter being covered in a novel is also not cliche. As the generations go on the lives become messier and messier as all the characters seem to be anxiously finding a way to deal with Adult Unhappiness. Updike throughout piles on the gloom almost suffocating the reader. I am surprised he isn't compared to Virgina Woolf (only at her best) more often for the delicacy of his prose and the astounding negativity and bitterness toward life are something they both share. Life the enemy.

Life in this novel (for all the generations) is most often seen as an awful burden, heavy baggage that must be borne untile death. The escapes from this burden and the consolations of the toil are few and scarce. Profoundly uncomfortable or out of place in the world, aging quickly and hating every minute of it, or throwing your life away, seeking death because there is no reason not to, are some of the paths the characters trod. It seems at times that the only hope for achieving some moments of peace is in seeing movies, taking drugs, becoming a religious fanatic, sleeping, daydreaming, and finally dying. Have mercy.

I read this book about 15 years ago and just finished rereading it tonight. Have to say it has as much mystery and meaning as Melville, although the dialogue at the end got to be confusing and exasperating. Did I miss something big here? Regardless of some of my frustration with the confusing dialogue and shifting scenes, this book shows an author who is so good he understands the dynamics of growing old - before he even approaches old age. A real power struggle also is at play here between young and old and is one that doesn't seem to get resolved at the end. The author certainly shows his genious not just through description and dialogue - traits that bloom with his later works - but also with his discussion of past presidents as well as God - a theme that pleasantly revererates through his work. Found Hook's and Conner's dialogue about God and faith as a sort of preview for the debate of this subject in a later work - Roger's Version. Not one of his easiest books, by any means, but probably a good intro to his overall work.

No, just kidding. I don't hate him; I'm thankful that he's still with us and sharing his words.

In his first novel, we see John Updike about to bloom unto a wonderful writer and most of his themes are here in this slim book: growing old, facing death, thinking about Man and God. I should be able to delve deeper into the themes but I don't read for grand themes, frankly. I read Saul Bellow for the comedy of intellectuals struggling with daily life; I read Iris Murdoch to be among smart folks who seem so damned dumb; and I read Philip Roth for the jolt of the smut from people who should be nicer and holier. That said, I read Updike for the gorgeous language and his mission to catalog the world he sees, like some monk on a mission. Nature is gift to show us how small we are and Updike is here to record everything that catches his gleeming eye.

'The Poorhouse Fair' at first feels like a trifle but it expands after you put the book down. Not to be a jerk, but after reading this book I felt I was watching a commercial for a paper towel expanding, gaining heft and becoming richer after being dipped in a glass of water. Silly, but that's how I feel. Read The Poorhouse Fair, put it down and then read 'Of the Farm' and then get cracking on the Rabbit novels. When you're done with those, we'll talk about 'Couples', and 'Towards the End of Time', and ...

A futuristic novel (first published, I think, in 1959) set in an old people's home. I thought that it didn't work well as a futuristic novel - not surprising seeing as I was reading it in 2002. Rather, its main interests for me were in Updike's examination of the difficulties caused by the different world views and attitudes of the characters: the old people; the "prefect" Connor (and his young assistant); and the visitors to the fair.

The tensions between the old people and Connor are reminiscent of Ken Kesey's "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" (which was written later than this novel?), in that rebellion against authority is bubbling away all the time. Yet the real joy of the novel for me was the differt interpretations of the meaning of life and of the possibility of an afterlife: one passage in which a younger person cannot comprehend that one of the old women has dispensed with any concept of the utility or value of money, as she is so near death, was particularly thought-provoking.

Worth a read.

One of the most annoying things about many of the reviews that accompanied the publication of *More Matter* in the fall of 1999 was the ungrateful tone of reviewers who complained about the heft, the bulk, the sheer immensity, the allegedly self-indulgent inclusiveness of Updike's most recent collection of prose. Containing -- by my count and including the preface -- some 191 separate items, the size of this assemblage of "Essays and Criticism" (as Updike subtitles the volume, despite his protestation on page 810 that "I write not criticism but book reviews") would seem to justify such complaints. But such carping must really have been due to the understandable and forgivable (albeit unprofessional) readerly fatigue of grubstreet reviewers laboring against a deadline. Their griping is as absurd as nieces and nephews complaining that some rich uncle has left them too much money. The grace and insight that have marked Updike's prose since he became a professional writer almost fifty years ago distinguish every page of this collection.

The volume is arranged in four parts. About 100 pages address "Large Matters"; in this election year, it would be well if every American read the first piece, on freedom and equality. Five hundred pages consist of "Matter under Review," mostly book reviews but including some articles that a candid Updike would have to admit to be genuine criticism, since they go far beyond the "matter under review." Especially good are essays on Mickey Mouse, Edith Wharton, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Theodore Dreiser, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Graham Greene, Camille Paglia, and the Titanic, as well as collective reviews on (1) the novel per se, (2) five books on evil, (3) sex and fashion, and (4) the new edition of *Fowler's Modern English Usage*. (Other readers will have their own favorites, of course.) The third part, entitled "Visible Matters," contains about 100 pages, mostly on movies and art. Here I especially liked a personal essay on a 1941 photograph, a piece entitled "Descent of an Image" on the famous Iwo Jima photograph, a review of a book of 19th-century photographs of the dead and dying, and a historical exploration of the relationship of Daniel Webster and a portrait painter named Sarah Goodridge. *More Matter* concludes with about 100 pages on "Personal Matters"; leading off is a Borgesian teaser entitled "Updike and I" that will doubtless become an anthology piece, and further in lies Henry Bech's hilarious account of interviewing Updike. As he grows ever more eminent, the author of *Self-Consciousness* takes increasing delight in satirizing himself.

John Updike's first serious ambitions were, it seems, directed toward the visual arts. What is sometimes a weakness in his fiction -- the obsessive, voyeuristic need to *see* -- is, when he turns to non-fiction, almost always a strength. Is this because he can then spare himself the effort of conjuring up his subject before his mind's eye and devote all of his discriminating intelligence to the task of understanding and seeing *into* the matter at hand? Updike believes that "devotion to reality's exact details . . . characterizes literary masters" (p. 697) -- a category in whose first rank Updike will, surely, long remain. If you love literature, you'll be grateful for *More Matter*.

I could plump just as vigorously for any of Updike's other collections of non-fiction ("Hugging The Shore" is my sentimental favorite, probably because it was my first) but since this, being the most recent, is the one I am likeliest to persuade you to buy, I'll say here that he seems to me virtually the ideal book reviewer: unfailingly interesting and articulate, fair minded, broad searching, neither too breezy nor long-winded.

The feud set off by his filing Tom Wolfe's "A Man In Full" under Entertainment rather than Literature (not, to my mind, a seriously disputable judgement) is a very silly bit of sibling bickering, not even as compelling in its own tiny dimensions as the old hostilities between Norman Mailer and Gore Vidal. (Any geezers out there who remember the ink spilled over that one?) That it has taken away even a small bit of the attention that should have been paid to Updike's delightfully long-lived vitality in this field is a downright shame.

Nowhere on the modern scene do we find a writer with an appettite as voracious as John Updike's. Thankfully, Updike has the skill and savvy to handle his way around just about any subject with artfulness and dignity, so that his appetite never seems to consume his talent. Only Updike would be able to put together a collection like this for the third time without having to let it flounder in sub-par material-- most writers wouldn't stand up through just one such collection. Each piece, with only the rarest of exceptions, finds its feet and leads the reader someplace interesting and substantial. Most of all, this collection shows that Updike is just plain good at the modern essay. He has such a nice, consistent balance of content and flair, that reading his pieces becomes enjoyable no matter what the subject interests of the reader may be. Reading his collections can be a sort of tour-de-force clinic in the art of the essay: this one is no exception. Read it as an exercise in appreciation for the master of modern literary form.