Like many booklovers around the world, I am saddened by the news that John Updike has passed away at 76 from lung cancer (see the New York Times obituary). He was my favourite modern author, one whose intricate fictions captured the spirit (the good, the bad, and the ugly) of the post-war American middle classes.
One thing that I admired about Updike was his excellence across so many genres. Not only was he a fine novelist, but he should also be remembered for his short stories, poetry, and criticism. In particular, I have always thought that his poetry deserved to be better known. As well, his prodigous output of book reviews, esssays, and art criticism (in magazines such as the NYRB and the New Yorker), which I have always looked forward to, will certainly be missed.
This is the first time that an author I have followed in print for so long (well over 15 years now) has died. I have come to feel like I know the man, and his passing ahead has (suprisingly) affected me in a more than trivial way. We have lost one of our greats. You will be missed, John!