Couples

In a course titled "developmental psychology", the study of the adult self was assigned.

One particular reading stood out as a good story that imparted a valuable lesson on empathy.

The story delved into the experiences and emotions of the characters, allowing the readers to step into their shoes and understand their perspectives.

It emphasized the importance of putting oneself in others' positions and truly listening to their feelings.

By doing so, we can develop a deeper sense of empathy and build stronger relationships.

This story served as a reminder that empathy is not only crucial for our personal growth but also for creating a more harmonious and understanding society.

It encouraged us to look beyond our own selves and be more attuned to the needs and experiences of those around us.

Overall, it was a thought-provoking and impactful reading that left a lasting impression on the students.

Pretty wild book.

This is my first Updike that I've read all the way through and I'm really excited to read more.

Updike's prose, although sometimes it can be long and a bit pedantic, is completely unlike anything I've ever read before. He has the talent to craft some truly beautiful sentences.

Usually, I'm more of a practical and straightforward kind of person when it comes to reading, preferring short and efficient prose rather than overly flowery descriptions. However, Updike managed to win me over.

By examining the sexual dynamics of married couples and the loss of religion in the 60s, Updike weaves a very compelling narrative in the rich and seemingly amoral town of Tarbox.

One of the great things about Updike is his ability, most of the time but not always, to make the reader invest in some truly despicable characters.

In summary, this book has an engaging narrative, dynamic characters, and great prose. It's a really enjoyable read that I would highly recommend to others.

An Intriguing Glimpse into the Early 1960s by Updike

John Updike offers an interesting perspective when he looks back to the early 1960s. His work provides a detailed picture of that era, with its unique social, cultural, and political landscapes. However, as we consider the issues of today, it becomes evident that they are quite different from those of the 1960s. This difference makes Updike's portrayal of the past seem somewhat dated. The world has changed significantly in the intervening decades, and the challenges and concerns that we face now are distinct from those of the early 1960s. Nevertheless, Updike's work still holds value as a historical document, allowing us to understand the past and how it has shaped the present.

I know, my evaluation is definitely against the current with such a low score, but I really didn't like this book at all.

These couples who love each other, dress up, and live on the verge of a nervous breakdown between a party and a dinner turned out to be so hateful, snobbish, empty, and dull that I had trouble following them for 600 pages.

Updike then added his own touch to match such snobbishness: verbose, self-complacent, pompous. Details upon details, heaps of characters psychoanalyzed in a visceral way, and needlessly recherche phrases seemed to me a way of showing off perfectly symmetrically with the narcissism of some "phenomena" that appeared between the pages of this book.

It's a pity, the anticipation was very high and maybe this has cheated me. Having said that, I will not fail to approach the Rabbit tetralogy but perhaps a little later, when I have made peace with what they say is one of the giants of 20th-century American literature!

What's truly remarkable and yet somewhat exasperating about Updike can all be found within the pages of this one book.

We encounter the same recurring themes here, with certain parts strongly reminiscent of "Marry Me" and the "Rabbit" series, among others. However, this isn't necessarily a negative aspect. Updike has a penchant for delving into the topic of adultery, and he does so with great skill, perhaps better than anyone I'm acquainted with. The characters in this book are truly outstanding. I have a particular fondness for the Piet storyline and all the individuals involved in it. Additionally, the side-story about the swinging couple is really engaging and interesting. Regrettably, though, he never truly revisits this aspect.

Like many of Updike's books, this one feels overly long. His descriptions are often breathtakingly beautiful, but, as is his custom, he inundates us with far too many of them (in my opinion, an excessive number). I frequently found myself skimming through numerous scenes that described the ostensibly beautiful yet rather dull New England coast.

Aside from the "Rabbit" books, this is probably my favorite Updike work. Despite its imperfections, there is an abundance of life and energy coursing through the pages of this book. It comes highly recommended.

I picked up this book on a whim at the library.

I had no previous experience with John Updike, so much so that until halfway through this novel, I thought John Updike and John Irving were the same person.

Basically, this novel is about a group of swinging couples in Tarbox, a community near Boston, I think. Angela and Piet Hanema are the focus. He is unfaithful, and she is cold. They are not part of the swinging couples in their community, but they are part of their circle. There are a couple of other major-ish characters, Freddy and Foxy.

It seemed to me that there was an ambitious attempt at symbolism - guilt, piety, adultery, burning churches, and an all-seeing rooster who is the closest the community has to God. But it was over five hundred pages, and I got restless before I reached enlightenment. The endless parade of couples confused me. And as far as I can tell, there was no resolution, which I'm okay with, and I imagine was intentional. But it sort of seemed like the author got bored too.

I guess I felt for Piet in a way, but I never really understood him. I felt like he never understood himself.

Anyway, I wouldn't recommend it, but I didn't feel - and have never really felt - that reading this (or any) novel was a waste of time.

What is it that Jack says to Ennis in Brokeback Mountain? “I wish I knew how to quit you?” I think that's it, and that's exactly what I want to say to John Updike.

I wish I knew how to quit you, John, quit this relationship I've gotten myself into with you. There are no cliffhangers here, no outbursts of laughter or joy, just a whole lot of painful examinations of life and much unwanted talk of our impending deaths.

So, why do I stay?

Is it the sex?

Mmmm, yes, it could be the sex. The sex is great. Oh, baby, it's so great. Well, most of the time, like when you aim for the right orifice. But you don't, John, do you? You don't always aim for the right door, do you, John (and don't tell me that it was just a slip)!

And, on top of that. . . you smoke!

Ugh! There's nothing worse than having you light up, after you've had your way with me, and then blowing that nasty smoke in my face as you then wonder aloud how we're both going to die.

So, why do I stick around, even after you ignore me, ignore me multiple times in a row, when my response to your hand on my hip is a respectful not tonight dear?

Why, John, why?

Why can't I quit you?

Oh, I know why.

Because you're mother fucking brilliant. Your writing is like a drug that keeps pulling me back in. It's so profound and captivating that I can't seem to break free. Every word you pen is a masterpiece, and I'm addicted to the way you explore the human condition. Even with all the flaws and annoyances, I just can't bring myself to walk away.

I guess that's the power of your talent. It's both a blessing and a curse. But no matter what, I'll probably continue to be drawn to you, hoping for those rare moments of pure genius that make it all worthwhile.

So, John, here I am, still unable to quit you.

My GOD, this was an excruciatingly boring book. Reading it was like slogging through a thick sea of treacle. With each step forward, it seemed to push me back, leaving me trapped in a random house with Piet Hanema as he engaged in mostly unsatisfying sex with a string of interchangeable, bored housewives. The book is 458 pages of rather small text, and it's a sure sign of a fundamentally unfulfilling read when I'm constantly checking the page count, hoping it's lower than I remembered and I'm closer to the end. But alas, even when I was just ten pages from the finish, it sucked me into a sticky hole of literary inertia, and I had to resort to skimming just to be done.

Compared to the works of other Great White Male canon authors, Updike's has been the worst experience for me. Steinbeck was also terrible, but at least his story (Of Mice and Men) had some propulsion. Roth was uncomfortably self-absorbed, completely oblivious to his systemic biases, and dull as well, but at least he had a point to make (American Pastoral). Ellis was a very strange experience from which I still haven't fully recovered, and De Lillo was surprisingly enjoyable.

This book, however, just went nowhere. The writing was so lackluster. Thank goodness he threw in the Kennedy assassination to give it some context, because otherwise, this could be set anywhere and at any time - a bland, colorless town in an unnamed country, with characters who are completely disengaged from politics, culture, art, or any kind of strong opinion (except for Harold the neo-Nazi, although I suppose 1968 is close enough to WW2 that he could be a straight-up original Nazi).

Literally, the only thing these people do is have sex with each other. I had to work hard with every page to remind myself that in 1968, the sexual revolution was just beginning. Books with this level of explicit detail were not common back then. There's a reference to Henry Miller, who I started reading after this, and who loves using the word 'cunt' in almost every other sentence. Obviously, this might have been exciting for readers at the time, but it's anything but exciting now.

The sex scenes aren't bad in themselves, they're just dull, anatomical, and filled with an overabundance of strange plant metaphors. Every single person in this book, male or female, is indistinguishable, and they are described in such a way that they seem like amorphous blobs of dough in the process of transforming into primordial plant matter.

No one seems more attracted to one person than another; everyone is completely okay with adultery. There's no sense that someone is crazy about X but not interested in Y - they'll have sex with X, Y, and the whole alphabet as long as they can find a spare room. I don't understand why anyone would get married or stay married when no one rates their marriage partner above or below their adulterous partners. Why bother being married at all when you just have sex with anyone and don't care about anyone?

And, of course, there's the blatant racism, Orientalism, anti-Semitism, and misogyny that make reading mid-century white guys such a joy.

some random graduate courses, a stab at a master’s degree, two terms of life-drawing in Boston, vacations, even flirtations: but nothing fruitful. […] She wanted to bear Ken a child

On page 43, the ode to misogyny reaches a new low. Having kids is a legitimate life goal, but it's not the only one! The life Foxy describes as 'fruitless' sounds really full and interesting to me. Forgive me if I don't trust a horny old white guy to understand the motivations of the average female when he assumes that 'uwu baybees' is the be-all and end-all.

Courteously he bowed before them, his tail an interrogation mark

This is the only good line in the book, about Foxy's cat Cotton. I wish this book was just about Cotton. I love cats and think they're great, but when I say the characters in this book display no more higher-order thinking than cats, it's not a compliment.

Ken doubted the story, for how could any woman leave so good a man?

Said man refers to women as bitches on a regular basis. I rest my case.

since without a vehicle she was virtually a prisoner […] Ken had forgotten about this car, though obviously she needed it.

Why does this not surprise me?

He confessed, “I feel bogged down.”
She thought, You need another woman.

Like, no. Just no. Zero percent of non-polyamorous women, and probably a large percentage of polyamorous ones, would ever think this. Only in the mind of a sex-crazed heterosexual old man would this thought occur.

Janet’s been a bitch for nine months plus.

In case you're curious, what Janet was doing for those nine months plus was gestating, birthing, and raising his infant child.

He considered himself something of a dandy, an old-fashioned elegant. Last spring, in St Louis, he had given a girl two hundred dollars to spend the night with him.

Buying sex is many things, but elegant is not one of them.

I look at that ass and I think Heaven. Twenty miles of bluebirds and strawberry whip.

I do actually quite like this. I mean, if you're going to objectify women and not treat them as people, at least use evocative comparisons.

“Isn’t there some way I can earn it? I could go into Boston this fall and get enough education credits to teach at least at a private school. […] I can begin therapy, just twice a week, with the education courses. Oh Piet, I’ll be a wonderful wife; I’ll know everything.”

This felt like a slap in the face - this long-suffering woman, whose husband has slept with all of her female friends, who is having a mental breakdown, and who is frustrated in her assigned role as a homemaker, is BEGGING her husband to let her take some courses and go to therapy. BEGGING. And he says NO. And she just has to accept that. Piet, for many reasons, just deserves a bullet in the head, but this is the most egregious.

“Yeah,” Piet said, “and why not make the kids celebrate Ramadan by not eating their lunch boxes?”

Why not? If you're going to celebrate Christmas and complain about Hannukkah, this seems reasonable. Oh wait, you were kidding because you're a horrible racist. Never mind.

“No, it’s in you. You invite it.

This is in reference to physical violence - not consensual BDSM, which I doubt Updike's tiny mind could ever consider, let alone endorse - but legitimate domestic abuse. Piet is a victim-blamer; who's surprised?

Women are gentle fruitful presences whose interpolation among us diffuses guilt.

U WAT NOW

He fought against her as a raped woman might struggle, to intensify the dead.

... I'd start believing in hell just to hope he's in it.

Piet gave him a quarter. “Gahblessyafella.” Angel in disguise. Never turn away. Men coming to the door during the Depression. His mother’s pies. Bread upon the waters. Takes your coat, give him a cloak. Asks a mile, go twain. Nobody believes.

This god-awful stylistic tic is why Microsoft Word invented the squiggly green lines that scold you for fragmenting sentences. BAD UPDIKE. NO COOKIE. FUCK OFF.