Writer at Rest*

"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." - John Updike, courtesy of NPR.


As a tribute to novelist, essayist, and poet John Updike, who died of lung cancer yesterday, I thought it appropriate to post my favorite poem by him (even though admittedly, I haven't read a ton of his work). Interestingly enough, as my roommate pointed out to me, it deals with death anxiety.

Perfection Wasted

And another regrettable thing about death
is the ceasing of your own brand of magic,
which took a whole life to develop and market--
the quips, the witticisms, the slant
adjusted to a few, those loved ones nearest
the lip of the stage, their laughter close to tears,
their tears confused with their diamond earrings,
their warm pooled breath in and out with your heartbeat,
their response and your performance twinned.
The jokes over the phone. The memories packed
in the rapid-access file. The whole act.
Who will do it again? That's it: no one;
imitators and descendants aren't the same.

*This is a bit of a no-brainer title about Updike's death -- just a borrowed quip from the last book in his well-known series: Rabbit at Rest. For the record, though, I posted this before I had a look at the AP article with the same title. Great minds think alike, eh?!