John Updike is dead. He chronicled everything about “sex, divorce and other adventures.” Okay, I disclaim anything on liking this erudite author though dead as he is. But I did like him once when I read his interview with Lev Grossman of Time Magazine. You can dig in the date issue I am too lazy to remember it. After that, whenever I saw a book written by the author in booksale shops, I just bought it without really knowing what to do with it, piles of them just cram up in my room. He wrote about 60 of them, not counting the essays, short stories and all those letters he wrote since he started writing at an early age.
Well, alright, then I admit I read one of his books and finished it, A Month of Sundays, and never again finished any of his books after that. I mean there were couple of attempts to read one of his creations and easily lost the interest to read the rest of the story. Maybe now that he is dead, I'll try to finish one of his masterpieces on Rabbit. I mean (c'mon!) Rabbit is cute. Right? Everyone loves them, cuddles them and puts them to dinner.