From the book jacket
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The last words of John Updike, poet
Yet something is awry, no doubt of it.
Out on the Bay, a strange steel spider crawls
among our islands glaring bright at night.
Time was when this white house, with its broad view,
wore blackout shades and watched the iron sea
for submarines. A child then now is old."
Two years later, again on his birthday, he was still obsessed with doubts about his future and his work. He began "The Author Observes His Birthday, 2005" with this hard-bitten self-analysis:
A life poured into words - apparent waste
intended to preserve the thing consumed.
. . . I opted for a bloodless universe
of inked imaginings."
As the years passed, his unwelcome image in a mirror, the fact that he had outlived his father, and a persistent cough all combined to inflate his growing dread.
Ultimately, as in so much of his work, his mind and artistic sensibilities were soothed by the consistency of a faith that, despite a lifetime of questioning, survived his 76 years.
In "Fine Points," written on Dec. 22 and perhaps his final creative words, Updike wondered why he went to Sunday school when he didn't believe any of what was taught. He reflected on the way Christians mocked the "crabbed rites" of Jews but ultimately absorbed them.
We mocked but took. The timbrel creed of praise
gives spirit to the daily; blood tinges lips.
The tongue reposes in papyrus pleas,
saying, Surely - magnificent that 'surely' -
goodness and mercy shall follow me all
the days of my life, my life, forever.
