William Leith9 May 2013
Every few years, since the mid 1960s, John Updike’s readers looked forward to a special treat — his prose collections. Then he died in 2009. But here’s a final, posthumous volume. Unlike many, he didn’t lose it as he got older — the work here is sharp and engaging. He’s excellent on other writers. He writes about Einstein, dinosaurs, Mars and golf. There’s a lovely poem about looking at a Vermeer, and seeing it again, 16 years later; it is still the same, but he has gone grey.
