I'm guessing that for the young educated adults of the 60s and 70s, for whom the ultimate horror was the hypocritical conformity and repression of their own parents' generation, Mr. Updike's evocation of the libidinous self appeared redemptive and even heroic. But the young educated adults of the 90s -- who were, of course, the children of the same impassioned infidelities and divorces Mr. Updike wrote about so beautifully -- got to watch all this brave new individualism and self-expression and sexual freedom deteriorate into the joyless and anomic self-indulgence of the Me Generation. Today's sub-40s have different horrors, prominent among which are anomie and solipsism and a peculiarly American loneliness: the prospect of dying without once having loved something more than yourself.*Wallace's discussion of literary ethics is of course poignant and illuminating, but the best part of the review is his autopsy of Updike's misplaced genre priorities: "Total number of pages about deadly mutant metallobioforms: 1.5. Total number of pages about flora around Turnbull's home, plus fauna, weather and how his ocean view looks in different seasons: 86..."
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The answer came immediately to me: because they were nasty, tiresome old bastards who hated us. And by us, I mean women, as I generally do when speaking to myself. I once threw a Robert Heinlein book against a wall, but it wasn't because his ideas were more powerful than mine. Is Roiphe an adolescent, that she mistakes what's infuriating for what's inherently good?
posted by Countess Elena at 9:37 AM on January 2, 2010 [37 favorites]