It seems to be easier for John Updike to stifle a yawn than to refrain from writing a book. It is generally thought niggardly or envious to complain about a writer's abundance (a book a year, roughly, in Updike's case). Most novelists, it is said, would pant to exhibit such a fault. Or the case is made that it is otiose to complain about the mediocre books when there are so many fine ones; the odd truancy in a record of such inspired application is inevitable, the waterfall has its chilly underside and so on. For every Witches of Eastwick a Rabbit will be pulled from the hat.

LRB 19 April 2001 | PDF Download