I met John Updike briefly and only once, but I felt, as I think much of America does, that I already knew him well. He read at the old church in Harvard Square and it was summer, a typically humid New England day where even sitting was a strain upon us all. Updike was inordinately kind to the hundreds who waited for an autograph, a handshake, and a few words. He signed and smiled under the pulpit for at least an hour before this picture was taken, one in which his open and genial nature comes though so clearly people have occasionally thought we two were friends. I can not praise him more than to say that in all the articles, essays, and interviews I ever read, he seemed never to let the praising of his writerly talent overwhelm a genuine, if slightly naive, kindness. He passed away today at his home in Beverly, Massachusetts, at the age of 76, and we will miss him now, I think, and appreciate the writer that he was, more than we were able when he was conveniently at hand.On Ted Williams' last game at Fenway
Margaret Atwood reviews The Witches of Eastwick
A 2000 interview with Updike
David R. Godine on Updike's passing
New Yorker writers remember John Updike
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