What will today’s reader make of the contents of the Library of America’s reissue of Updike’s first four novels, The Poorhouse Fair (1959), Rabbit, Run (1960), The Centaur (1963) and Of the Farm (1965)? By today’s standards, there are certainly things to object to, and in the interests of full disclosure I’m going to list some of the most incriminating moments here. Think of me as a very honest estate agent, pointing out the cracks and damp patches so that you know exactly what it is you’re getting into. Because Updike’s apartment in the many-windowed House of Fiction is a beautiful place, and it would be a great shame if people stopped hanging out there altogether.
Rabbit, Run is the only one of Updike’s novels that I have read. I didn't like it. Which is not to say I thought it was bad. It was just not my cup of tea. Harry Angstrom is very well-drawn. So well-drawn that he became very real to me. And I just didn’t like him.
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