>Instead of fiction, the March 16, 2009 issue of The New Yorker included several pages of chilling poems by John Updike, most dated only a few weeks before he died. They will be included in a posthumous collection of poems (Endpoint and Other Poems) which is being published next month. (The speed with which this book is being produced no doubt makes good business sense, but seems grisly to me, particularly if the excerpt in TNY is an idication of the overall subject matter.)
I don’t want to infringe, but I must quote one piece:
Here in this place of arid clarity,
two thousand miles from where my souvenirs
collect a cozy dust, the piled produce
of bald ambition pulling ignorance,
I see clear through to the ultimate page,
the silence I dared break for my small time.
No piece was easy, but each fell finished,
in its shroud of print, into a book-shaped hole.