Writer of the Ordinary
When I read on the NY Times site yesterday that John Updike had died, I felt a instinctive twinge of loss, mourned the passing of the man & the artist, frowned at the extinguishment of this literary flame, this important writer, this writer of the ordinary. I would miss him. America would miss him.
And then I remembered that I have never, ever read a single stinkin' thing written by John Updike. That I would be hard-pressed to name something he had written, outside of the titles mentioned in his brief obituary. That, in fact, I think I get Updike confused with John Irving and Tom Wolfe and some other guy.
And then I went back to watching old Arrested Development episodes on Hulu.