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<text id=94TT1587>
<title>
Nov. 14, 1994: Books:Doglegs of Decrepitude
</title>
<history>
TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1994
Nov. 14, 1994 How Could She Do It?
</history>
<article>
<source>Time Magazine</source>
<hdr>
ARTS & MEDIA/BOOKS, Page 96
Doglegs of Decrepitude
</hdr>
<body>
<p> John Updike's fine new book of stories looks at boys grown old
</p>
<p>By Paul Gray
</p>
<p> John Updike's first collection of short stories, The Same Door,
appeared in 1959. Depending on how his voluminous work is categorized,
he has produced either five, seven or nine such collections
since then. (Don't ask; it gets complicated.) In any case, with
The Afterlife and Other Stories (Knopf; 316 pages; $24), Updike
enters a fifth decade of turning out new short fiction, and
neither he nor his stories seem any the worse for wear.
</p>
<p> The same, however, cannot be said of the people within these
tales. Almost to a man--and yes, for those readers to whom
such things matter, the points of view here are exclusively
male--they have seen better days. Their names vary--Carter
Billings, Fred Emmet, Geoffrey Parrish, and so forth throughout
22 stories--but they all share similar characteristics and
complaints. They are well-to-do, approaching 60 or edgily leaving
it behind; most have second wives (or third, or multiples thereof)
and a clutch of grown children who have become more or less
strangers to them. Sexual passion for these duffers-in-waiting
is largely a matter of fond remembrance. To them, pleasure has
come to mean European vacations, accompanied by a younger spouse
who gripes about their erratic driving, or a week away with
the old boys. The hero of Farrell's Caddie goes to Scotland
with some of his golfing cronies, seeking the invigoration of
actually walking the course rather than, as he does at his club
back home, riding an electric cart and feeling resigned "to
a golfing mediocrity that would poke its way down the sloping
dogleg of decrepitude to the level green of death." In a mysterious
way, Farrell's quest is rewarded. His local caddie hands him
a club and suggests, in passing, that he leave his wife back
in the U.S.: "She never was yer type. Tae proper." Rattled,
Farrell responds, "Shouldn't this be a wedge?"
</p>
<p> This preternatural, comic exchange typifies the sort of redemptive
elation offered by nearly every story in The Afterlife. Updike's
heroes may--and do--regularly pine for what they have lost.
Three stories--A Sandstone Farmhouse, The Other Side of the
Street and The Black Room--play variations on the same theme:
aging men return to the neighborhood or the very home of their
happy childhood, where they find themselves confronting evidence
of their own transiency in space and time.
</p>
<p> But not all is nostalgia; even the most unpromising of present
moments can yield something worth remembering. In Short Easter,
a character named Fogel spends a dull holiday Sunday, lacking
an hour thanks to the arrival of daylight savings time, enduring
a brunch and some enforced lawn care with his wife. Alone for
a while, he turns on the TV and finds some golf: "The tour had
moved east from the desert events, with lavender mountains in
the background and emerald fairways imposed upon sand and cactus
and with ancient Hollywood comedians as tournament sponsors,
to courses in the American South, with trees in tender first
leaf and azaleas in lurid bloom." Fogel may not fully appreciate
his own perception of spring's arrival, but Updike's readers
will; these stories are exemplars of narrative skill and descriptive
generosity.
</p>
</body>
</article>
</text>