John Updike’s wife abuses him.

Strep throat and general disgruntlement has me in the mood to break some wildly distorted headline news here at Condalmo.  Let’s lighten the mood!  Freeman and Updike in a wide-ranging and poorly-checked interview:

Q: I recall reading about you offloading some of your reviewing library of the past forty years recently – do you ever miss those books or have they made room for more?

A: You would know better than I that there is no ending of books. That was just my wife’s attempt to keep an orderly house. I’ve actually had to go back to stashing a few books in the barn, because the shelves here are full. I love books, but I don’t love them enough to constantly order and reshuffle them. My own books have grown frighteningly – I just remember when it was a tidy little shelf the Carpenter’s Hen, The Poorhouse Fair, Rabbit, Run, Pigeon Feather and the Centaur, that’s what five titles? And those early books are the ones that seem to get assigned in classes, and I could have stopped then with no detriment, but now the shelf is long and it’s a storage problem. I do miss sometimes those books that were given away – you never know when you are going to need a book, even when you are a fiction writer…in a way it’s cruel to make authors cull.

Emphasis added in attempt to justify screaming hyperbole post subject.  But, you know – books.  Come on!  Do you think Victoria Beckham makes David Beckham weed out his rare soccer ball collection?  I doubt it!  For the love of God, he’s a man of letters!  (Updike, not Beckham.)  I have no idea what I’m talking about.

Then again: wouldn’t it be great to mooch something from Updike?  Almost as soul-satisfying as The Dalek.

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