Rabbit, Fly

During one of my many hours spent in airports over the seasonal period, which I will get to in another post, I browsed the books of Borders bookstore in Houston “George Bush” International Airport. Sifting my way through what I call the ”airport novels”, the ones with gold and heavily embossed lettering, a minimum of four hundred pages, and font you can read from ten paces, I found the debut novel of John Updike, Rabbit, Run. Motivated by an overwhelming sense of indignation and entitlement (more on that later), coupled with the Borders boycott promoted by Christopher Hitchens, I stole the book. I found an aisle away from the security cameras and tucked it into the back pocket of my carry-on as inconspicuously as my principled hands would allow. In retrospect I now realize how stupid that was. If I’d been caught I suppose I would have been told never to darken the terminal doors again with my thieving hands, let alone been allowed to get on my flight. But I got away with it, so it doesn’t matter (probably a mistake then to broadcast this information). Moreover, I can report, not without a tinge of pride, that the book is a masterpiece. From the first pages it grabbed me by the proverbials and never let go. Updike’s ability lies in the inimitable heft of his language. There are, admittedly, moments of drabness and unremarkability, but the periods of forehead-smackingly powerful description and psychological composition reverberate with such vigor that it’s like having your genitalia squeezed again and again with some respite, but without ever really letting go (in the best possible way, of course). An early scene in which our protagonist, Rabbit woos and makes love to Ruth, a woman who is, one would say, on the portlier side, is one such moment, and has revolutionized the way I shall read sex scenes from now on. To give you some idea of this, I’ll quote from the scene. Writing and describing sex, especially when seen out of context, always has the ability to repulse and induce the most ardent perverts into a cringe. Regardless, let’s see how this fares:

Rough with herself, she forces the dry other breast into his face, coated with pollen that dissolves. He opens his eyes, seeking her, and sees her face a soft mask gazing downward calmly, caring for him, and closes his eyes on the food of her again; his hand abandoned on the breadth of her body finds at arm’s length a split pod, an open fold, shapeless and simple. She rolls further, turning her back, cradling her bottom in his stomach and thighs. They enter a lazy space.

It takes a few pages to get the rhythm of Updike, but his use of the language is profound. Without wishing to spoil your reading of it, for those of you who haven’t already rushed to the shops, I shan’t ruin the ending, although it must not remain unsaid that the concluding denouement stands as a forerunner for the most saddening and heart-wrenching passage of literature I have ever read. It is hard to see, being up to now an Updike virgin, how he could possibly improve beyond this post of literary perfection.