John Updike has died, of lung cancer. You can read the New York Times obit here.
I'm sad. I didn't even know he was ill. The obituary is one of those that has been on file for awhile and so doesn't talk a lot about the circumstances of his death.
Love him or hate him, he was a huge literary figure and he published over 50 books throughout his career. The Times referred to him as "prolific, even compulsive."
Not a bad epitaph, considering that so many of us struggle to even get words on the page.
(And, for those of you who thought I had gone to the same place as Updike, I assure you I'm still here. I've got four, count 'em, four posts, written out to put up. Circumstances in my life has been a bit, um, overwhelming shall we say. My mother in a nursing home, my daughter deciding to get married in less than a month, a trip to Chicago for AWP to moderate a panel in a couple weeks and three ghostwriting projects. Oh, and I just adopted my Mom's ancient, frail cat, who thinks the blind pug is a big scary beast out to eat her for breakfast when the truth is I'm not even sure he knows she exists.)