Ah. John. John, John, John. Oh John Updike. Whewww.

Dear Anthony,

I know I haven't written in a while. I've taken an unpurposeful hiatus. But then John Updike died last night. And I feel so lonely.

I feel so lonely because John was the only one who understood me. And I know that the phrase connotes an act of listening on John's part to me. And I know that he didn't know that I myself exist amongst the many out there. But for him to be a writer seeing the world and recording the world the way he did–well, I just feel in reading his work that he understands me, that's all.

Do I understand him? I don't know. I haven't read enough of his work, and even if I did, who is to say truth and intent lie together at night post-coital from a day's attempt at unity?

I don't think that last sentence makes sense, but you know what I'm getting at, right?

John. John, John, John. Oh John. I'll have to take a present, a bookstore gift certificate from my parents from the holidays and buy your Olinger collection. I'll never forget reading "The Alligators" and just reaching the epiphany with the narrator and thinking, "man, so true."

I just read, 'A&P" at http://www.tiger-town.com/whatnot/updike. Wheww! Both stories are in the mind of a nice boy, the narrator, and the world moves around him and he wants to participate as a hero. And something catches up to him. And its beautiful.

Ah. John. John, John, John. Oh John Updike. Whewww. I wish I knew you better.